
' ifatTHJ'.' 




THE COMPLETE 

POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS 

OF 

LORD BYRON. 

WITH A 

COMPREHENSIVE OUTLINE OF THE 

LIFE OF THE POET, 

C'OLLECTED FROM: THE LATEST AND MOST RELIABLE SOURCES, —""'^ 

By JOHN NICHOLS axd J. C. JEAFFRESON. 

With Illustrations Displaying Byron's Most Antlientic Portraits and the Likenesses of his 

Family and Friends. 



-« 



COLLECTED AND ARRANGED WITH THE NOTES BY LORD BYRON; 

AND 

foslortcal mi other ^'ofcs, Jullg 1 ^planntorg of the mul 

ir j J J J 



THE TEXT FBOM THE LATEST LONDON EDLTION. 

FULLY ILLUSTRATED 

By Kay, VVestall, Harlowe, Saunders, Stone, Finden, and other Artists. 



PHILADELPHIA: 
E. CLAXTON & COMPANY, 

930 Market Street. 
1883. 



COPYEIGHT. 

E. CLAXTON & COMPANY, 

1883. 



¥. 



J. FAGAX & SOX, ^1 



r^^T^ J. FAGAX & SOX, bvw^ 

^^^>_» ELECTROTYPERS, PHILAD'A. ^^^^^ 

COLLINS PRINTING-HOUSE. 

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•Kb 



\'S%3 




PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT. 



rFlHE gratifying success of the "Avon" edition of Shakespeare's works, and the 
-^ constant public demand ever since for a continuance of this series of the 
Octavo Poets, has encouraged the publishers to bring out the present volume 
as the " Newstead Edition " of the Complete Works of Lord Byron. 

In pursuance of the endeavor to issue a volume that will be most acceptable 
to American readers of the great poet — whose lot it was to be misunderstood 
during his life and misrepresented after his death — much fresh and interesting 
matter, appearing in no other edition of Byron's works, has been incorjDorated 
into the " Life" and the Notes, and many facts have been taken from publications 
printed during the present year. The portraits of Byron, his relatives and 
friends, which appear in the Life, have been selected with great care from family 
paintings or original miniatures. They are believed to be thoroughly reliable 
and authentic. In nearly every case the name of the artist is given with the 
picture. 

While the text of the latest and best English editions has been followed, 
and the descriptive and historical notes of Lord Byron have been retained, the 
ponderous opinions of contemporaneous English reviewers have been eliminated ; 
the American reader being abundantly able to draw his own conclusions of the 
merits of the poems without assistance from the literary critics of more than 
half a century agO/ 

The typographic arrangement of the "Avon Shakespeare " has been followed 

in the present volume — the Indexing of the contents of each page in verse, canto, 

scene, and act at the page-head, and the use of bold-faced type through the 

dramas ; the use of which enables the student to see at a glance the salient points 

' of the play. 

In preparing the Al23habetical Index, the effort has been made to render that 

portion of the work exceedingly clear, both in typographical arrangement and the 

comprehensiveness of the references to the text. Acknowledgments are here 

tendered to Messrst^ Harper & Brothers, and to Messrs. James B. Osgood & Co., 

j for courteous permission to use matter of Prof. Nicholas " Byron" and Jeaf- 

i freson's " The Beal Lord Byron." i" 




CHROXOLOGICAL ORDER OF BYRON'S LIFE AND WORKS. 



AGE. MONTH. 



Born, in Holies Street, London | 

Taken by his mother to Aberdeen i 2 

Succeeds to the family title.— Made a ward of chancery.| ] 
—Removed from Aberdeen to Xewstead Abbey.— i Uq 
Placed under the care of an empiric at Nottingham I 

for the cure of his lameness J 

Removed to London, and placed under care of Dr 
Bail! ie.— Becomes pupil of Dr. Glenuie at Dulwich 

Is sent to Harrow School j 12 

Passes the vacation at Nottingham and Annesley.— \ i^ 
And forms an attachment to Miss Chaworth 



}" 



Jan. 22. 



May 19. 



it! Oct. 

}''^i{i^„"v 



Leaves Harrow for Trinity College, Cambridge . . . 
Prepares a collection of his Poems for the press . . 
Prints a volume of his Poems : but, at the entreaty of 

a friend, destroys the edition '. . 

Publishes "Hours of Idleness." — Begins an epic, Kg' f Mar, 

entitled " Bosworth Field."— Writes part of a novel j | (Oct. 
Passes his time between the dissipations of Cambridge 1 | [ j^^^j., 

"" " ^ "~ ^"" Takes up his residence at Newstead.—j I 29: J ^■^^^^ 

Sept 
of age celebrated at Xewstead 



and London.— Takes up his residence at Newstead. 
Forms design of visiting India.— Engaged in prepar- 
ing '■ English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" for press, ^ 
His comin 



Takes his seat in the House of Lords j 

Issues " English Bards and Scotcli Reviewers ", 

Engaged in preparing a second edition of "English 
Bards" for the press I 

Leaves London on his travels, with Mr. Hobhouse .' 

Writes, on board the Lisbon packet, '• Huzza! Hodg- 
son, we are going! " I 

Sails from Falmouth.— 7. Lands at Lisbon.— 17. Leaves 
Lisbon for Seville and Cadiz 

Arrives at Gibraltar.— 19. Takes his departure for Malta 

Lands at Malta. — 14. Writes "As o'er the cold sepul-, 
chral stone."— ''Oh, Lady! when I left the shore.", 
—21. Leaves Malta.— 29. Lands at Previsa .... 

Proceeds to Solara, .Arta, Joannina.— 9, Leaves Joan- 
nina for Zitza.— Composes, during a thunder-storm,! 
'• Chill and mirk is the nightly blast."— 11. Reaches; 
Tepaleen.— 12. Introduced to A'li Pacha. — 26. Returns 
to Joannina.— 31. Begins 1st canto " Childe Harold " 

Proceeds by sea to PreAisa.— 10. Driven on the coast 
of Suli.— 12. Writes, in passing the Ambracian gulf, 
"Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen."— 13. 1 
Sails down the gulf of Arta.— 14. Reaches Utraikey.! 
—1.5. Traverses Acarnania.— 21. Reaches Missolon-I 
ghi.— And, 25. Patras ' 

Lciives Patras.— 14. Passes across the gulf of Lepanto.: 
—IS. Visits Mount Parnassus. Castri, and Delphi. — 
22. Thebes.— 25. Arrives at Athens j 

Spends ten weeks visiting the monuments of Athens; ] 
making occasional excursions to several parts of 
Attica.— Writes " The spell is broke, the charm is' 
flown ! "— " Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orcho- 
menus."— And " Maid of Athens, ere we part." . .' 

Leaves Athens for Smyrna. — 7. Visits the ruins of 
Ephesus.— 28. Concludes, at Smyrna, the second 
canto of " Childe Harold " I 

Leaves Smyrna for Constantinople.— Visits the Troad: 

Writes "Lines after swimming from Sestos to Abj*-] | 
dos." — 14. Arrives at Constantinople | j 

Makes an excursion through the Bosphorus to the 
Black Sea and Cyanean Symplegades 

Departs from Constantinople.— 19. Reaches Athens. 
—Visits Corinth 



Makes a tour of the Morea, and visits Vely Pacha. 
Returns to Athens 



Takes up his residence at the Franciscan Convent, 
Athens.— Writes " Dear object of defeated care ! " . 

Writes " Sons of the Greeks, arise ! "— " I enter thv gar- 
den of roses."— And "Remarks on the Roma'ic or! 
Modern Greek Language " i 

Writes "Hints from Horace."— 17. "The Curse' 
of Minerva." — And " Lines on Parting " . . . .{ 

Leaves Athens for Malta.— 16. Writes " Epitaph for 
Joseph Blackett."— And, 26. " Farewell to Malta " .1 

Returns to England i 

Death of his mother 

Writes Epistle to a friend, "Oh! banish care— such 
ever be."— And Stanzas to Thryza, " W'ithout a stone 
to mark the spot" 

Writes " Away, away, ye notes of woe ! " 

Writes " One struggle more and I am free."— " When 
time, or soon or late, shall bring."— "And thou art 
dead, as young as fair" 

Makes his first speech in the House of Lords.— 29. Pub- 
lishes the two first cantos of " Childe Harold" . 

Commits a new edition of " English Bards," etc., to the 
flames.— Writes " If sometimes in the haunts of men." 
" On a Cornelian Heart which was broken."—" Lines 
to a Lady weeping."— And " The Chain I gave " . 

Writes " Lines on a blank leaf of The Pleasures of 
Memory" 

Writes " Address on the Opening of Drury Larie Thea- 
tre."— "The Waltz; an Apostrophic Hymn."— "A 
Parenthetical Address by Dr. Plagiarv."— " Address 
to Time."—" Thou art not false, but tliou art fickle" 

Writes "Remember him whom passion's power" . . 

Publishes " The Waltz " anonymously . 

Publishes " The Giaour " 

Projects a journey to Abyssinia 

Writes "When from the Heart where Sorrow sits," '. 



Jan. 22. 
Mar. 13. 
Mar. 16. 



^25 

I 
J 



May. 
June 11 



June 30, 



Julv 2. 
Aug. 6. 



Sept. 1. 



Oct. 1. 



Nov. 3. 



Dec. 4. 

r 

J Jan. 
I Feb. 



Mar. 5. 
Apr. 11. 

May 9. 

June. 

July 14. 
"Aug. 
Sept. 
Oct. 



Jan. 
Feb. 



Mar. 12, 

Mav. 
July. 
Aug. 1. 



Oct. 11. 
I Dec. 6. 



Jan. 
Feb. 27. 



Mar. 

Apr. 19. 

[Sept. 
J Oct. 
1 Nov. 

Jan. 
Mar. 
Mav. 
Jul'y. 
Sept. 



TEAR. 



AGE. 



1788 Is an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Miss Milbankel 
1790 IPublishes "The Bride of Abydos."— 13. Writes! 

1 1 " The Devil's Drive."— 17. And " Two Sonnets toj 

:i Genevra."— 18. Begins " The Corsair."— 31. Finishes 
1798| i "The Corsair" 

i i Writes "Windsor Poetics" 

i iWrites " Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte." — Resolves to 
1799' write no more poetry, and to suppress all he had 

; ! ever written . . . ." 

1800 jBegins " Lara."— Writes " I speak not, I trace not."— 



1803; 
1805: 



1806 



1807 



1^ 1809 



And " Address to be recited at the Caledonian Meet 
ing."— Publishes " Lara."— Writes "Condolatory 
Verses to Lady Jersey. "—Makes a second proposal 
for the hand of Miss Milbanke, and is accepted. — 
Writes " Elegj- on the Death of Sir Peter Parker."— 
" Lines to Belshazzar."— And " Hebrew Melodies." . 

Marries Miss Milbanke 

,7 iWrites "There be none of Beauty's Daughters."— 
" Lines on Napoleon Bonaparte's Escape from Elba." 
Begins " The Siege of Corinth."— Writes " There's not 
a Joy the World can give."—" We do not curse thee, 
Waterloo."—" Must thou go, mv glorious Chief?"— 
"Star of the Brave."— And "Napoleon's Farewell" 

Birth of his daughter, Augusta Ada 

Publishes "The Siege of Corinth."— "Parisina." 
—Lady Byron resolves on separating from him . . 

Writes " Fare thee well ! and if for ever."— And. 29. A 
Sketch, "Born in the garret" 

W^rites " When all around grew drear and dark."— 25. 
Takes a last leave of his native country.— Proceeds, 
through Flanders and bv the Rhine, to Switzerland 

Begins the third canto of "Childe Harold."— Writes 
" The Prisoner of Chillon" at Ouchy, near Lau- 
sanne.— Resides at Campagne Diodati, near Geneva. 
—Finishes third canto of " Childe Harold."— Writes 
" Monody on the Death of Sheridan."— Stanzas to 
Augusta, " Though the Day of my Destiny." — " The 
Dream." — " Darkness." — "" Churchill's Grave.'" — 
" Prometheus."—" Could I remount." — Epistle to Au- 
gusta, " My sister, my sweet sister."— And " Sonnet to 
Lake Leman."— Makes a tour of the Bernese Alps.— 
Writes " Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill." 
—Begins " Manfred." — Leaves Switzerland for Italy. 
— Resides at Venice.— Translates "Romance Muy 
Doloroso," etc. ; and " Sonetto di Vittorelli."— Writes 
" Lines on the Bust of Helen by Canova."— "Bright be 
the Place of thy Soul."— And " They say that Home 
is Happiness."— Studies the Armen'i an language 

Finishes "Manfred." — Translates, from the Arme- 
nian, a Correspondence between Saint Paul and the 
Corinthians. — Visits Ferrara for a day. —Writes 
" The Lament of Tasso."— Visits Rorne for a few 
days.— Writes there a new third act to "Manfred." 
—Begins, at Venice, the fourth canto of "Childe 

Harold." — Writes "Beppo." 

I IWrites " Ode on Venice " . 

i Finishes the first canto of "Don Juan " 

I Finishes " Mazeppa " 

I Begins the second canto of " Don Juan " | 

Finishes the second canto of " Don Juan " .... 

Becomes acquainted with the Countess Guiccioli. — 
Writes " Stanzas to the Po" — " Letter to the Editor 
of My Grandmother's Review."— And "Sonnet to 
George the Fourth."— Finishes the third and fourth 
cantos of " Don Juan." — Removes to Ravenna . . 

Is domesticated with the Countess Guiccioli .... 

Translates the first canto of " Morgante Maggiore" . 

iWrites " The Prophecy of Dante."— Translafes " Fran- 
cesca of Rimini."— And writes " Observations upon 

I an Article in Blackwood's Magazine" 

Begins " Marino Faliero " | 

Finishes " Marino Faliero " I 

Begins the fifth canto of " Don Juan 

iFinishes the fifth canto of " Don Juan." — And writes 

I " The Blues ; a Literary Eclogue 

iBe^ins "Sardanapalus" " . . . . 

Writes "Letter to John Murray, Esq., on Bowles's 

I Strictures upon Pope " 

Writes " Second Letter to John Murray, Esq.." etc. . 

Finishes " Sardanapalus " 

Begins " The Two Foscari " 

Finishes " The Two Foscari."— 16. Begins " Cain ; a 
Mystery " 

Finishes'" Cain. "—And "Vision of Judgment" 

Writes "Heaven and Earth; a Mystery." — At Pisa. 
—Begins "Werner."— "The Deformed Transformed" 

Finishes " W^erner " 

Writes the sixth, seventh, and eighth cantos of" Don 
Juan." — Finishes "The Deformed Trans- 
formed."— Writes the ninth, tenth, and eleventh 
cantos of "Don Juan."'— Removes to Genoa . . . 

Writes "The Age of Bronze." — "The Island." — 
And cantos of " Don Juan."— Turns his views to- 
wards Greece. — Receives a communication from 
the Greek Committee sitting in London 

Sails for Greece 

Reaches Argostoli.— Makes an excursion to Ithaca.— 
Waits at Cephalonia the arrival of the Greek fleet . 

[Arrives at Missolonghi.— 22. Writes " Lines on complet- 
mg my Thirty-sixth Year."— 30. Is appointed com- 

I mander-in-chief of an expedition against Lepanto . 
-1813. ;Is seized with a convulsive fit 

Pj s last illness 

: feath 



25 



26 



MONTH. 



28 



^29 



Nov. 



Dec. 
Feb. 



Apr. 10. 

May. 

Aug. 

Sept. 

Oct. 

Dec. 

Jan. 2. 

Feb. 
J Mar. 
1 July. 

Aug. 

Dec. 10. 
f Jan. 
iFeb. 

Mar. 17. 



Apr. 16. 



May. 

June 

Julv. 

Sept. 

Oct. 

Nov. 



/;AR. 



1813 



1814 



•1815 



■1816 



1810 



K811 



^31 



1812 



Feb. 

Mar. 

Apr. 
] May. 

Julie. 
[Oct. 

July. 
Sept. 
lOct. 
Dec. 13. 
Jan. 20. 

[Apr. 

Aug. 

1 Nov. 

I Dec. 

Jan. 
Feb. 



Mar. 
lApr. 4. 
I July 16. 
Oct. 16. 

Nov. 20. 
Jan. 13. 



1817 



1818 



■1819 



1820 



Feb. 7. 
iMar. 25.i 
I May 17.1 
33 ; June n.: 



Julv 10. 
Sept. 9. 

fOct. 

\ Nov. 
Jan. 20. 



1821 



^34 



35 



Feb. 
' Aug. 
.[Sept. 

f Jan. 
J Feb. 
I Apr. 
[May. 
Julv 14. 
(Aug. 
iDec. 



'822 



if 
If 



Jan. 5. 
Feb. 15. 
Apr. 9. 
Apr. 19.1 



IV 




CONTENTS. 



For a full alxyhahetical reference to the Contents in detail, see Index, page 651. 



CHEONOLOGY OF BYRON'S LIFE AND 

WORKS . . . . . . . . iv 

LIFE OF LORD BYRON ix 

CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE . . 1 

THE GIAOL'R 50 

THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS .... 61 

THE CORSAIR 72 

LARA . .88 

THE SIEGE OF CORINTH .... 98 

PARISINA 107 

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON . . .112 

BEPPO 116 

MAZEPPA . . . . . . .123 

THE ISLAND 130 

MANFRED 142 

MARINO FALIERO, DOGE OF VENICE . 154 

HEAVEN AND EARTH 185 

SARDANAPALUS 195 

THE TWO FOSCARI 222 

THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED . .241 

CAIN 255 

WERNER . 272 

HOURS OF IDLENESS 303 

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to 

the Author, and very dear to him . . 304 

ToE 304 

To D 304 

Epitaph on a Friend '305 

A Fragment 305 

On leaving Newstead Abbey . . . 305 
Lines written in " Letters to an Italian 

Nun and an English Gentleman ; by J. J. 

Rousseau : founded on Facts " . . . 305 
Answer to the foregoing, addressed to 

Miss ....... 306 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying . 306 

Translation from Catullus. Ad Lesbiam . 306 
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and 

Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus . . .306 

Imitation of Tibullus. Sulpicia ad Cerinth um 306 



HOURS OF IDLENESS— Continued. page 
Translation from Catullus. "Lugete, Ve- 
neres, Cupidinesque," etc. . . . 306 
Imitation from Catullus. To Ellen . . 306 
Translation from Horace. '"'Justum et te- 

nacem," etc 306 

From Anacreon 307 

From Anacreon 307 

From the Prometheus Vinctus of ^Eschylus 307 

To Emma 307 

To M. S. G 308 

To Caroline 308 

To the Same . . . . . . .308 

To the Same 309 

Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Cam- 309 

oens 309 

The First Kiss of Love 309 

On a Change of Masters at a great Public 

School 309 

To the Duke of Dorset 310 

Fragment, written shortly after the Mar- 
riage of Miss Chaworth .... 311 

Granta. A Medley 311 

On a Distant View of the Village and School 
of Harrow on the Hill . . . .312 

ToM 312 

To Woman 312 

To M. S. G 313 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture . . 313 

To Lesbia 313 

Lines addressed to a Young Lady, who was 
alarmed at the Sound of a Bullet hissing 

near her 313 

Love's last Adieu 314 

Damaetas 314 

To Marion 314 

To a Lady who presented to the Author a 

Lock of Hair braided with his Own . 315 

Oscar of Alva. A Tale 315 

The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus . . 318 
Translation from the Medea of Euripides . 321 
Thoughts suggested by a College Examina- 
tion . ^. . ' 321 

To a beautiful Quaker . . . . .322 

The Cornelian 322 

An occasional Prologue to '' The Wheel of 
Fortune" . . . ■"; . . .322 
V 



CONTENTS. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS— Continued. 

On the Death of Mr. Fox .... 

The Tear 

Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, 
Esq., on the Cruelt}' of his Mistress . 

To the Sighing Strephon .... 

ToEUza 

Lachin y Gair 

To Romance 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a 
Friend to the Author, complaining that 
one of his Descriptions was rather too 
warmly drawn .... 

Elegy on Newstead Abbey . 

Childish Recollections . 

Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled "The 
Common Lot " . . . , 

Remembrance .... 

To a Lady who presented the Author with 
the Velvet Band which bound her Tresses 

Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, 
on his advising the Author to mix more 
with Society 

The Death of Calmar and Orla. An Imita- 
tion of Macpherson's Ossian 

L" Amitie est I'Amour sans Ailes . 

The Prayer of Nature 

To Edward Noel Long, Esq 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine 

I would I were a careless Child . 

AVhen I roved a young Highlander 

To George, Earl of Delawarr 

To the Earl of Clare 

Lines written beneath an Elm in the 
Churchyard of Harrow .... 



PAGE 

323 
323 

324 
324 
324 
324 
325 



325 
326 
327 

331 
331 

331 



332 

332 
333 
334 
335 
336 
336 
336 
337 
337 

338 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEW- 
ERS 339 

HINTS FROM HORACE . . . . .353 

THE CURSE OF MINERVA .... 362 

THE WALTZ 365 

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE . . 368 

HEBREW MELODIES 370 

She walks in Beauty 370 

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept . 370 

If that high World 371 

The Wild Gazelle 371 

Oh ! weep for those 371 

On Jordan's Banks 371 

Jephthah's Daughter 371 

Oh ! snatch 'd away in Beauty's Bloom . 371 

My soul is dark 372 

I saw thee weep 372 

Thy Days are done 372 

Song of Saul before his last Battle . . 372 

Sauf 372 

"All is Vanity, saith the Preacher" . . 372 

When Coldness wraps this suffering Clay . 373 

Vision of Belshazzar . . . . . 373 

Sun of the Sleepless 373 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it 

to be 

Herod's Lament for Mariamne . 



373 
373 



HEBREW MELODIES— Continued. page 
By the Rivers of Babylon we sat down and 

wept 374 

The Destruction of Sennacherib . . . 374 

A Spirit pass'd before me. From Job . 374 
On the Day of the Destruction of Jerusalem 

by Titus 374 

DOMESTIC PIECES : 1816 375 

Fare thee well 375 

A Sketch 375 

Stanzas to Augusta. '' AVhen all around 

grew drear and dark " . . . . 376 
Stanzas to Augusta. "Though the Day of 

my Destiny 's over " 377 

Epistle to Augusta. " My sister I my sweet 

sister! if a name" 377 

Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill . 378 
MONODA" ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT 

HON. R. B. SHERIDAN 379 

THE DREAM 380 

THE LAMENT OF TASSO . . . .382 

ODE ON VENICE 384 

THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI . 386 

THE PROPHECY OF DANTE .... 393 

FRANCESCA OF RIMINI 399 

THE BLUES 400 

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT . . .404 

THE AGE OF BRONZE . . . . .413 

OCCASIONAL PIECES: 1807-1824 . . . 420 
The Adieu. Written under the Impression 

that the Author would soon die . . 420 
To a Vain Lady . . . . . .421 

To Anne 421 

To the Same 421 

To the Author of a Sonnet beginning " Sad 

is my Verse, you say, and yet no Tear " . 421 

On tinding a Fan 422 

Farewell to the Muse 422 

To an Oak at Newstead 422 

On revisiting Harrow 423 

Epitaph on John Adams of Southwell, a 

Carrier, who died of Drunkenness . . 423 

To my Son 423 

Farewell I if ever fondest Prayer . . 423 
Bright be the Place of thy Soul . . .423 

When we Two Parted 424 

To a ITouthful Friend 424 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a 

Skull 425 

Well, thou art happy I 425 

Inscription on the Monument of a New- 
foundland Dog 425 

To a Lady, on being asked my Reason for 

quitting England in the Spring . . . 425 

Remind me not, remind me not . , . 426 

There was a Time, I need not name . . 426 

And wilt thou weep when I am low ? . . 426 
Fill the Goblet again. A Song . . .426 

Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England . 427 
Lines to Mr. Hodgson. Written on board 

the Lisbon Packet 427 



VI 



CONTENTS. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES— Continued. page 

Lines written in an Album at Malta . . 428 

To Florence 428 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm . 429 
Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian 

Gulf .429 

The Spell is broke, the Charm is flown ! . 429 
"Written after swimming from Sestos to 

Abydos 430 

Lines in the Travellers' Book at Orcho- 

menus 430 

Maid of Athens, ere we part . . . 430 

Substitute for an Epitaph .... 430 
Translation of the Nurse's Dole in the 

Medea of Euripides 430 

My Epitaph 430 

Lines written beneath a Picture . . . 430 

Translation of the famous Greek War Song. 430 

Translation of the Romaic Song . . . 431 

On Parting 431 

Epitaph for Joseph Blackett, late Poet and 

Shoemaker 431 

Farewell to Malta 431 

To Dives. A Fragment 432 

On Moore's last Operatic Farce, or Farcical 

Opera 432 

Epistle to a Friend, in answer to some Lines 

exhorting the Author to be cheerful, and 

to " banish care " 432 

To Thyrza. '' Without a Stone," etc. . . 432 

Stanzas. "Away, away, ye Notes of W^oe" . 433 
Stanzas. " One Struggle more, and I am 

free" 433 

Euthanasia. *' When Time," etc. . . 434 
Stanzas. "And thou art dead, as young and 

fair" 434 

Stanzas. "If sometimes in the Haunts of 

Men" 435 

On a Cornelian Heart which was broken . 435 

Lines from the French 435 

Lines to a Lady weeping .... 435 

" The Chain I gave," etc. From the Turkish. 435 
Lines written on a Blank Leaf of "The 

Pleasures of Memory " . . . . 435 
Address, sj^oken at the opening of Drury 

Lane Theatre, October 10, 1812 . . .436 

Parenthetical Address, by Dr. Plagiary . 436 
Verses found in a Summer House at Hales 

Owen 437 

Eemember Thee ! Remember Thee ! . . 437 

To Time 437 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song . . 437 

Stanzas. " Thou art not False," etc. . . 438 
On being asked what was the " Origin of 

Love" 438 

Stanzas. " Remember him," etc. . . 438 
On Lord Thurlow's Poems . . . .438 

To Lord Thurlow 438 

To Thomas Moore. Written the Evening 

before his Visit to Mr. Leigh Hunt in 

Horsemonger-Lane Gaol .... 439 
Impromptu. " When from the Heart where 

Sorrow sits " 439 

Sonnet, to Genevra 439 

Sonnet, to the Same 439 



OCCASIONAL PIECES— Continued. page 

From the Portuguese. " Tu mi chamas " . 439 

Another Version 439 

The Devil's Drive. An unfinished Rhap- 
sody 439 

Windsor Poetics 440 

Stanzas for Music. "I speak not, I trace 

not," etc 440 

Address intended to be recited at the Cale- 
donian Meeting 440 

Fragment of an Epistle to Thomas Moore . 441 
Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of 

Jersey, on the Prince Regent's returning 

her Picture to Mrs. Mee .... 441 

To Belshazzar 441 

Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter 

Parker, Bart 442 

Stanzas for Music. " There 's not a Joy the 

World can give," etc 442 

Stanzas for Music. "There be none of 

Beauty's Daughters " . . . . . 442 

On Napoleon's Escape from Elba . . . 442 
Ode from the French. "We do not curse 

thee, Waterloo " 443 

From the French. " INIust thou go, my 

glorious Chief? " 443 

On the Star of "The Legion of Honor." 

From the French 444 

Napoleon's Farewell. From the French . 444 
Endorsement to the Deed of SeiDaration, in 

the April of 1816 444 

Darkness 444 

Churchill's Grave 445 

Prometheus 445 

A Fragment. " Could I remount," etc. . 446 

Sonnet to Lake Leman 446 

A very mournful Ballad on the Siege and 

Conquest of Alhama 446 

Translation from Vittorelli. On a Nun . 447 
Stanzas for Music. " Bright be the place of 

thy Soul" 447 

Stanzas for INIusic. " They say that Hope is 

Happiness " 447 

To Thomas Moore. "My Bark is on the 

Shore " 447 

On the Bust of Helen by Canova . . 448 

Song for the Luddites 448 

To Thomas Moore. " W^hat are you doing 

now?" '. . . 448 

So, we'll go no more a roving . . . 448 

Versicles 448 

To Mr. Murray. " To hook the Reader " . 448 

Ei)istle from Mr. Murray to Dr. Polidori . 449 
Epistle to Mr. Murray. "My dear Mr. 

Murray,"* etc 449 

To Mr. Murray. " Strahan, Tonson," etc. . 449 
On the Birth of John William Rizzo 

Hoppner 450 

Stanzas to the Po 450 

Sonnet to George the Fourth, on the Repeal 

of Lord EdAvard Fitzgerald's Forfeiture . 450 

EiDigram from the French of Rulhieres . 450 

Stanzas. " Could Love for ever," etc. . . 451 

On my Wedding Day 451 

Epitaph for William' Pitt ... . .451 
vii 



CONTENTS. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES— Continued. page 
Epigram. "In digging ujd j^our Bones, Tom 

Paine," etc 451 

Stanzas. " When a Man hath no Freedom 

to fight for at home," etc 451 

Epigram. " The World is a Bundle of Hay " . 451 

The Charity Ball 452 

Epigram on my Wedding Day . . . 452 
On my Thirty-third Birthday . . .452 

Epigram on the Brazier's Company . . 452 
Martial, Lib. I. Epist. I. . . . .452 

Bowles and Campbell 452 

Epigrams on Lord Castlereagh . . . 452 

Epitaph on Lord Castlereagh . . . 452 

John Keats . 452 

The Conquest. A Fragment . .. . . 452 
To Mr. Murray. "For Orford and for 

Waldegrave," etc 452 

The Irish Avatar 453 

Stanzas ^yritten on the Road between Flor- 
ence and Pisa 454 

Stanzas to a Hindoo Air .... 454 
Imi^romptu. " Beneath Blessington's Eyes " . 454 
To the Countess of Blessington . . . 455 
Stanzas inscribed : " On this day I com- 
plete my Thirty -sixth Year " . , . 455 
DON JUAN . 456 

ATTRIBUTED POEMS 602 

To Jessy 602 

Lines found in the Travellers' Book at 

Chamouni 602 

To Lady Caroline Lamb .... 602 

The Prince of Whales 603 

On the Letter I ...... 603 

To my dear Mary Anne — Stanzas . . . 603 

APPENDIX. 

NOTES TO THE POEMS 604 

Battle of Talavera 604 

Removal of the Works of Art from Athens. 604 
Albania and the Albanians .... 605 
Specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout Dia- 
lect of the Illyric 606 

viii 



NOTES TO THE POEMS— Continued. page 

Thoughts on the Present State of Greece . 606 
On the Present State of Turkey and the 

Turks 610 

State Dungeons of Venice .... 611 
Songs of the Gondoliers .... 612 
The Lion and Horses of Saint Mark's . . 613 
Submission of Barbarossa to Pope Alex- 
ander III 613 

Henry Dandolo 614 

The War of Chiaza 614 

Venice under the Government of Austria . 614 

Laura . 615 

Petrarch— Tasso 616 

Ariosto 617 

Ancient Superstitions Respecting Lightning. 617 

The Venus of Medicis 618 

Madame de Stael — Alfieri .... 618 

Machiavelli— Dante 619 

Tomb of the Scipios 620 

Petrarch's Crown — Boccaccio .... 620 

The Medici .621 

Battle of Thrasimene 622 

Statue of Pompey— The Bronze Wolf . .623 

Julius Csesar 624 

Egeria — The Roman Nemesis . . . 625 

Gladiators * . 626 

The Alban Hill 627 

Eustace's Classical Tour 627 

The Corsair 628 

Lara — Marino Faliero 629 

Petrarch on the Conspiracy of Marino 

Faliero . . 631 

Venetian Society and Manners . . . 632 

The Two Foscari 632 

Article from the Edinburgh Review for 

January, 1808 634 

Remarks on the Romaic or Modern Greek 

Language . . . . . . . 635 

Letter to the Editor of " My Grandmother's 

Review" 637 

Some Observations upon an Article in 

Blackw^ood's Magazine, August, 1819 . . 639 

Lord Bacon's Apophthegms .... 646 
Conversations of Lord Byron, as related by 

Thomas Medwin, Esq 648 





BOOKS CONSULTED IN THE PREPARATION OF THIS VOLUME. 



The Narrative of the Honorable John Byron, Com- 
modore, in a late Expedition Round the World, etc. 
(Baker and Leigh) 1768 

Voyage of H. M. S. Blonde to the Sandwich Islands 
in the years 1824-1825, the Right Hon. Lord Byron, 
Commander (John Murray) 1826 

Memoirs of the Life and Writings of the Right Hon. 
Lord Byron (H. Colburn) 1822 

The Life, Writings, Opinions, and Times of G. G. Noel 
Byron, with courtiers of the present polished and 
enlightened age, etc., etc., 3 vols. (M. Iley) . . 1825 

Narrative of Lord Byron's last Journey to Greece, 
from Journal of Count Peter Gamba . . . 1825 

Melwin's Conversations with Lord Byron at Pisa, 2 
vols. (H. Colburn) 1825 

Leigh Hunt's Byron and His Contemporaries (H. 
Colburn) 1828 



The Works of Lord Byron, with Life by Thomas 

Moore, 17 vols. (Murray) .... 

Gait's Life of Lord Byron (Harpers) . . 
Kennedy's Conversations on Religion (Murray) . 
Countess of Blessington's Conversations (Harpers) 
Lady Morgan's Memoirs, 2 vols. (W. H. Allen . 
Recollections of the Countess Guiccioli (Harpers) 
Castelar's Genius and Character of Byron (Harpers) 
Elze's Life of Lord Byron (Murray) . 
Trelawny's Reminiscences of Byron and Shelley 
Torren's Memoirs of Viscount Melbourne (Macmillan 
Rev. F. Hodgson's Memoirs, 2 vols. (Macmillan) 
Essays and Articles, or Recorded Criticisms, by Ma 
caulay, Scott, Shelley, Goethe, G. Brandes, Mazzini 
Sainte Beuve, De Chasles, H. Taine, etc. 
Burke's Knightage and Peerage .... 
The Real Lord Byron (Osgood and the Harpers) 



1832; 
1830' 
1830' 
1834 

1842 
1869 
1870 

1872 
1858 
1878 
1879 



1879 
1883 





GENEALOGY OF THE BYRON EA3IILY, 



THE BYRON FAMILY, FROM THE CONQUEST. 

Ralph de Biirun (estates in Nottingham and Derby). 

Hugh de Burun (Lord of Horestan). 

I 
Hugh de Buron (became a monk). 

Sir Richard Clavtou. Sir Roger de Buron (gave lands to monks of Swiustead). 
I 1 

Cecilia = Robert de Byron. 

Robert de Byron. 

Sir John Byron (Governor of York under Edward I.). 

Sir Richard Byron. Sir Jahn (knighted at siege of Calais). 

Sir John Butler. Sir John (knighted in 3d year of Henry V.). 

Alice = Sir Nicholas. 
I 



Sir John (knighted by Richmond at Milford ; Sir Nicholas (made K. B. at marriage of Prince Arthur ; died 1503). 

fought at Bosworth ; died 148S;. I 

2d wife, widow of George Halgh = Sir John Bvron (received grant of Newstead from Henrv YIH., 

I ' May 26, 1540). 

Sir Nicholas Strelleye. ^//\ '^ 

Sir Richard Molvueux. Alice = John Bvron. of Clavton (inherited bv gift, knighted by Elizabeth, 1579). 

I ■ , '- , 

Anne = Sir John (K. B. at coronation of James 1. 1 Sir Nicholas (at Edgehill ; Governor of Chester; 

I Governor of Tower). i prisoner to the Parliament). 



I ! 

(Buried at Hucknall Torkard) BICH AKD, 2c? Lord (1605-1679}. Sir JOHN", 15/ Lord (created Baron Byron, of Rochdale, Oct. 24. 1643; 
I at Newbury. Edgehill. Chester, etc.; Governor 

Viscount Chaworth of Duke of York; died at Paris, 1652). 

Elizabeth = WILLIAM, Zd Lord (died 1695). Lord Berkelev. 
I I 

"WILLIAM, 4//* iorrf (1659-1736). = Frances (3d wife). 



"WILLIAM, o(h Lord (1722-1798) (killed Mr. Isabella = Lord Carlisle. A-dmiral John (1723-1786 ; '• Foul-weather Jack "). 

Chaworth ; survived his sous | 

and a grandson,who died 1794; Lord Carlisle 

called '' The wicked Lord "). (the poet's guardian). 



1. Marchioness^ 1 , | | 

of V = John Byron (1751-1791) = 2. Miss Gordon, of Gight. A daughter. George Anson (1758-1793). 

Carmarthen. ) I I | i 

I \ ■ Colonel Leigh. 

I I I 

(1783-1851) Augusta = Colonel Leigh. GEORGE GORDON, 6//^ Lord .4rfwit>flZ GEORGE ANSON, 7//* Zord (1789-1868). 
I '1/SS-1S24). Married Anna Isabella 

Several daughters. (1792-1S60), daughter of Sir Ralph 

Milbanke and Judith, daughter of 
Sir Edward Noel (Viscount "Went- 
worth), and by her had 



Earl Lovelace = Augusta Ada (1815-1852). Frederick. GEORGE, ^th Lord (1818-1870). 



Mr. Blunt = Lady Anne. Byron- Noel (died lS62j. Ralph Gordon, now GEORGE F. "WILLIAM, 9/A and present Lord Byron. 

Lord Wentworth. 



Tlte C'rtsl of llin Byron Family (a mermaid v:iih c/lass and comh) sicrmounts this page. Their Anns and Motto appear in Life of Byron. 
viii + 




Newstead. Abbey. 
From a sketch by E. Fellows. 



THE 

Life or Lord Byron, 



CHAPTER I. 

ANCESTKY AXD FAMILY. 

BYROX'S life was passed under the fierce light that 
beats upon an intellectual throne. He succeeded 
in making himself — what he wished to he — the most 
celebrated personality in the world of letters of our 
century. Almost every one who came in contact with 
him has left on record various impressions of intimacy 
or interview. Those whom he excluded or patronized, 
maligned ; those to whom he was genial, loved him. 
Mr. Soutliey, in all sincerity, regarded him as the prin- 
ciple of Evil incarnate; an American writer (of ti-acts 
in the form of stories) is of the same opinion : to the 
Countess Guiccioli he is an archangel. Mr. Carlyle 
considers him to have been a mere "sulky dandy." 
Goethe ranks him as the first English poet after Shake- 
speare, and is followed by the leading critics of France, 
Italy, and Spain. All concur in the admission that 
Byron was as proud of his race as of his verse, and 
that in unexampled measure the good and evil of his 
nature were inherited and inborn. His genealogy is, 
therefore, a matter of no idle antiquarianism. 

There are legends of old Norse Buruns migrating* 
from their home in Scandinavia, and settling, one 
branch in Kormandy, another in Livonia. To the 
latter belon£i;ed a shadowv Marshal de Burun, famous 



for the almost absolute power he wielded in the then 
infant realm of Paissia. Two members of the family 
came over with the Conqueror, and settled in England. 
Of Erneis de Burun. who had lands in York and Lin- 
coln, we hear little more. Ralph, the poet's ancestor, 
is mentioned in Doomsday Book — our first authentic 
record — as having estates in Nottinghamshire and 
Derby. His son Hugh was lord of Horestan Castle in 
the latter county, and with his son of the same name, 
under King Stephen, presented the church of Ossing- 
ton to the monks of Lenton. The latter Hugh joined 
their order ; but the race was continued by his son Sir 
Roger, who gave lands to the monastery of Swinstead. 
This brings us to the reign of Henry H. (1155-1189), 
when Robert de Byron adopted the spelhng of his name 
afterwards retained, and by his marriage with Cecilia, 
heir of Sir Richard Clayton, added to the family pos- 
sessions an estate in Lancashire, where, till the time 
of Henry YHL, they fixed their seat. The poet, rely- 
ing on old wood-carvings at Newstead. claims for some 
of his ancestors a part in the Crusades, and mentions 
a name not apparently belonging to that age— 

" Near Ascalon's towers, John of Horestan. slumbers— " 

a romance, like many, possibly founded on fact, but in- 
capable of verification. 

Two grandsons of Sir Robert have a more substan- 
tial fame, having served with distinction in the wars 
ix 



ANCESTRY AND FA3IILY. 



of Edward I. The elder of these was governor of the 
citj of Yoi'k. Some members of his family foug-ht at 
Cressv, and one of his sons, Sir John, was knighted 
by Edward III. at the siege of Calais. Descending 
through the other. Sir Richard, we come to another 
Sir John, knighted by Richmond (afterwards Henry 
A'll.) on his landing at Milford. He fonght, with his 
kin, on the field of Bosworth, and dying without issue, 
left the estates to his brother. Sir Nicholas, knighted 
in 1502, at the marriage of Prince Arthur. The son 
of Sir Nicholas, known as "little Sir John of the great 
beard,'' appears to have been a favorite of Henry VIH., 
Avho made him Steward of Manchester and Lieutenant 
of Sherwood, and. on the dissolution of the monas- 
teries, presented him with the Priory of Newstead, 
the rents of which were equivalent to about $20,000 
of our money. Sir John, who stepped into the Abbey 
in 1540, married twice, and the premature appearance 
of a son by the second wife — widow of Sir George 
Halgh — brought the bar sinister of which so much has 
been made. Xo indication of this fact, however, 
appears in the family arms, and it is doubtful if the 
poet was aware of a reproach which in any case does 
not touch his descent. The "filius naturalis," John 
Byron, of Clayton, inherited by deed of gift, and was 
knighted by Queen Elizabeth in 1579. His descendants 
were prominent as staunch Rovalists during the whole 
period of the Civil Wars. (Pages 305, 326, 327.) At 
Edgehill there were seven Byrons on the field. 

Sir Nicholas, one of the seven, is extolled as " a person 
of great affability and dexterity, as well as martial 
knowledge, which gave great life to the designs of the 
well affected." He was taken prisoner by the Parha- 
ment while acting as governor of Chester. Under his 
nephew. Sir John, Newstead is said to have been be- 
sieged and taken ; but the knight escaped, in the words 
of the poet — never a Radical at heart — a "protecting 
genius, 

For nobler combats here reserved his life, 

To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell." 

Clarendon, indeed, informs us, that on the morning 
before the battle, Falkland, " very cheerful, as always 
upon action, put himself into the first rank of the 
Lord Byron's regiment." This slightly antedates his 
title. The first battle of Newbury was fought on Sep- 
tember, 1643. For his services there, and at a previous 
royal victory, over Waller in Juh% Sir John was, on 
October 24th of the same year, created Baron of Roch- 
dale, and so became the first Peer of the family.* 

This first lord was succeeded by his brother Richard 
(1605-1679), famous in the war for his government 
and gallant defence of Newark. He rests in the vault 
that now contains the dust of the greatest of his race, 
in Hucknall Torkard Church, where his epitaph records 
the fact that the family lost all their present fortunes 
by their loyalty, adding, " yet it pleased God so to 
bless the humble endeavors of the said Richard, Lord 
Byron, that he repurchased part of their ancient inher- 
itance, which he left to his posterity, with a laudable 
memory for his great piety and charity." His eldest 
son, William, the third lord (died 1695), is worth re- 
membering on two accounts. He married Elizabeth, 
the daughter of Viscount Chaworth, and so wove the 
first link in a strange association of tragedy and ro- 
mance : he was a patron of one of those poets who, 
approved by neither gods nor columns, are remembered 
by the accident of an accident, and was himself a 
poetaster capable of the couplet, — 



* For a condensed summary of the Genealogy of the Byron 
family, the reader is referred to the Genealogical Table preceding 
this " Life." 



" My whole ambition only does extend 
To gain the name of Shipman's faithful friend " — 

an ambition which, considering its moderate scope, 
may be granted to have attamed its desire. 

His successor, the fom-th lord (1669-1736), gentle- 
man of the bedchamber to Prince George of Denmark, 
himself living a quiet life, became, by his third wife, 
Frances, daughter of Lord Berkeley, the progenitor of 
a strange group of eccentric, adventurous, and passion- 
ate spirits. The eldest son, the fifth lord, and imme- 
diate predecessor in the peerage of the poet, was boi-n 
in 1722, entered the naval service, left his ship, the 
"Victory," just before she was lost on the rocks of 
Alderney, and subsequently became master of the stag- 
hounds. In 1765, the year of the passing of the Amer- 
ican Stamp Act, an event occurred which colored the 
whole of his after-life, and is curiously illustrative of 
the manners of the time. On January 26tli or 29th 
(accounts vary), ten members of an aristocratic social 
club sat down to dinner in Pall-mall. Lord Byron and 
Mr. Chaworth, his neighbor and kinsman, were of the 
party. In the course of the evening, when the wine 
was going round, a dispute arose between them about 
the management of game, so frivolous that one con- 
jectures the quarrel to have been picked to cloak some 
other cause of otFence. Bets were offered, and high 
words passed, but the company thought the matter 
had blown over. On going out, however, the dis- 
putants met on the stairs, and one of the two, it is un- 
certain which, cried out to the waiter to show them 
an empty room. This was done, and, a single tallow- 
candle being placed on the table, the door was shut. 
A few minutes later a bell was rung, and the hotel- 
master rushing in, Mr. Chaworth was found mortally 
wounded. There had been a struggle in the dim light, 
and Byron, having received the first lunge harmlessly 
in his waistcoat, had shortened his sword and run his 
adversary through the body, with the boast, not un- 
characteristic of his grand-nephew, " By G — d, I have 
as much courage as any man in England." A coroner's 
inquest was held, and he was committed to the Tower 
on a charge of murder. The interest in the ti-ial, 
which subsequently took place in Westminster Hall, 
was so great that tickets of admission were sold for 
six guineas. The peers, after two days' discussion, 
unanimously returned a verdict of manslaughter. Byron, 
pleading his privileges, and paying his fees, was set at 
liberty ; but he appears henceforth as a spectre-haunted 
man, roaming about under false names, or shut up in 
the Abbey like a baited savage, shunned by his fellows 
high and low, and the centre of the wildest stories. 
That he shot a coachman, and flung the body into the 
carriage beside his wife, who very, sensibly left him ; 
that he tried to drown her ; that he had devils to attend 
him — were among the many weird legends of "the 
Avicked lord." The poet himself says that his ances- 
tor's only companions were the crickets that used to 
crawl over him, receive stripes with straws when they 
misbehaved, and on his death made an exodus in pro- 
cession from the house. When at home he spent his 
time in pistol-shooting, making sham fights with 
wooden ships about the rookeries of the lake and 
building ugly turrets on the battlements. He hated 
his heir presumptive, sold the estate of Rochdale 
— a proceeding afterwards challenged by the poet 
(entaihng law costs of more than $70,000)— and cut 
down the trees of Newstead, to spite him ; but he sur- 
vived his three sons, his brother, and his only grand- 
son, who was killed in Corsica in 1794. 

On his own death, in 1798, the estates and title passed 
to George Gordon, the future poet, then a child of ten, 
whom he used to talk of, without a shadow of inter- 
est, as "the little boy who lives at Aberdeen.'' His 



A NCESTR Y AND FA 31 I L Y. 



sister Isabella married Lord Carlisle, and became the 
mother of the fifth earl, the poet's nominal guardian. 
She was a ladv distinguished for eccentricity of man- 
ners, and (like her son, satirized in the Bards and 
Revieioers) for the perpetration of indifferent verses. 
The career of the fourth lord's second son, John, the 
poet's grandfather, recalls that of the sea-kings from 
whom the family claim to have sprung. Born in 1723, 
he at an early age entered the naval service, and till 
his death, in 1786, was tossed from storm to storm. 
"He had no rest on sea, nor I on shore," writes his 
illustrious descendant. In 1740 a fleet of five ships 
was sent out under Commodore Anson to annoy the 
Spaniards, with whom England was at war, in tlie 
South Seas. Byron took service as a midshipman 
in one of those ships^-all more or less unfortunate — 
called ''The "Wager." Being a bad sailer, and heavily 
laden, she was blown from her company, and wrecked 
in the Straits of Magellan. The majority of the crew 
were cast on a bleak rock, which they christened Mount 
Misery. After encountering all the horrors of mutiny 
iind famine, and being in various ways deserted, five of 
the survivors, among them Captain Cheap and Mr. 
Byron, were taken by some Patagonians to the Island 
of Chiloe, and thence, after some months, to Valpa- 
raiso. They were kept for nearly two years as pris- 
oners at St. lago, the capital of Chih, and in December, 
1744, put on board a French frigate, which reached 
Brest in October, 1745. Early in 1746 they arrived at 
Dover in a Dutch vessel. 

This voyage is the subject of a well-known apos- 
trophe in The Pleasures of Hoi^e^ beginning — 

" And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron from his native shore." 

John Byron's own account of his adventures, pub- 
lished in 1768, is remarkable for freshness of scenery 
like that of our first literary traveller, Sir JohnMande- 
ville, and a force of description which recalls Defoe. 
It interests us more especially from the use that has 
been made of it in that marvellous mosaic of voyages, 
the shipwreck, in Don Juan, the hardships of his hero 
being, according to the poet — 

" Comparative 
To those related in my grand-dad's narrative. 

In June, 1764, Byron sailed with two ships, the 
"Dolphin" and the "Tamar," on a voyage of dis- 
covery arranged by Lord Egmont, to seek a southern 
continent, in the course of which he tCM:)k possession of 
the largest of the Falkland Islands, again passed 
through the Magellanic Straits, and sailing home by 
the Pacific, circumnavigated the globe. The planets 
so conspired that, though his affable manners and con- 
siderate treatment made him always popular with his 
men, sailors became afraid to serve under "foul- 
weather Jack." In 1748 he married the daughter of a 
Cornish squire, John Trevanion. They had two sons 
and three daughters. One of the latter married her 
cousin (the fifth lord's eldest son), who died in 1776, 
leaving as his sole heir the youth who fell in the Medi- 
terranean in 1794. 

The eldest son of the veteran, John Byron, was 
father of the poet; born in 1751, educated at West- 
minster, and, having received a commission, became a 
captain in the guards. But his character, funda- 
mentally unprincipled, soon developed itself in such a 
manner as to alienate him from his family. In 1778, 
under circumstances of peculiar effrontry, he seduced 
Amelia D'Arcy, the daughter of the Earl of Holder- 
nesse, in her own right Countess Conyers (the beauti- 
ful and accomplished wife of the Marquis of Car- 
marthen, afterwards Duke of Leeds). "Mad Jack," 

=^Tii allusion to the charges bv Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. 



as he was called, seems to have boasted of his con- 
quest ; but the marquis, to whom his wife had hitherto 
been devoted, refused to believe the rumors that were 
afioat, till an intercepted letter, containing a remittance 
of money, for which Byron, in reverse of the usual 
relations, was always clamoring, brought matters to a 
crisis. The pair decamped to the continent; and in 
1779, after the marqifis had obtained a divorce, they 
were regularly married. John Byron seems to have 
been not only profligate but heartless, and he made life 
wretched to the woman he was even more than most 
husbands bound to cherish. She died in 1784, having 
given birth to two daughters. One of these daughters 
died in infancy ; the other was Augusta, the half-sister 
and good genius of the poet, whose memory remains 
like a star on the fringe of a thunder-cloud, only 
brighter by the passing of the smoke of calumny.* In 
1807 Augusta married Colonel Leigh, and had a numer- 
ous family, most of whom died young. Her eldest 
daughter, Georgiana, married Mr. Henry Trevanion. 
The fourth, Medora, had an unfortunate history, the 
nucleus of an impertinent and happily ephemeral 
romance. 




Arms of the Byron Family. 
From Burl:e's Peerage. 

The year after the death of his first wife, whose in- 
come of $20,000 ceased with her life, John Byron, 
who seems to have had the fascinations of a Barry 
Lyndon, succeeded in marrying a second. This was 
Miss Catherine Gordon of Gight. a lady with consider- 
able estates in Aberdeenshire — which attracted the 
adventurer — and an overweening Highland pride in 
her descent from James I., the greatest of the Stuarts, 
through his daughter Annabella. and the second Earl 
of Huntly. Miss Gordon had a fortune of $115,000— 
in land and bank shares — a fortune which rumor had 
doubled. This union suggested the ballad of an old 
rhymer, beginning — 

" O Avhare are ye gaen, bonny Miss Gordon. 

O whare are ye gaen, sae bonny and braw ? 
Ye 've married, ye've married wi' Johnny Byron, 
To squander the lands o' Gight awa'." 

The prophecy of the rhymer was soon fulfilled. The 
property of the Scotch heiress was squandered with 
impetuous rapidity by the English rake. 

We may here note the comparison would have been 
unfav^orable to Mrs. Byron had Captain Byron comj^ared 
her with a woman of ordinary attractiveness. For 
tliough she had royal blood in her veins, and belonged to 
the superior braneh of the Gordons, it would not have 
been easy to find a gentlewoman whose person and 
countenance were less indicative of ancestral purity.f 

t See poem and foot-note, page 325. 

xi 



EARLY YEARS AXD SCHOOL LIFE, 



A dumpy younir AA-onian, Avitli a large AvaUt, florid 
complexion, and homely features, she would have been 
mistaken anywhere for a small farmer's daughter or a 
petty tradesman's wife, had it not been for her silks 
and feathers, the rings on her lingers and the jewelry 
about her short thick neck. At this early time of her 
career she was not quite so graceless and awkward as 
IMrs. Cardurcis (in Lord Beaconslield's '• Venetia''), 
but it was already manifest that she would be cum- 
brously corpulent on coming to middle age ; and even 
in her twenty-fifth year she walked in a way that 
showed how absurdly she would waddle through 
drawing-rooms and gardens on the development of 
her unwieldy person. In the last century it was 
not uncommon for matrons of ancient lineage to 
possess little learning and no accomplishments; but 
Miss Gordon's education was very much inferior to 
the education usually accorded to the young gentle- 
women of her period. Unable to speak any other 
language, she spoke her mother tongue with a broad 
Scotch brogue, and wrote it in a style that in this 
politer age would be discreditable to a waiting-woman. 
Tiiough she was a writer of long epistles, they seldom 
contained a capital letter, or a mark of punctuation, 
to assist the reader in the sometimes arduous task of 
discovering their precise meaning; and though she 
could spell the more simple words correctly, when she 
was writing in a state of mentd placidity, she never 
used her pen in moments of excitement without com- 
mitting comical blunders of orthography. To Captain 
Byron, however, the lady's temper was more grievous 
than her defects of person, breeding, and culture. It 
should, however, be remembered by readers who 
would do her justice that Mrs, Byron was b}" no means 
devoid of the shrewdness and ordinary intelligence of 
inferior womankind, and was capable of generous im- 
pulses to the persons whom, in her frequent fits of un- 
controllable fury, she would assail with unfeminine 
violence, and even with unnatural cruelty. 

In 1786 Mrs. Byron left Scotland for France, and 
returned to England towards the close of the following 
year. On the 22dof January, 1788, in Holies Street, 
London, Mrs, Byron gave birth to her only child, the 
future poet, George Gordon, sixth lord. Shortly after, 
being pressed by his creditors, the father abandoned 
both, and leaving them with a pittance of $750 a year, 
fled to A'alenciennes, where he died, in August, 1791. 



CHAPTER n. 



EAKLY YEARS AXD SCHOOL LIFE. 

[1788—1808.] 

SOOX after the birth of her son. Mrs. Byron took him 
to Scotland. After spending some time with a re- 
lation, she, early in 1790, settled in a small house in 
Aberdeen. Ere long her husband, who had in the in- 
terval dissipated away his remaining means, rejoined 
her; and they lived together in humble lodgings, until 
their tempers, alike fiery and irritable, compelled a 
definite separation. They occupied apartments, for 
some time, at the opposite ends of the same street, and 
interchanged visits. 

Being accustomed to meet the boy and his nurse, the 
father expressed a wish that the former should be sent 
to live with him, at least for some days. '• To this 
request." Moore informs us, *• Mrs. Byron was at first 
not very willing to accede ; but. on the representation 
of the nurse that if he kept him over one night he 
would not do so another, she consented. On inquiring 
xii 



next morning after the child, she was told by Captain 
Byronthathehad had quite enough of his young visitor.'' 
After a short stay in the north, the Captain, extorting 
enough money from his wife to enable him to fly from 
his creditors, escaped to France. His absence must 
have been a relief; but his death is said to have so af- 
fected the unhappy lady, that her shrieks disturbed the 
neighborhood. The circumstance recalls an anecdote 
of a similiar outburst — attested by Sir Walter Scott, 
who was present on the occasion — before her marriage. 
Being present at a representation, in Edinburgh, of the 
Fatal JIarriage, when Mrs. Siddons was personating 
Isabella, Miss Gordon was seized with a fit, and car- 
ried out of the theatre, screaming out, ''O my Biron, 
my Biron." All we know of her character shows it to 
have been not only proud, impulsive, and wayward, 
but hysterical. She constantly boasted of her descent, 
and clung to the courtesy title of "honorable," to 
which she had no claim. Her aftection and anger were 
alike demonstrative, her temper never for an hour se- 
cure. She half worshipped, half hated, the spend- 
thrift to whom she was married, and took no effective 
steps to protect her property ; her son she alternately 
petted and abused. " Your mother's a fool I " said a 
school companion to him years after. " I know it," 
was his unique and tragic reply. Xever was poet 
born to so much illustrious, and to so much bad blood. 
The records of his infancy betray the temper which 
Byron preserved through life — passionate, sullen, de- 
fiant of authority, but singularly amenable to kindness. 
On being scolded by his first nurse for having soiled a 
dress, without uttering a word he tore it from top to 
seam, as he had seen his mother tear her caps and 
gowns ; but her sister and successor in ofiice. May Gi'ay, 
acquired and retained a hold over his affections, to 
which he has borne grateful testimony. To her train- 
ing is attrilmted the early and remarkable knowledge 
of the Scriptures, especially of the Psalms, which he 
possessed : he was, according to her later testimony, pe- 
culiarly inquisitive and puzzling about religion. 

To this practical orphanhood, and inheritance of 
feverish passion, there was added another, and to him 
a heavy and life-long burden. A physical defect in a 
healthy nature may either pass without notice or be 
turned to a high purpose. Accounts differ as to the 
extent and origin of his deformity ; and the doubts on 
the matter are not removed by the inconsistent accounts 
of the indelicate post-mortem examination made by 
Mr. Trelawny at Missoloughi. It is certain that one of 
the poet's feet was, either at birth or at a very eai-ly 
period, so seriously clubbed or twisted as to affect his 
gait, and to a considerable extent his habits. It also 
appears that the surgical means — boots, bandages, etc. — 
adopted to straighten the limb only aggravated the 
e\*il. His sensitiveness on the subject was early awak- 
ened by careless or unfeeling references. '' What a pret- 
ty boy Byron is I " said a friend of his nurse. " What a 
pity he has such a leg ! " On which the child, with 
flashing eyes, cutting at her with a bal>y's whip, cried 
out. "Dinna speak of it." His mother herself, in her 
violent fits of anger, when the boy ran round the room 
laughing at her attempts to catch him, used to say he 
was a little dog, as bad as his father, and to call him 
•' a lame brat " — an incident which suggested the oi)en- 
ing scene of the iJef armed Transformed.'^' In the 
height of his popularity he fancied that the beggars and 
street-sweepers in London were mocking him. He sat- 
irized and discouraged dancing; he preferred riding 
and swimming to other exercises, because they con- 
cealed his weakness ; and on his death-bed asked to be 
blistered in such a way that he might not be called on 

*See text and foot-notes on pages 241, 244. 247. 



y- 



EARLY YEARS AND SCHOOL LLFE. 



to expose it. The Countess Guiccioli, Lady Blessing- 
ton, and others, assure us that in society few would 
have observed the defect if he had not referred to it ; 
but it was never far from the mind. But to the ques- 
tion why Byron did not bear his lameness as bravely 
and cheerily as Scott bore his lameness, one answer is, 
that whilst the Scotch poet suffered from nothing 
worse than a club-foot, the author of " Childe Harold " 
endured a lameness far more trying to health and 
spirits. Had Sir Walter been constrained to pick his 
way through life on his toes, " hopping " about like a 
bird (to adopt Leigh Hunt's way of sneering at a com- 
rade's grievous affliction), he would certainly have been 
less happy. And had Byron been able to walk about 
like a man, albeit with a club-foot, he would have been 
less often stricken with melancholy and moved to 
breathe the fierce breath of anger. 

In 1792 he was sent to a rudimentary day school of 
girls and boys, taught by a Mr. Bowers, Avhere he 
seems to have learnt nothing save to repeat monosyl- 
lables by rote. He next passed through the hands of 
a devout and clever clergyman, named Ross, imder 
whom, according to his own account, he made astonish- 
ing progress, being initiated into the study of Roman 
history, and taking special delight in the battle of Re- 
gillus. Long afterwards, when standing on the heights 
of Tusculum and looking down on the little round 
lake, he remembered his young enthusiasm and his old 
instructor. He next came under the charge of a tutor 
called Paterson, whom he describes as " a very serious, 
saturnine, but kind young man. He was the son of 
my shoemaker, but a good scholar. With him I be- 
gan Latin, and continued till I went to the grammar 
school, where I threaded all the classes to the fourth, 
when I was recalled to England by the demise of my 
uncle." 

Of Byron's early school days there is little further 
record. We learn from scattered hints that he was 
backward in technical scholarship, and low in his class, 
in Avhich he seems to have no ambition to stand high ; 
but that he eagerly took to history and romance, es- 
pecially luxuriating in the Aralnan Xigfits. He was 
an indifferent penman, and always disliked mathe- 
matics ; but was noted by masters and mates as of quick 
temper, eager for adventures, prone to sports, always 
more ready to give a blow than to take one, affection- 
ate, though resentful. 

When his cousin was killed at Corsica, in 1794, he 
became the next heir to the title. Li 1797, a friend, 
meaning to compliment the boy, said, " We shall have 
the pleasure some day of reading your speeches in the 
House of Commons," he, with precocious conscious- 
ness, replied, "I hope not. If you read any speeches 
of mine, it will be in the House of Lords." Sim- 
ilarly, when, in the course of the following year, the 
fierce old man at iSTewstead died, and the young lord's 
name was called at school with " Dominus " prefixed 
to it, his emotion was so great that he was unable to 
answer, and burst into tears. 

Belonging to this period is the somewhat shadowy 
record of a childish passion for a distant cousin slight- 
ly his senior, Mary Duff, with whom he claims to have 
fallen in love in his ninth year,* We have a quaint pic- 
ture of the pair sitting on the grass together, the girl's 
younger sister beside them playing with a doll. A 
German critic gravely remarks, " This strange phenom- 
enon places him beside Dante." Byron himself, dilat- 
ing on the strength of his attachment, tells us that 
he used to coax a maid to write letters for him, and 
that when he was sixteen, on being informed by his 
mother of Mary's marriage, nearly fell into convulsions. 



* See pages 337, 440. 



t See foot-note, page 134. 



In the course of 1796, after an attack of scarlet- 
fever at Aberdeen, he Avas taken by his mother to Bal- 
later, and on his recovery spent much of his time in 
rambling about the country. ''From this period," he 
says, " I date my love of mountainous countries. I can 
never forget the effect, years afterwards, in England, 
of the only thing I had long seen, even in miniature, 
of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned 
to Cheltenham I used to watch them every after- 
noon, at sunset, with a sensation which I cannot de- 
scribe." 

The poet, owing to his physical defect, was not a 
great climber, and we are informed, on the autliority 
of his nurse, that he never even scaled the easy attain- 
able summit of the "steep frowning" hill of which 
he has made such effective use. But the impression of 
it from a distance was none the less genuine, and his 
"When I roved a young Highlander," page 336, re- 
flects the poet's love for tlie latitudes.f 

Byron's allusions to Scotland are variable and incon- 
sistent. His satire on her reviewers was sharpened by 
the show of national as well as personal antipathy; 
and when, about the time of its production, a young 
lady remarked that he had a little of the northern 
manner of speech, he burst out, "Good God! I hope 
not. I would rather the Avliole d — d country Avas 
sunk in the sea. I the Scotch accent !" 

In the autumn of 1798 the family, i, e., his mother — 
who had sold the Avholeof her household furniture for 
$375 — with himself, and a maid, set south. The poet's 
only recorded impression of the journey is a gleam of 
Loch Leven, to which he refers in one of his latest 
letters. He ncA^er revisited the land of his birth. Our 
next glimpse of him is on his passing the toll-bar of 
Newstead. Mrs. Byron asked the old woman aa^io 
kept it, "Who is the next heir?" and on her answer, 
"They say it is a little boy AA^ho lives at Aberdeen," 
" This is he, bless him ! " exclaimed the nurse. 

Returned to the ancestral Abbey, and finding it half 
ruined and desolate, they migrated for a time to the 
neighboring Nottingham. Here the child's first ex- 
perience was another course of surgical torture. He 
was placed under the charge of a quack named Laven- 
der, who rubbed his foot in oil. and screwed it about 
in wooden machines. This useless treatment is asso- 
ciated with tAVo characteristic anecdotes. One relates 
to the endurance which Byron, on every occasion of 
mere physical trial, was capable of displaying. Mr. 
Rogers, a private tutor, with whom he was reading 
passages of Virgil and Cicero, remarked, "It makes 
me uncomfortable, my lord, to see you sitting there in 
such pain as I know you must be suffering." " Never 
mind, Mr. Rogers," said the child, "you shall not see 
any signs of it in me." The other illustrates his pre- 
cocious delight in detecting imposture. HaAdng scrib- 
bled on a piece of paper several lines of mere gibberish, 
he brought them to Lavender, and gravely asked Avhat 
language it was; and on receiA^ng the answer, "It is 
Italian!^" he broke into an exultant laugh at the expense 
of his tormentor. Another story surAives, of his Ain- 
dictive spirit giA'ing birth to his first rhymes. A med- 
dling old lady, Avho used to visit his mother and was 
possessed of a curious belief in a future transmigration 
to our satellite — the bleakness of whose scenery she 
had not realized — haA'ing given him some cause of 
offence, he stormed out to his nurse that he "could 
not bear the sight of the witch," and vented his wrath 
in a couplet. 

The poet himself dates his "first dash into poetry" 
a year later (1800), from his juvenile j)assion for his 
cousin Margaret Parker, J whose subsequent death from 

J See poem and foot-note, page 304. 
xiii 



EARLY YEARS AND SCHOOL LIFE. 



an injury caused by a fall lie afterwards deplored in a 
forgotten elegy. '' I do not recollect,'' he writes through 
the transfiguring mists of memory, "anj'thing equal to 
the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweet- 
ness of her temper, during the short period of our in- 
timacy. She looked as if she had been made out of a 
rainbow — all beauty and peace. My passion had the 
usual effects upon me — I could not sleep ; I could not 
eat ; I could not rest. It was the texture of my life 
to think of the time that must elapse before we could 
meet again. But I was a fool then, and not much wiser 
now." Sic transit seciinda. 

The departure, at a somewhat earher date, of his 
nurse, May Gra}', for her native country, gave rise to 
evidence of another kind of affection. On her leaving, 
he presented her Avitli his first watch, and a miniature 
by Kay, of Edinburgh, representing him with a pro- 




Byron. 
From a miniature by Kay, 1795. 

fusion of hair over his shoulders. He continued to 
correspond with her at intervals. Byron was always 
beloved by his servants. This nurse afterwards married 
well, and during her last illness, in 1827, communicated 
to her attendant. Dr. Ewing, of Aberdeen, recollections 
of the poet, from which his biographers have drawn. 

In the summer of 1799 he was sent to London, en- 
trusted to the medical care of Dr. Bailhe (brother of 
Joanna, the dramatist), and placed in a boarding-school 
at Dulwich, under the charge of Dr. Glennie. The 
physician ad\'ised a moderation in athletic sports, which 
the patient in his hours of liberty was constantly apt 
to exceed. The teacher — who continued to cherish an 
affectionate remembrance of his pupil, even when he 
was told, on a visit to Geneva in 1817, that he ought to 
have "made a better boy of him" — testifies to the 
alacrity with wliich he entered on his tasks, his playful 
good-humor with his comrades, his reading in liistory 
beyond his age, and his intimate acquaintance with the 
Scriptures. " In my study," he states, '' he found many 
books open to him; among others, a set of our poets 
from Chaucer to Churchill, which I am almost tempted 
to say he had more than once perused from beginning 
to end." One of the books referred to Avas the Narra- 
tive of the Shijncreck of the '■'■ Juno^'''' which contains, 
almost word for word, the account of the "two 
fathers," in Don Juan. Meanwhile Mrs. Byron — 
whose reduced income had been opportunely aug- 
mented by a grant of a $1,500 annuity from the Civil 
List — after revisiting Newstead, followed her son to 
xiv 



London, and took up her residence in a house in 
Sloane-terrace. She was in the habit of having him 
with her there from Saturday to Monday, kept him 
from school for weeks, introduced him to idle com- 
pany, and in other ways was continually hampering 
his progress, 

Byron, on his accession to the peerage, having become 
a ward in Chancery, was handed over by the Court to 
the guardianship of Lord Carlisle, nephew of the 
admiral, and son of the grand-aunt of the poet. Like 
his mother, this earl aspired to be a poet, and his 
tragedy. The Father^s Revenge^ received some com- 
mendation from Dr. Johnson; but his relations with 
his illustrious kinsman were from the first unsatis- 
factory. In answer to Dr. Glennie's appeal, he exerted 
his authority against the interruptions to liis ward's 
education; but the attempt to mend matters led 
to such outrageous exhibitions of temper that he said 
to the master, " I can have nothing more to do with 
Mrs. Byron; you must now manage her as you can." 
Finally, after two years of work, which she had done 
her best to mar, she herself requested his guardian to 
have her son removed to a public school, and accord- 
ingly he went to Harrow, where he remained till the 
autumn of 1805. The first vacation, in the sun:imer of 
1801, is marked by his visit to Cheltenham, where his 
mother, from whom he inherited a fair amount of 
Scotch superstition, consulted a fortune-teller, who 
said he would be twice married, the second time to a 
foreigner. 

Harrow was then under the management of Dr. 
Joseph Drury, one of the most estimable of its dis- 
tinguished head-masters. His account of tlie first 
impressions produced by his pupil, and his judicious 
manner of handling a sensitive nature, cannot with 
advantage be condensed. 

"Mr. Hanson," he writes, "Lord Byron's sohcitor, 
consigned him to my care at the age of thirteen and a 
half, with remarks that his education had been neg- 
lected ; that he was ill prepared for a pubhc school ; 
but that he thought there was a cleverness about him. 
After his departui-e I took my young disciple into my 
study, and endeavored to bring him forward by in- 
quiries as to his former amusements, employments, and 
associates, but with little or no effect, and I soon found- 
that a wild mountain colt had been submitted to my 
management. But there was mind in his eye. In the 
first place, it was necessary to attach him to an elder 
boy; but the information he received gave him no 
pleasure when he heard of the advances of some much 
younger than himself This I discovered, and assured 
iiim that he should not be placed till by diligence he 
might rank with those of his own age. His manner 
and temper soon convinced me that he might be led by 
a silken string to a point, rather than a cable : on that 
principle I acted." 

After a time. Dr. Drury tells us that he waited on 
Lord Carlisle, who wished to give some information 
about his ward's property and to inquire respecting his 
abilities, and continues : " On the former circumstance 
I made no remark ; as to the latter I replied, ' He has 
talents, my lord, which will add lustre to his rank.' 
'Indeed! ' said his lordship with a degree of surprise 
that, according to my feeling, did not express in it all 
the satisfaction I expected." With, perhap.s, uncon- 
scious humor on the part of the writer, we are left 
in doubt as to whether the indifference proceeded 
from the jealousy that clings to poetasters, from in- 
credulity, or a feeling that no talent could add lustre 
to rank. 

In 1804 Byron refers to the antipathy his mother 
had to his guardian. Later he expresses gratitude for 
some unknown service, in recognition of which the 



EARLY YEARS AND SCHOOL LLFE. 



second edition of the Hours of Idleness was dedicated* 
"by bis obliged ward and atfectionate kinsman," to 
Lord Carlisle. The tribute being coldlv received, led 
to fresh estrangement, and when Byron, on his coming 
of age, wrote to remind the earl of the fact in ex- 
pectation of being introduced to the House of Peers, 
he had for answer a mere formal statement of its 
rules. This rebuff affected him as Addison's praise of 
Tickell affected Pope, and the following lines were 
published in the March of the same year: — 

" Lords too are bards I such things at times befall, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet did or taste or reason sway the times, 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes. 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
Xo future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle." 

In prose he adds, "If, before I escaped from my teens. 
I said anything in favor of his lordship's paper-books, 
It was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from 
the advice of others than my own judgment ; and I 
seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere 
recantation." In a letter of 1814 he expressed to 
Eogershis regret for his sarcasms ; and in his reference 
to the death of the Hon. Frederick Howard, in Childe 
Harold^ he endeavored to make amends in the lines — 

"Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong."! 

This is all of any interest we know regarding the fitful 
connection of the guardian and Avard. 

Towards Dr. Drury the poet continued through life 
to cherish sentiments of gratitude, and always spoke 
of him with veneration. "He was," he says, "the 
best, the kindest (and yet strict too) friend I ever had; 
and I look on him still as a father, whose warnings I 
have remembered but too well, though too late, when 
I have erred, and whose counsel I have but followed 
when I have done well or wisely." 

Great educational institutions must consult the 
greatest good of the greatest number of commonplace 
minds, by regulations against which genius is apt to 
kick; and Byron, who was by nature and lack of dis- 
cipline peculiarly ill-fitted to conform to routine, con- 
fesses that till the last year and a half he hated 
Harrow, He never took kindly to the studies of the 
place, and was at no time an accurate scholar. In the 
Bards and Bevieicers^ and elsewhere, he evinces con- 
siderable familiarity with the leading authors of 
antiquity, but it is doubtful whether he read any of 
the more diflicult of them in the original. 

Comparatively slight stress was then laid on modern 
languages. Byron learnt to read French with fluency, 
as he certainly made himself familiar with the great 
works of the eighteenth century ; but he spoke it with 
little ease or accuracy. Of German he had a smatter- 
ing merely. Italian was the only language, besides his 
own, of which Byron was a master. But the extent 
and variety of his general reading was remarkable. 
His list of books, drawn up in 180T, includes more 
history and biography than most men of education read 
during a long life ; a fair load of philosophy ; the poets 
en masse ; among orators, Demosthenes, Cicero, and 
Parliamentary debates from the Revolution to the year 
1742 ; pretty copious di\inity, including Blair, Tillot- 
son. Hooker, with the characteristic addition — "all 
very tiresome. I abhor books of religion, though I 
reverence and love my God without the blasphemous 
notions of sectaries." (See foot-notes, pages 151, 256, 



263, 497.) Lastly, under the head of " Miscellanies," we 
have Spectator^ Rambler^ World, etc., etc. ; among 
novels, the works of Cervantes, Fielding, Smollett, 
Richardson, Mackenzie, Sterne, Rabelais, and Rous- 
seau. He recommends Burton's Anatomy of Melan- 
choly as the best storehouse for second-hand quota- 
tions, as Sterne and others have found it, and tells us 
that the great part of the books named were pe- 
rused before the age of fifteen. Making allowance 
for all exaggeration, we can believe that Byron 
was an omnivorous reader — "I read eating, read in 
bed, read when no one else reads " — and, having a 
memory only less retentive than Macaulay's, acquired 
so much general information as to be suspected of 
picking it up from Reviews. He himself declares that 
he never read a Review till he was eighteen years old — 
when he himself wrote one, on Wordsworth. 

At Harrow, Byron proved himself capable of violent 
fits of work, but of " few continuous drudgeries." He 
would turn out an unusual number of hexameters, 



See page 303. 



B 



t See page 24, stanza xxix. 




Lord Clare. 

From a family Miniature. 

and again lapse into as much idleness as the teachers 
would tolerate. His forte was in declamation: his 
attitude and delivery, and power of extemporizing, 
surprised even critical listeners into unguarded praise. 
"My qualities," he says "were much more oratorical and 
martial than poetical ; no one had the least notion that 
I should subside into poesy." Unpopular at first, he 
began to like school when he fought his way to he a 
champion, and from his energy in sports, more than 
from the impression produced by his talents, had come 
to be recognized as a leader among his fellows. Un- 
fortunately, towards the close of his course, in 1805, 
the headship at Harrow changed hands. Dr. Drury 
retired, and was succeeded by Dr. Butler. This event 
suggested the lines beginning — 

'• Where are those honors, Ida, once your own, 
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne ? " i 

% See poem, page 309. 
XV 



EARLY YEARS AND SCHOOL LLFE. 



The appointment was generally impopular among the 
boys, whose sympathies were enlisted in favor of Henry 
Drury, the son of their former master, and Dr. Butler 
seems for a time to have had considerable difficulty in 
maintaining discipline. Byron, always ''famous for row- 
ing,"' was a ringleader of the rebellious party, compared 
himself to Tyrtjcus. On one occasion he tore down the 
window-gratings in a room of the school-house; with 
the remark that they darkened the hall; on another he 
is reported to have refused a dinner invitation from the 
master, with the impertinent remark that he could 
never think of asking him in return to dine at ISTew- 
stead. On the other hand, he seems to have set limits 
to the mutiny, and prevented some of the boys from 
setting their desks on fire by pointing to their fathers' 
names carved on them. (Page 329.) Byron afterwards 
expressed regret for his rudeness; but Butler remains 
in his verse as " Pomposus, of narrow brain, yet of 
a narrower soul.'' 

Of the poet's free hours, during the last years of 
his residence, Avhich he refers to as among the happiest 
of his life, many were spent in solitary musing by an 
elm-tree, near a tomb to which his name has been 
given — a spot commanding a far view of London, of 
AVindsor "blossomed high in tufted trees," and of the 
green fields that stretch between, covered in spring 
with white and red snow of apple blossom. (See foot- 
notes and poems, pages 312, 338.) The others were 
devoted to the society of his chosen comrades. Byron, 
if not one of the safest, was one of the warmest of 
friends, and he plucked the more eagerly at the choic- 
est fruit of English public school and college life, from 
the feeling he so pathetically expresses, — 

" Is there no cause beyond the common claim, 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name ? 
Ah, sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers Friendship will be doubly dear 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam. 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee— 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 

Of his Plarrow intimates, the most prominent were 
the Duke of Dorset,* the poet's favored fag; Lord 
Clare t (the Lycus of the Childish Eecollections) (page 
337) : Lord DelawarrJ (the Euryalus) ; John Wingfield 
(Alonzo), who died at Coimbra, 1811; Cecil Tattersall 
(Davus); Edward Xoel Long^ (Cleon) ;Wildman, after- 
wards proprietor of J^^ewstead ; and Sir Robert Peel. 

Of the last, his form-fellow and most famous of his 
mates, the story is told of his being unmercifully beaten 
for offering resistance to his fag master, and Byron rush- 
ing up to intercede with an oft'er to take half the 
blows. Peel was an exact contemporary, having been 
born in the same year, 1788, It has been remarked 
that most of the poet's associates were his Juniors, 
and, less fairly, that he liked to regard them as his sat- 
ellites. But even at Dulwich his ostentation of rank 
had provoked for him the nickname of " the old Eng- 
lish baron," To Wildman, who, as a senior, had a 
right of inflicting chastisement for offences, he said, 
"I find you have got Delawarr on your list; pray 
don't lick him," " Why not ? " was the reply, " Why, 
I don't know, except that he is a brother peer," 
Again, he interfered with the more effectual arm of 
physical force to rescue a junior protege — lame like 
himself, and otherwise much weaker — from the ill- 
treatment of some hulking tyrant, "Plarness," he 
said, "if any one bullies you, tell me, and I'll thrash 
him if I can;" and he kept his word. Harness became 

* See poem and foot-note, page 310. f See poem, page 337. 
'X See also poem and foot-note, pages 330, 337. 
I See also poem and foot-note, page 335. 
xvi 



an accomj[)lished clergyman and minor poet, and has 
left some pleasing reminiscences of his former patron. 
The prodigy of the school, George Sinclair, was in the 
habit of writing the poet's exercises, and getting his 
battles fought for him in return. His bosom friend 
was Lord Clare, To him his confidences were most 
freely given, and his most affectionate verses ad- 
dressed. In the characteristic stanzas entitled 
"L'amitie est I'amour sans ailes," we feel as if be- 
tween them the qualifying phrase might have been 
omitted ; for their letters, carefully preserved on either 
side, are a record of the jealous complaints and the 
reconciliations of lovers. In 1821 Byron writes, "I 
never hear the name Clare without a beating of the 
heart even now ; and I write it with the feelings of 
1803-4-5, ad injinitumy At the same date he say.* 
of an accidental meeting: "It annihilated for a mo- 
ment all the years between the present time and the 
days of Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feel- 
ing, like a rising from the grave to me. Clare too was 
much agitated — more in appearance than I was myself 
— for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers' ends, 
unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own which 
made me think so. We were but five minutes to- 
gether on the public road, but I hardly recollect an 
hour of my existence that could be weighed against 
them," They were "all that brothers should be but 
the name;" and it is interesting to trace this relation- 
ship between the greatest genius of the new time and 
the son of the statesman who, in the preceding age, 
stands out serene and strong amid the swarm of tur- 
bulent rioters and ranting orators by whom he was 
surrounded and reviled. 

Before leaving Harrow the poet had passed through 
the experience of a passion of another kind, with a re- 
sult that unhappily colored his life. Accounts differ 
as to his first meeting with Mary Ann Chaworth, the 
heiress of the family whose estates adjoined his own, 
and daughter of the race that had held with his such 
varied relations. In one of his letters he dates the in- 
troduction previous to his trip to Cheltenham, but it 
seems not to have ripened into intimacy till a later 
period, Byron, who had, in the autumn of 1802, A^is- 
ited his mother at Bath, joined in a masquerade there,, 
and attracted attention by the liveliness of his man- 
ners. In the following year Mrs, Byron again settled at 
Nottingham, and in the course of a second and longer 
visit to her he frequently passed the night at the 
Abbey, of which Lord Grey de Ruthven was then a 
temporary tenant. This was the occasion of his re- 
newing his acquaintance with the Chaworths, who in- 
vited him to their seat at Annesley. He used at first 
to return every evening to Newstead, giving the ex- 
cuse that the family pictures would come down and 
take revenge on him for his grand-uncle's deed, a 
fancy repeated in the Siege of Corinth. Latterly he 
consented to stay at Annesley, which thus became his 
headquarters during the remainder of the holidays of 
1803. The rest of the six weeks were mainly con- 
sumed in an excursion to Matlock and Castleton, in the 
same companionship. This short period, with the ex- 
ception of prologue and epilogue, embraced the whole 
story of his first real love. Byron was on this occa- 
sion in earnest; he wished to marry Miss ChaAvorth, 
an event which, he says, would have "Joined broad 
lands, healed an old feud, and satisfied at least one heart," 

The intensity of his passion is suggestively brought 
before us in an account of his crossing the Styx of the 
Peak cavern, alone with the lady and the Charon of 
the boat. In the same passage he informs us that he 
had never told his love ; but that she had discovered — 
it is obvious that she never returned — it. We have 
another vivid picture of his irritation when she was 



CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



waltzing in his presence at Matlock ; then an account 
of their riding together in the country on their return 
to the family residence; again, of his bending over the 
piano as she was playing the Welsh air of ''Mary 
Anne;" and, lastly, of his overhearing her heartless 
speech to her maid, which first opened his eyes to the 
real state of affairs — "Do you think I could care for 
that lame boy?" — upon which he rushed out of the 
house, and ran, like a hunted creature, to Newstead. 
Thence he shortly returned from the rougher school of 
life to his haunts and tasks at Harrow. A year later 
the pair again met to take farewell, on the hill of 
Annesley — an incident he has commemorated in two 
short stanzas, that have the sound of a wind moaning 
over a moor. "I suppose," he said, '"the next time I 
see you, you will be Mrs. Chaworth?" "I hope so," 
she replied (her betrothed, Mr. Musters, had agreed to 
assume lier family name). The announcement of her 
marriage, which took place in August, 1805, was made 
to him by his mother, with the remark, "I have some 
news for you. Take out your handkerchief ; you will 
require it." On hearing what she had to say, with 
forced calm he turned the conversation to other sub- 
jects; but he was long haunted by a loss which he has 
made the theme of many of his verses.* In 1807 he 
sent to the lady herself the lines beginning — 
" O had my fate been joined ^vith thine." t 
In the following year he accepted an invitation to 
dine at Annesley, and was visibly affected by the sight 
of the infant daughter of Mrs. Chaworth, to whom he 
addressed a touching congratulation in the poem, 
"Well! thou art happy."! Shortly afterwards, when 
about to leave England for the first time, he finally 
addressed her in tlie stanzas — 

" 'T is done, and shivering in the gale, 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail."g 

Some years latei-, having an opportunity of revisiting 
the family of his successful rival, Mrs. Leigh dissuaded 
him. "Don't go," she said, "for if you do you will 
certainly fall in love again, and there Avill be a scene." 
The romance of the story culminates in the famous 
Dream, a poem of unequal merit, but containing pas- 
sages of great beauty and pathos, written in the year 
1816 at Diodati, as Ave are told, amid a flood of tears. || 
Miss Ohaworth's attractions, beyond those of per- 
sonal beauty, seem to have been mainly due to the 
poet's ardent imagination. A young lady, two years 
his senior, of a lively and volatile temper, she en- 
joyed the stolen interviews at the gate between the 
grounds, and laughed at the ardent letters, passed | 
through a confidant, of the still awkwai-d youth 
whom she regarded as a boy. She had no intuition 
to divine the presence, or appreciate the worship, of 
one of the future master-minds of England, nor any 
ambition to ally herself with the wild race of JSIew- 
stead, and preferred her hale, commonplace, fox- 
hunting squire. " She was the beau ideal," says By- 
ron, in his first accurate prose account of the affair, 
written 1823, a few days before his departure for 
Greece, "of all that my youthful fancy could paint of 
beautiful. And I have taken all my fables about the 
celestial nature of women from the perfection my im- 
agination created in her. I say created, for I found 
her, like the rest of the sex, anything but angelic." 
_ Mrs. Musters (her husband afterwards asserted his 
right to his own name) had in the long-run reason | 
to regret her choice. The ill-assorted pair, after some 1 
unhappy years, resolved on separation; and falling 
into bid health and worse spirits, the "bright morn- 

* See poem and foot-note, page 311. 
t See poem and foot-note, page 336. 
X See poem and foot-note, page 425. 



ing star of Annesley " passed under a cloud of mental 
darkness. She died, in 1832, of fright caused by a 
Nottingham riot.f On the decease of Musters, in 1850. 
every relic of her ancient family was sold by auction 
and scattered to the winds. 




Miss Chaworth. 
From an original taken at the age of 17 years. 

CHAPTER III. 

CAMBRIDGE, AJ7D FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP 
— HOURS OF IDLENESS— BARDS AND REVIEWERS. 

[1808-1809.] 

IX October, 1805, on the advice of Dr. Drury, Byron 
Avas removed to Trinity College, Cambridge, and 
kept up a connection with the University for less than 
three years of very irregular attendance, during which 
we hear nothing of his studies, except the contempt 
for them expressed in some of the least efiective pas- 
sages of his early satires. He came into residence in 
bad temper and low spirits. His attachment to Harrow 
characteristically redoubled as the time drew near to 
leave it, and his rest was broken "for the last quarter, 
with counting the hours that remained." He was 
about to start by himself, with the heavy feeling that 
he Avas no longer a boy, and yet against his choice, 
for he wished to go to Oxford. The Hours of Idleness, 
the product of this period, are fairly named. He was 
so idle as regards "problems mathematic," and "bar- 
barous Latin," that it is matter of sur])rise to learn that 
he was able to take his degree, as he did. in Ma^ch, 1808. 
Of his Harrow friends. Harness and Long'''* in due 
course followed him to Cambridge, Avhere their com- 
mon pursuits were reneAved. With the latter — Avho 
Avas drowned in 1809, on a passage to Lisbon Avith his 

? See poem and foot-note, page 427. 

II See poem and foot-notes, pages 380, 381 

f See note, pages 425, 426. "^"^ '"^ 

XA^ii 



See poem and note, page 335. 



CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



regiment — he spent a considerable portion of liis time 
on the Cam, swimming and diving, in which art they 
Avere so expert as to pick up eggs, i)lates, thimbles, 
and coins from a depth of fourteen feet — incidents re- 
called to the poet's mind by reading Milton's invocation 
to Sabrina. During the same period he distinguished 
liimself at cricket, as in boxing, riding, and shooting. 
Of his skill as a rider there are various accounts. He 
was an undoubted marksman, and his habit of carry- 
ing about pistols, and use of them wherever he went, 
was often a source of annoyance and alarm.* He 
professed a theoretical objection to duelling, bat was 
as ready to take a challenge as Scott, and more ready 
to send one. 

Regarding the masters and professctrs of Cambridge, 
Byron has little to say. ' His own tutor, Tavell, appears 
pleasantly enough in his verse, and he commends the 
head of his College, Dr. Lort Mansel, for dignified de- 
meanor in his office and a past rep\itation for con- 
vivial wit. His attentions to Professor Hailstone at 
Harrowgate were graciously offered and received; but 
in a letter to Murray he gives a graphically abusive 
account of Porson, "hiccuping Greek like a Helot" in 
his cups. The poet was first introduced at Cambridge 
to SI brilliant circle of contemporaries, whose talents 
or attainments soon made them more or less con- 
spicuous, and most of whom are interesting on their 
own account as well as from their connection with 
the subsecpient phases of his career. By common 
consent Charles Skinner Matthews, son of tlie member 
for Herefordshire, 1802-fi, was the most remarkable 
of the group. Distinguished alike for scholarship, 
physical and mental courage, subtlety of thought, 
humor of fancy, and fascinations of character, this 
young man seems to have made an impression on the 
undergraduates of his own similar to that left by 
Charles Austin on those of a later generation. The 
loss of this friend Byron always regarded as an incal- 
culable calamity. In a note to GJiilde Harold he 
writes : " I should have ventured on a verse to the 
memory of Matthews, were he not too much above all 
praise of mine. His powers of mind shown in the 
attainment of greater honors, against the ablest can- 
didates, than those of any graduate on record at 
Cambridge, have sufficiently established his fame on 
the spot where it was acquire-d ; while his softer 
qualities live in the recollection of friends who loved 
him too well to envy his superiority." He was 
drowned when bathing alone among the reeds of the 
Cam, in the summer of 1811. 

In a letter written from Ravenna in 1820, Byron, in 
answer to a request for contributions to a proposed 
memoir, introduces into his notes much autobio- 
graphical matter. In reference to a joint visit to 
Xewstead he writes: "Matthews and myself had 
travelled down from London together, talking all 
the way incessantly upon one single topic. "When we 
got to Loughborough, I know not wliat chasm had 
made us diverge for a moment to some other subject, 
at which he was indignant. 'Come,' said he, 'don't 
let us break through ; let us go on as we began, to our 
journey's end;' and so he continued, and was as 
entertaining as ever to the very end. He had pre- 
viously occupied, during my year's absence from Cam- 
bridge, my rooms in Trinity, with the furniture; and 
Jones (the gyp), in his odd way, had said, in putting 
him in, 'Mr. Matthews, I recommend to your atten- 
tion not to damage any of the movables, for Lord 
Byron, sir, is a young man of tumultuous j)fissions.'' 
Matthews was delighted with this, and wlienever any- 
body came to visit him, begged them to handle the 

* See poem and foot-note, paeje 313. 
xviii 



very door with caution, and used to repeat Jones's 
admonition in his tone and manner. , . . He had the 
same droll sardonic way about everything. A wild 
Irishman named F., one evening beginning to say some- 
thing at a large supper. Matthews roared, 'Silence I* 
and then, pointing to F., cried out, in the words of 
the oracle, 'Orson is endowed with reason.' " 

The whole letter, written in the poet's mature and 
natural style, gives a vivid picture of the social life 
and surroundings of his Cambridge days : how much 
of the set and sententious moralizing of some of his 
formal biographers might we not have spared, for a i-e- 
port of the conversation on the road from London to 
Newstead. Of the others gathered round the same 
centre, Scrope Davies enlisted the largest share of By- 
ron's affections. To him he wrote afterthe catastrophe : 
" Come to me, Scrope ; I am almost desolate — left 
alone in the world. I had but you, and II., and M., 
and let me enjoy the survivors while I can." Later he 
says, " Matthews, Davies, Hobhouse, and myself 
formed a coterie of our own. Davies has always beaten 
us all in the war of Avords, and by colloquial powers 
at once delighted and kept us in order ; even M. yielded 
to the dashing vivacity of S. D." The last is every- 
where commended for the brilliancy of his Avit and rep- 
artee : he was never afraid to speak the truth. Once, 
when the poet, in one of his fits of petulance, exclaimed, 
intending to produce a terrible impression, ''I shall go 
mad I " DaAnes calmly and cuttingly observed, " It is 
much more like silliness than madness!" He Avas the 
only man who ever laid Byron under any serious pe- 
cuniary obligation, having lent him $24,000 in some time 
of strait. This Avas repaid on March 27, 1814, Avhen the 
pair sat up over champagne and claret from six till mid- 
night, after which " Scrope could not be got into the 
carriage on the Avay home, but remained tipsy and 
pious on his knees." Davies Avas much disconcerted 
at the influence Avhich the skeptical opinions of Mat- 
thews threatened to exercise over Byron's mind. The 
fourth of this quadrangle of amity Avas John Cam 
Hobhouse, afterwards Lord Broughton, the steadfast 
friend of the poet's Avhole life, the companion of his 
travels, the Avitness of his marriage, the executor of his 
will, the zealous guardian and vindicator of his fame. 
His ability is abundantly attested by the impression he 
left on his contemporaries, his published description of 
the Pilgrimage, and subsequent literary and 'political 
career. Byron bears witness to the warmth of his affec- 
tions and the charms of his conversation, and to the can- 
dor Avhich, as he confessed to Lady Blessington, some- 
times tried his patience. There is little doubt that they 
had some misunderstanding Avhen travelling together, 
but it Avas a passing cloud. Eighteen months after his 
return the poet admits that Hobhouse Avas his best 
friend ; and when he unexpectedly Avalked up the stairs 
of the Palazzo Lanfranchi, at Pisa, Madame Guiccioli 
informs us that Byron was seized Avith such violent 
emotion, and so extreme an excess of joy, that it seemed 
to take aAvay his strength, and he was forced to sit 
down in tears. 

On the edge of this inner circle, and in many respects 
associated Avith it, Avas the Rev. Francis Hodgson, a. 
ripe scholar, good translator, a sound critic, a fluent 
Avriter of graceful verse, and a large-hearted divine, 
AA^hose correspondence, recently edited Avith a connect- 
ing narrative by his son, has thrown light on disputed 
passages of Lord Byron's life. The vicAvs entertained 
by the friends on literary matters Avere almost identi- 
cal ; they both fought under the standards of the clas- 
sic school ; they resented the same criticism, they ap- 
plauded the same successes, and were bound together 
by the strong tie of mutual admiration. Byron com- 
mends Hodgson's verses, and encourages him to Avrite; 



CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIR 



Hodgson recognizes in the Bards and Reviewers and 
the early cantos of Childe Harold thQ promise of 3Ian- 
fred and Cain. Among the associates who strove to 
bring the poet hack to the anchorage of fixed belief. 
and to wean him from the error of liis thoughts, Francis 
Hodgson was the most charitable, and therefore the 
most judicious. That his cautions and exhortations 
•>vere never stultified by pedantry or excessive dogma- 
tism, is apparent from the frank and unguarded answers 
which they called forth. In several, wliich are pre- 
served, and some for the first time reproduced in the 
recently-published Memoir, we are struck by the mix- 
ture of audacity and superficial dogmatism, sometimes 
amounting to elf rontery, that is apt to characterize the 
negations of a youthful skeptic. In September, 1811, 
Byron writes from jSTewstead: "I will have nothing to 
do with your immortality ; we are miserable enough 
in this life, without the absurdity of speculating upon 
another, Christ came to save men, but a good Pagan 
will go to heaven, and a bad Nazarene to heU. I 
am no Platonist, I am nothing at all ; but I would 
sooner be a Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, 
Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, than one of the seventy-two 
villainous sects wlio are tearing each other to pieces 
for the love of the Lord and hatred of each other. I 
will bring ten Mussulmen, shall shame you all in good- 
will towards men and prayer to God." On a similar 
outburst in verse, the Rev. F. Hodgson comments with 
a sweet humanity, " The poor dear soul meant nothing 
of this." Elsewhere the poet writes, " I have read Wat- 
son to Gibbon. He proves nothing ; so I am where I was, 
verging towards Spinoza; and yet it is a gloomy creed ; 
and I want a better; but there is something pagan in 
me that I cannot shake off. In shorty I deny nothing^ 
tut douht everything.'''' But his early attitude on mat- 
ters on religion is best set forth in a letter to Gifford, 
of 1813, in which he says : ''I am no bigot to infidelity, 
and did not expect that, because I doubted the immor- 
tality of man, I should be charged with denying the ex- 
istence of a God. It was the comparative insignificance 
of ourselves and our world, when placed in compari- 
son of the mighty whole of wJiich man is an atom, 
that first led me to imagine that our pretensions to 
eternity might be overrated. This, and being early 
disgusted with a Calvinistic Scotch school, where I was 
cudgelled to church for the first ten years of my life, 
afiiicted me with this malady ; for, after all, it is, I be- 
lieve, a disease of the mind as much as other kinds of 
hypochondria." 

Hodgson was a type of friendly forbearance and 
loyal attachment, which had for their return a perfect 
open-heartedness in his correspondent. To no one did 
the poet more freely abuse hhnself ; to no one did he 
indulge in more reckless sallies of humor ; to no one did 
he more readily betray his little conceits. From him 
Byron sought and received advice, and he owed to 
him the prevention of what might have been a most 
foolish and disastrous encounter. On the other hand, 
the clergyman was the recipient of one of the poet's 
many single-hearted acts of munificence — a gift of 
$5000, to pay off debts to which he had been left heir. 
In a letter to his uncle, the former gratefully alludes 
to this generosity : " Oh, if you knew the exultation 
of heart, aye, and of head too, I feel at being free 
from those depressing embarrassments, you would, as 
I do, bless my dearest friend and brother, Byron." 
The whole transaction is a pleasing record of a benefit 
that was neither sooner nor later resented by the re- 
ceiver. 

■ Among other associates of the same group should 
be mentioned Henry Drury — long Hodgson's intimate 
friend, and ultimately his brother-in-law, to whom many 
of Byron'sfirst series of letters from abroad are addressed 



— and Robert Charles Dallas, a name surrounded with 
various associations, who played a not insignificant 
part in Byron's history, and, after his death, helped to 
swell the throng of liis annotators. This gentleman, 
a connection by marriage, and author of some now 
forgotten novels, first made acquaintance with the 
poet in London early in 1808. 

Meanwhile, during the intervals of his attendance 
at college, Byron had made other friends. His vaca- 
tions were divided between London and Southwell, a 
small town on the road from Mansfield and IsTewark, 
once a refuge of Charles I., and still adorned by an old 
Norman minster. Here Mrs. Byron for several summer 
seasons took up her abode, and was frequently joined by 
her son. He was- introduced to John Pigot, a medical 
student of Edinburgh, and his sister Ehzabeth,* both 
endowed with talents above the average, and keenly 
interested in literary pursuits, to whom a number of 




John Cam Jrlobhouse. 
From a drawing by Wivell. 

his letters are addressed ; also to the Rev. J. T. Becher,r 
author of a treatise on the state of the poor, to whom 
he was indebted for encouragement and counsel. The 
poet often rails at the place, which he found dull in 
comparison with Cambridge and London ; writing 
from the latter, in 1807: "" O Southwell, how I rejoice 
to have left thee ! and hoAV I curse the heavy hours I 
dragged along for so many months among the Mohawks 
Avho inhabit your kraals ! " and adding that his sole 
satisfaction during his residence there was having 
pared off some pounds of fiesh. jSTotwithstanding, in 
the small but select society of this inland watering- 
place he passed, on the whole, a pleasant time — listen- 
ing to the music of the simple ballads in which he 
delighted, taking part in the performances of the local 
theatre, making excursions, and writing verses. This, 
otherwise quiet time was disturbed by exhibitions of 

* See poems and foot-note, page 824. 

t See poems and foot-note, page oo2. 

xix 



OAMBEIDGK AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



violence on the part of Mrs. Byron, which suggest the 
idea of insanity. After one more outrageous than 
usual, both mother and son are said to have gone to 
tlie neighboring apothecary, each to request liim not 
to supply the other with poison. On a later occasion, 
when he had l>een meeting her bursts of rage with 
stubborn mockery, she tlung a poker at his head, and 
narrowly missed her aim. Upon this he took flight to 
London, and his Hydra or Alecto, as he calls her, 
followed: on their meeting, a truce was patched, and 
they withdrew in opposite directions, she back to 
Southwell, he to refresh himself on the Sussex coast, 
till in the August of the same year (180(3) he again re- 
joined her, Sliortly afterwards we have from Pigot 
A descri})tion of a trip to Ilarrowgate, when his lord- 
ship's favorite Newfoundland. Boatswain,* whose re- 
lation to his master recalls that of Bounce to Pope, or 
Maida to Scott, sat on tlie box. 

In Xoven^ber I^yron printed for private circulation 
the first issue of his juvenile poems. Mr. Becher having 
called his attention to one which he thought objection- 
able, the impression was destroyed ; and the author set 
to work upon another, which, at once weeded and ampli- 
fied, saw the light in January, 1807. He sent copies, 
under the title of JurenU'uL to several of his friends, and 
among others to Henry Mackenzie (the Man of Feel- 
ing), and to Fraser Tytler, Lord Woodhouselee. En- 
couraged by their favorable notices, he determined to 
xippeal to a wider ati^dience. and in March, 1807, the 
Hours of Idleness^ still proceeding from the local press 
at Xewark, were given to the world. In June we find 
the poet again writing fi-om his college rooms, dwell- 
ing with boyish detail on his growth in height and 
reduction in girtb, his late lumrs and heavy potations, 
his comrades, .and the prospects of his book. From 
July to September he dates from London, excited by 
the praises of some now obscure magazine, and plan- 
ning a journey to the Hebrides. In October he is again 
settled at Cambridge, and in a letter to Miss Pigot, 
makes a humorous reference to one of his fantastic 
freaks: "I have got a new friend, the finest in the 
world — a tame bear. When I brought him here, they 
asked me what I meant to do with liim, and my reply 
was, ' He should sit for a fellowship.' This answer 
delighted them not." 

The greater part of the spring and summer of 1808 
was spent at Dorant's Hotel, Albemarle Street. Left to 
himself, he seems during this period, for the first time, 
to have freely indulged in dissipations, which are in 
most lives more or less carefully concealed. But Byron 
was perpetually taking the public into his confidence, 
and all his ''sins of blood," with the strange additions 
of his imaginations, have been thrust before us in a 
manner which even Theophile Gautier might have 
tliouglit indelicate. Xature and circumstances con- 
spired to the result. With passions which he is fond 
of comparing to the fires of Vesuvius and Hecla, he 
was, on his entrance into a social life, which his rank 
helped to surround with temptations, unconscious of 
any sufficient motive for resisting them; he had no 
one to restrain him from the whim of the moment, or 
witli sufficient autliority to give him effective advice. 
A temperament of general despondency, relieved by 
reckless outbui-sts of animal spirits, is the least favor- 
able to habitual self-control. The absurdity of Mr. 
Moore's frequent declaration, that all great poets are 
inly wrapt in perpetual gloom, is only to be excused 
by the modesty which, in the saying so, obviously ex- 
cludes himself from the list. But ifis true that anom- 
alous energies are sources of incessant irritation to their 
possessor, until they have found their proper vent in 

♦See poem and foot-note, page 425. 
XX 



the free exercise of his highest faculties. Byron had 
not yet done this, when he was rusliing about between 
London, Brighton, Cambridge, and Newstead — shoot- 
ing, gambling, swimming, alternately drinking deep 
and trying to starve himself into elegance, green-room 
hunting, travelling with disguised companions,! patron- 
izing D'Egville the dancing-master, Grimaldi the clown, 
and taking lessons from Mr. Jackson, the distinguished 
professor of pugilism, to whom he afterwards affec- 
tionately refers as his " old friend and corporeal pastor 
and master." There is no inducement to dwell on 
amours devoid of romance, further than to remember 
that they never trenched on what the common code 
of the fashionable world terms dishonor. We can 
well believe the poet's later assertion, backed by all 
evidence to the contrary, that he had never been the 
first means of leading any one astray — a fact perhaps 
worthy the attention of those moral worshippers of 
Goethe and Burns who hiss at Lord Byron's name. 

Though much of this year of his life was passed un- 
profitably, from it dates the impulse that provoked 
him to put forth liis powers. The Edbihirr/h, with 
the attack on the Hours of Idleness, appeared in March, 
1808.t This production, by Lord Brougham, is a speci- 
men of the tomahawk style of criticism prevalent in 
the early years of the century, in which tlie main mo- 
tive of the critic was not to deal fairly with his author, 
but to acquire for himself an easy reputation for clev- 
erness, by a series of smart, contemptuous sentences. 
Taken separately, the strictures of the Edinburgh are 
sufficiently just, and the passages quoted for censure 
are all bad. Byron's genius as a poet was not remark- 
ably precocious. The Hours of Idleness seldom rise, 
either in thought or expression, very far above the 
average level of juvenile verse; many of the pieces in 
the collection are imitations ; others, suggested by cir- 
cumstances of local or temporary interest, Jiad served 
their turn before coming into print, and it must be ad- 
mitted their prevailing sentiment is an affectation of 
misanthropy, conveyed in such lines as 

" Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen, 
I rest, a perfect Timon, not nineteen." 

But even in this volume there are indications of 
force and command. The Prayer o/*A^«^?</'^,§ indeed, 
though previously written, was not included in the 
edition before the notice of the critic ; but the sound 
of Iocli-na-Gair^\\ and some of the stanzas on Xeic- 
stead,^ ought to have saved him from the mistake of 
his impudent advice. The poet, who through life 
waited with feverish anxiety for every verdict on his 
Avork, is reported, after reading the review, to have 
looked like a man about to send a challenge. In the 
midst of a transparent show of indifference, he con- 
fesses to have drunk three bottles of claret on the 
evening of its appearance. But the wound did not 
mortify into torpor; the Sea-Kings' blood stood him 
in good stead, and he was not long in collecting his 
strength for the panther-like spring, which, gaining 
strength by its delay, twelve months later made it im- 
possible for him to be contemned. 

The last months of the year he spent at Xewstead, 
vacated by the tenant, who had left the building in 
the tumble-down condition in which he found it. 



t In reference to one of these, see an interesting letter from Mr. 
]\rinto to the Athenxum in the year 1876, in which, with consid- 
erable though not conclusive ingenuity, he endeavors to identify 
the girl witli " Thyrza" (see poem, page 432), and with "Astart6," 
whom he regards as the same person. 

t See Appendix, note 47, page 634, also foot-note, page 338. 

§ See poem, page 334. 

II See i)oem and foot-note, page 324. 

1 See poems and foot-notes, pages 305, 326. 



CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP, 



Byron Avas, by his own acknowledgment, at this time 
"heavily dipped," generosities having combined with 
extravagances to the result ; he had no funds to subject 
the place to anything like a thorough repair, but he 
busied himself in arranging a few of the rooms for his 
own present and his mother's after use. About this 
date he writes to her, beginning in his usual style, 
"Dear Madam," saying he has as yet no rooms ready 
for her reception, but that on his departure she shall 
be tenant till his return. During tliis interval he was 
studying Pope, and carefully maturing his own satire. 
In N'ovember the dog Boatswain died in a fit of mad- 
ness. The event called forth the famous burst of mis- 
anthropic verse, ending with the couplet — 

" To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; 
I never knew but one, and here he lies ; "* 

and the inscription on the monument that still remains 
in the gardens of Newstead. 

On January 22, 1809, his lordship's coming of age 
was celebrated with festivities, curtailed of their pro- 
portions by his hraited means. Early in spring he paid 
a visit to London, bringing the proof of his satire to 
the publisher, Cawthorne. From St. James's Street 
he writes to Mrs. Byron, on the death of Lord Falk- 
land, who had been killed in a duel, and expresses a 
sympathy for his family, left in destitute circumstances, 
whom he proceeded to relieve with a generosity only 
equalled by the delicacy of the manner in which it was 
shown. Referring to his own embarrassment, he pro- 
ceeds in the expression of a resolve, often repeated, 
" Come what may, Newstead and I stand or fall to- 
gether. I have now lived on the spot — I have fixed 
my heart on it, and no pressure, present or future, 
shall induce me to barter the last vestige of our in- 
heritance." He was building false hopes on the result 
of the suit for the Rochdale property, which, being 
dragged from court to court, involved him in heavy 
expenses, with no satisfactory result. He took his 
seat in the House of Lords on the 13th of March, and 
Mr. Dallas, who accompanied him to the bar of the 
House, has left an account of his demeanor. 

" His countenance, paler than usual, showed that his 
mind was agitated, and that he was thinking of the 
nobleman to whom he had once looked for a hand and 
(countenance in his introduction. There w^ere very few 
persons in the House. Lord Eldon was going through 
some ordinary business. When Lord Byron had taken 
the oaths, the Chancellor quitted his seat, and went 
towards him with a smile, putting out his hand warmly 
to welcome him; and, though I did not catch the words, 
I saw that he paid him some compliment. This was 
all thrown away upon Lord Byi'on, who made a stiff 
bow, and put the tips of his fingers into the Chancel- 
lor's hand. The Chancellor did not press a welcome 
so received, but resumed his seat, while Lord Byron 
carelessly seated himself for a few minutes on one of 
the empty benches to the left of the throne, usually 
occupied by the lords in opposition. When, on his 
joining me, I expressed what I had felt, he said, ' If I 
had shaken hands heartily, he would have set me down 
for one of his party ; but I will have nothing to do with 
them on either side. I have taken my seat, and now 
I will go abroad.' " 

A few days later the English Bards and Scotch Re- 
vieioers appeared before the public. The first anony- 
mous edition was exhausted in a month ; a second, to 
which the author gave his name, quickly followed. 
He was wont at a later date to disparage this pro- 
duction, and frequently recanted many of his verdicts 
in marginal notes. Several, indeed, seem to have been 



dictated by feelings so transitory, that in the course of 
the correction of proof blame was turned into praise,, 
and praise into blame. 

The success of Byron's satire was due to the fact of 
its being the only good thing of its kind since Churchill 
— for in the Baviad and Mceviad only butterfiies were 
broken upon the wheel — and to its being the first 
promise of a new power. The Bards and Betiewers 
also enlisted sympathy, from its vigorous attack upon 
the critics who had hitherto assumed the prerogative 
of attack. Jeffrey and Brougham were seethed in 
their own milk ; and outsiders, whose credentials were 
still being examined, as Moore and Campbell, came in 
for their share of vigorous vituperation. The Lakers 
fared worst of all. It was the beginning of the au- 
thor's life-long war, only once relaxed, with Southey. 
Wordsworth — though against this passage is written 
"unjust," a concession not much sooner made than 
withdrawn — is dubbed an idiot, who — 

" Both by precept and example shows. 
That prose is verse and verse is only prose ; " 

and Coleridge, a baby — 

" To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear." 




= See poem and foot-note, page 425. 



Lord Byron. 

From the Original Painting by Saunders, 1807. 

The lines ridiculing the encounter between Jeffrey 
and Moore, are a Mr specimen of the accuracy with 
which the author had caught the ring of Pope's an- 
tithesis : — 

" The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt— for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man— 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of her charms, 
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms." 

Meanwhile Byron had again retired to Newstead^ 
where he invited some choice spirits to hold a few 
weeks of farewell revel. Matthews, one of these, gives, 
an account of the place, and the time they spent there 
— entering the mansion between a bear and a wolf, 
amid a salvo of pistol-shots ; sitting up to all hours, 
talking politics, philosophy, poetry ; hearing stories 
of the dead lords, and the ghost of the Black Brother; 
drinking their wine out of the skull-cup which the 
owner had made out of the cranium of some old monk 
dug up in the garden ; breakfasting at two, then read- 
xxi 



TWO YEARS OF TRAVEL. 



Ing, fencing, riding, cricketing, sailing on the lake, and 
playing with the bear or teasing the wolf. The party 
broke up without having made themselves responsible 
for any of the orgies of which Childe Harold speal; 



m Its opening verses, 



and which Dallas in o-ood earn- 



est accepts as veracious, when the poet and his friend 
Hobhouse started for Falmouth, on their way ^'- outre 
oner.''' 



T 



CHAPTER lY. 

TAVO YEARS OF TRAVEL. 

[1809-1811.] 

HERE is no romance of Munchausen or Dumas more 
JL marvellous than the adventures attributed to Lord 
Byron abroad. Attached to his first expedition are a 
series of narratives, by professing eye-witnesses, of his 
intrigues, encounters, acts -of diablerie and of munifi- 
cence, in particular of his roaming about the isles of 
Greece and taking possession of one of them, which 
have all the same relation to reality as the Arabian 
Mights to the actual reign of Haroun Al Raschid. 

Byron had far more than an average share of the emigre 




The Maid of Saragossa. 

From a sketch taken from life by F. Stone. 

■spirit, the counterpoise in the English race of their 
otherwise arrogant isolation. He held with Wilhelm 
Meister — 

" To give space for wandering is it, 
That the earth Avas made so wide ; " 

and wrote to his mother from Athens: "I am so con- 
vinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead 
of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying 
^t home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, 
that I think there should be a law amongst us to send 

* See page 3, stanza iii. 
xxil 



our young men abroad for a term, among the few allies 
our wars have left us." 

On June 11th, having borrowed money at heavy in- 
terest, and stored his mind with information about 
Persia and India, the contemplated but unattained goal 
of liis travels, he left London, accompanied by his 
friend Hobhouse, Fletcher his valet, Joe Murray his 
old butler, and Robert Rushton, the son of one of his 
tenants, supposed to be represented by the Page in 
Childe Harold. The two latter, the one on account 
of his age, the other from his health breaking down, 
he sent back to England from Gibraltar. 

Becalmed for some days at Falmouth, a to'svn which 
he describes as "full of Quakers and salt fish," he 
despatched letters to his mother, Drury, and Hodgson, 
exhibiting the changing moods of his mind. Smart- 
ing under a slight he received at parting from a school- 
companion, who had excused himself from a farewell 
meeting on the plea that he had to go shopping, he at 
one moment talks of his desolation, and says that, 
"leaving England without regret," he has thought of 
entering the Turkish service ; in the next, especially 
in the stanzas to Hodgson, he runs off into a strain of 
boisterous buffoonery. On tlie 2d of July, the packet 
by which he was bound sailed for Lisbon, and arrived 
there about the middle of the month, when the English 
fleet was anchored in the Tagus. The poet in some 
of his stanzas has described the fine view of the port 
and the disconsolate dirtiness of the city itself, the 
streets of which were at that time rendered dangerous 
by the frequency of religious and political assassina- 
tions. Nothing else remains of his sojourn to interest 
us, save the statement of Mr. Hobhouse. that his friend 
made a more perilous, though less celebrated, achieve- 
ment by water than his crossing the Hellespont, in 
swimming from old Lisbon to Belem Castle. Byron 
praises the neighboring Cintra as "the most beautiful 
village in the world," though he joins with Words- 
worth in heaping anathemas on the Convention, and 
extols the grandeur of Mafra, the Escurial of Portugal, 
in the convent of which a monk, showing the traveller 
a large library, asked if the English had any books in 
their country. Despatching his baggage and servants 
by sea to Gibraltar, he and his friend started on horse- 
back through the south-Avest of Spain. Their first 
resting-place, after a ride of 400 miles, performed at 
an average rate of seventy in the twenty-four hours, 
was Seville, where they lodged for three days in the 
house of two ladies, to whose attractions as well as 
the fascination he seems to have exerted over them, 
the poet refers. f Here, too, he saw, promenading on 
the Prado, the famous 3Iaid of Saragossa, whom he 
celebrates in his equally famous stanzas ( Childe Harold. 
page 8, stanza liv). Of Cadiz, the next stage, he writes 
with enthusiasm as a modern Cythera, describing the 
bull-fights in his verse, and the beauties in glowing- 
prose. The belles of this city, he says, are the Lan- 
cashire witches of Spain (page 11), and by reason 
of them, rather than the sea-shore or the Sierra 
Morena, "sweet Cadiz is the first spot in creation." ' 
Hence, by an English frigate, they sailed to Gibraltar, 
for which place he has nothing but curses. Byron 
had no sympathy with the ordinary forms of British 
patriotism, and in the great struggle with the tyranny 
of the First Empire, he may almost be said to have 
sympathized with Napoleon. 

The ship stopped at Cagliari, in Sardinia, and again 
at Girgenti, on the Sicilian coast. Arriving at Malta, 
they halted there for three weeks — time enough to 
establish a sentimental, though Platonic, flirtation with 
Mrs. Spencer Smitli, wife of the British minister at 



t See foot-note, page 485. 



TWO YEARS OF TRAVEL. 



•Constantinople, sister-in-law of the famous admiral, 
and .the heroine of some exciting adventures. She 
is the "Florence " of Gkilde Harold, and is afterwards 
addressed in some of the most graceful verses of his 
cavalier minstrelsy.* 

The only other adventure of the visit is Byron's 
■quarrel with an officer, on some unrecorded ground, 
which Hobhouse tells us nearly resulted in a duel. 
The friends left Malta on September 29th, in the war- 
ship ''Spider,'' and after anchoring off Patras, and 
-"^ending a few hours on shore, they skirted the coast 
of Acarnania, in view of localities — as Ithaca, the 
Leucadian rock, and Actium — whose classic memories 
filtered through the poet's mind and found a place in 
liis masterpieces. Landing at Previsa, they started on 
a tour through Albania — 

" O'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales." 

Byron was deeply impressed by the beauty of the 
scenery, and the half-savage independence of the 
people, described as ''always strutting about with slow 
dignity, though in rags." In October we find him with 
his companions at Janina, hospitably entertained by 
order of Ali Pasha, the famous Albanian Turk, bandit, 
and despot, then engaged in besieging Ibrahim in Illy- 
ria. They proceeded on their Avay by " bleak Pindus," 
Acherusia's lake, and Zitza, with its monastery door 
battered by robbers. Before reaching the latter place 
they encountered a terrific thunder-storm, in the midst 
of which they separated, and Byron's detachment lost 
its way for nine hours, during which he composed the 
verses to Florence, before quoted. 

Some days later they together arrived at Tepelleni, 
and were there received by Ali Pasha in person. The 
scene on entering the town is described as recalling 
Scott's Branksome Castle and the feudal system ; and 
the introduction to Ali, who sat for some of the traits 
of the poet's corsairs, is graphically reproduced in a 
letter to Mrs. Byron. '' His first question was, why at 
so early an age I left my country, and without a 'lala,' 
or nurse? He then said the Enghsh minister had told 
him I was of a great family, and desired his respects 
to my mother, which I now present to you (date, N'o- 
vember 12th). He said he was certain I was a man 
of birth, because I had small ears, curling hair, and 
little white hands. He told me to consider him as a 
■ father whilst I was in Turkey, and said he looked on 
me as his son. Indeed, he treated me like a child, 
sending me almonds, fruit, and sweetmeats twenty 
times a day." Byron shortly afterwards discovered 
his host to be a poisoner and an assassin. " Two days 
ago," he proceeds, in a passage which illustrates his 
character and a common experience, "I was nearly 
lost in a Turkish ship-of-war, owing to the ignorance 
of the captain and crew. Fletcher yelled after his 
wife ; the Greeks cahed on all the saints, the Mussul- 
men on Alia; the captain burst into tears and ran 
below deck, telhng us to call on God. The sails were 
split, the mainyard shivered, the wind blowing fresh, 
the night setting in : and all our chance was to make 
for Corfu — or, as F. pathetically called it, a ' watery 
grave.' I did what I could to console him, but find- 
ing him incorrigible, wrapped myself in my Albanian 
capote, and lay down on the deck to Avait the worst." 
Unable from his lameness, says Hobhouse, to be of any 
assistance, he in a short time was found amid the 
trembling sailors fast asleep. They got back to the 
coast of Suli, and shortly afterwards started through 
Acarnania and ^Etolia for the Morea, again rejoicing 
in the wild scenery and the apparently kindred spirits 
of the w41d men among whom they passed. Byron 

* See foot-note and poems, pages 428, 429. 



was especially fascinated by the fire-light dance and 
song of the robber band, which he describes and re- 
produces in Ghilde Harold.^ On the 21st of Novem- 
ber he reached Missolonghi, where, fifteen years later, 
he died. Here he dismissed most of his escort, pro- 
c^ed^d to Patras, and on to Yostizza, caught sight of 
Parnassus, and accepted a flight of eagles near Delphi 
as a favoring sign of Apollo. "The last bird," he 
writes, "I ever fired at was an eaglet on the shore of 
the Gulf of Lepanto. It was only wounded, and I 
tried to save it — the eye was so bright. But it pined 
and died in a few days ; and I never did since, and never 
will, attempt the life of another bird." From Livadia 
the travellers proceeded to Thebes, visited the cave 
of Trophonius, Diana's fountain, the so-called ruins 
of Pindar's house, and tlie field of Cheronea, crossed 
Cith^eron, and on Christmas, 1809, arrived before the 




Ali Pasha. 

From a sketch by F. Stone. 

defile, near the ruins of Phyle, where he had his first 
glimpse of Athens, which evoked the famous lines : — 

"Ancient of days, august Athena! where. 
Where ai'e thy men of might? thy grand in soul? 
Gone, glimmering through the dreams of things that were. 
First in the race that led to glory's goal, 
They won, and pass'd away : is this the whole— 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour?" J 

x^fter which he reverts to his perpetually recurring 
moral, "Men come and go; but the hills, and waves, 
and skies, and stars endure " — 

" Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds ; 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, glory, freedom fail— but nature still is fair." 

The duration of Lord Byron's first visit to Athens 
■was about three months, and it was varied by excur- 
sions to different parts of Attica — Eleusis, Hymettus, 
Cape Colonna, Suniuin, the scene of Falconer's ship- 
wreck, the Colonosof (Edipus, and Marathon, the jdain 
of which is said to have been placed at his disposal for 
about the same sum that, thii-t}^ yearslater, an American 
volunteered to give for the bark with his name on the 
oak at ISTewstead. Byron had a poor opinion of the 



t See song, page 19. 



t See page 13, stanza ii. 



TWO YEARS OF TRAVEL. 



modern Athenians, who seem to have at tliis period 
done their best to justify the Roman satirist. He found 
them superficial, cunning, and false : but, with generous 
historic insight, he says that no nation in like circum- 
stances would have been much better; that they had 
the vices of ages of slavery, from which it would re- 
quire ages of freedom to emancipate them. 

In the Greek capital he lodged at the house of a re- 
spectable lady, widow of an English vice-consul, who 
had three daughters, the eldest of whom, Theresa, 
acc^uired an innocent and enviable fame as the Maid of 
Athens, without the dangerous glory of having taken 
any very firm hold of the heart that she was asked to 
return.* A more solid passion was the poet's genuine 
indignation on the "lifting,'' in Border phrase, of the 




The Maid of Athens. 
From a sketch taken from life by T. Allason, in 1832. 

.marbles from the Parthenon, and their being taken 
to England by order of Lord Elgin (see Xote"2, page 
604). Byron never wrote anything more sincere than 
the Ci.irse of Minerva (page 362] ; and he has recorded 
few incidents more pathetic than that of the old Greek 
who, when the last stone was removed for exportation, 
shed tears. The question is still an open one of ethics. 
There are few Englishmen of the higher rank who do 
not hold London in the right hand as barely balanced 
by the rest of the world in the left ; a judgment in 
which we can hardly expect Romans, Parisians, and 
Athenians to concur. On the other hand, the marbles 
were mouldering at Athens, and they are preserved, 
like ginger, m the British Museum. 

Among the adventures of this period are an expedi- 
tion across the Hissus to some caves near Kharyati, 
in which the travellers were by accident nearly en- 
tombed; another to Pentelicus, where they tried to 
carve their names on tlie marble rock ; and a third to 
the environs of the Pineus in the evening light. Early 

* See poem and foot-note, page 440. 
xxiv 



I in March the convenient departure of an English sloop- 
i of-war induced them to make an excursion to Smyrna. 
I There, on the 28th of March, the second canto of 
I Chllde Harold, begun in the previous autumn at Ja- 
I nina, was completed. They remained in the neighbor- 
I hood, visiting Ephesus, without poetical result further 
than a reference to the jackals, in the Siege of Corinth ,t 
and on April 11th left by the "Salsette," a frigate on 
its way to Constantinople. The vessel touched at the 
I Troad, and Byron spent some time on land, snipe-shoot- 
ing, and rambling among the reputed ruins of Ilium, 

Being again detained in the Dardanelles, waiting for 
a fair wind, Byron landed on the European side, and 
' swam, in company with Lieutenant Ekenhead, from 
Sestos to Abydos — a performance of which he often 
speaks. J At length, on May 14, he reached Con- 
, stantinople, exalted the Golden Horn above all the 
j sights he had seen, and now first abandoned his design 
I of travelling to Persia. Gait, and other more or less 
i gossipping travellers, have accumulated a number of 
I incidents of the poet's fife at this period, of his fanci- 
! ful dress, blazing in scarlet and gold, and of his con- 
\ tentions for the privileges of rank — as wlien he de- 
i manded precedence of the English ambassador in an in- 
' terview with the Sultan, and, on its refusal, could only 
I be pacified b}^ the assurances of the Austrian inter- 
I nuncio. In converse with the indifferent persons 
' he displayed a curious alternation of frankness and 
liauteur, and indulged a habit of letting people up and 
down by which he frequently gave offence. More 
interesting are narratives of the suggestionof someof his 
verses, as the slave-market in Don Juan, and the spec- 
tacle of the dead criminal tossed on the waves, revived 
in the Bride of Al)ydos.\ One example is, if we except 
Dante's Ugolino, the most remarkable instance inlitera- 
ture of the expansion, without the weakening, of the 
, horrible. Take first Mr. Hobhouse's plain prose : "The 
sensations produced by the state of the weather " — it 
j was wretched and stormy when they left the '* Salsette " 
for the city — '* and leaving a comfortable cabin, were 
in unison with the impressions which we felt when, 
passing under the palace of the Sultans, and gazing at 
the gloomy cypress which rises above the walls, we 
saw two dogs gnawing a dead body." After this we 
may measure the force of a morbid imagination brood- 
ing over the incident — 

"And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival." 

Byron and Hobhouse set sail from Constantinople 
on the 14th July, 1810 — the latter to return direct 
to England, a determination which, from no apparent 
fault on either side, the former did not regret. One 
incident of the passage derives intei-est from its possi- 
ble consequence. Taking up and unsheathing a yata- 
ghan, which he found on the quarter-deck, he remarked, 
'•I should like to know how a person feels after com- 
mitting a murder." This harmless piece of melodrama 
— the idea of which is expanded in Mr. Dobell's Balder, 
and parodied in Firmilian — may have been the basis 
of a report afterwards circulated, and accepted among 
others by Goethe, that his lordship had committed a 
murder ; hence, obviously, the character of Lara, and 
the mystery of Manfred! The poet parted from his 
friend at Zea (Ceos); after spending some time in 
■solitude on the little island, he returned to Athens, 
and there renewed acquaintance with his school-friend, 
the Marquis of Sligo, who, after a few days, accom- 
panied him to Corinth. They then separated, and 
Byron Avent on to Patras, in the Morea, where he had 
business with the Consul. He dates from there at the 

t See page 106. % See poem and foot-note, page 430. 

I See foot-note, page 70. 



TWO YEARS OF TRAVEL. 



close of July. It is impossible to give a consecutive 
account of his life during the next ten months, a period 
consequently filled up with the contradictory and ab- 
surd mass of legends before referred to. A few facts 
only of any interest are extricable. During at least 
half of the time, his headquarters were at Athens, 
where he again met his friend the Marquis, associated 
with the English Consul and Lady Hester Stanhope, 
studied Romaic in a Franciscan monastery — where he 
saw and talked with the mixed nationalities of French, 
Italians, Danes, Greeks, Turks, and Americans — wrote 
to his mother and others, saying he had swum from vSes- 
tos to Abydos, was sick of Fletcher bawling for beef 
and beer, had done with authorship, and hoped, on 
his return, to lead a quiet recluse life. He nevertheless 
made notes to Childe Harold, composed tlie Hints from 
Horace and the Curse of Minerva, and presumably 
brooded over, and outlined in his mind, many of his 



locality we find him, during the autumn, the honored 
guest of the Vizier Yalhi (a son of Ah Pasha), who 
presented him with a fine horse. During a second 
visit to Patras, in September, he was attacked by the 
same sort of marsh fever from which, fourteen years 
afterwards, in the near neighborhood, he died. On 
his recovery, in October, he complains of having been 
nearly killed by the heroic measures of the native 
doctors: "One of them trusts to his genius, never 
having studied; the other, to a campaign of eighteen 
months against the sick of Otranto, which he made in 
his youth with great effect. When I Avas seized with 
my disorder, I protested against both these assassins, 
but in vain." He was saved by the zeal of his servants, 
who asseverated that if his lordship died they would 
take good care the doctors should also ; on which the 
learned men discontinued their visits, and the patient 
revived. On his final return to Athens, the restoration 




Franciscan Convent, Athens. 

The Residence of Lord Byron, 1811. From a drnwinei by C. Stavfleld, A. E. A. 



verse romances. We hear no more of the Maid of 
Athens ; but there is no fair ground to doubt that the 
Giaour was suggested by his rescue of a young woman 
whom, for the fault of an amour with some Frank, 
a party of Janissaries were about to throw, sewn up 
in a sack, into the sea.* Islv. Gait gives no authority 
for his statement, that the girl's deliverer was the orig- 
inal cause of her sentence. T7e may rest assured that 
if it had been so, Bvron himself would have told us 
of it. 

A note to the Sieqe of Corinth is suggestive of his 
unequalled restlessness. "I visited all three— Tripol- 
itza. l^apoli, and Argos-in 1810-11 ; and in the course 
of jonrneyiniT through the country, from my first 
arrival in 1800, crossed the Isthmus eight times on 
my way from Attica to the Morea." In the latter 

* See foot-note, page 50. 



of his health was retarded by one of his long courses 
of reducing diet; he lived mainly on rice, and vinegar 
and water. Fi-om that city he writes in the early 
spring, intimating his intention of proceeding to Egypt : 
but Mr. Hanson, his man of business, ceasing to send 
him remittances, the scheme was abandoned. Beset 
by letters about his debts, he again declares his deter- 
mination to hold fast by Xewstead, adding that if the 
place, which is his only tie to England, is sold, he 
won't come back at all.' Life on the shores of the Ar- 
chipelago is far cheaper and happier, and " Ubi bene 
ibi patria," for such a citizen of the world as he has 
become. Later he went to Malta, and was detained 
there by another bad attack of tertian fever. The next 
record of. consequence is from the " Volage " frigate, at 
sea, Jime 29, 1811, when he writes in a despondent 
strain to Hodgson, that he is returning home "without 
a hope, and almost without a desii-e." to wrangle with 

XXV 



LONDON LIFE, AND SECOND PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



creditors and lawyers about executions and coal-pits, 
"In short, I am sick and sorry; and when I have a 
little repaired my irreparable affairs, away I shall 
march, either to campaign in Spain, or back again to 
the East, where I can at least have cloudless skies and 
a cessation from impertinence. I am sick of fops, and 
poesy, and prate, and shall leave the whole Castalian 
state to Butb, or anybody else. Howbeit, I have writ- 
ten some 4000 lines of one kind or another on my 
travels." With these, and an amusing collection of mar- 
bles, and skulls, and hemlock, and tortoises, and ser- 
vants, he reached London about the middle of July, and 
remained there, making some arrangements about busi- 
ness and publication. On the 23d we have a short but 
kind letter to his mother, promisingto pay her a visit on 
his way to Rochdale. '• You know you are a vixen, but 
keep some champagne for me," he had written from 
abroad. On receipt of the letter she remarked, "If I 




Thomas Moore. 
From the original picture in the possession of Mr. Murray. 

should be dead before he comes down, what a strange 
thing it would be." Towards the close of the month she 
had an attack so alarming that he was summoned ; but 
before he had time to arrive she had expired, on the 1st 
of August, in a lit of rage brought on by reading an 
upholsterer's bill. On the way Byron heard the intel- 
ligence; and wrote to Dr. Pigot : "I now feel the truth 
of Mrs. Gray's observation, that we can only have one 
mother. Peace be with her! " On arridng at New- 
stead, all their storms forgotten, the son was sx) affected 
that he did not trust himself to go to the funeral, but 
stood dreamily gazing at the cortege from the gate of 
the Abbey. Five days later, Charles S. Matthews was 
drowned. 



CHAPTER V. 

LIFE IX LOXDOX — CORRESPOXDENCE WITH SCOTT 
AXD 3IOORE— SECOXD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP — 
CHILDE HAROLD (l., II.) AXD THE R03IAXCES. 

[1811-1815.] 

THE deaths of Long.Wingfield, Eddlestone, Matthews, 
and of his mother had narrowed the circle of the- 
poet's early companions ; and, though he talks of each 
loss in succession as if it had been that of an only friend, 
we can credit a degree of loneliness, and well excuse 
a certain amount of bitterness in the feehngs with 
I which he returned to London. He had at this time 
I seen very little of Augusta, the only relative whom he 
i ever deeply loved. He and this half-sister met casually 
in 1804, and again in the following year. After her 
marriage (1807), Byron writes from abroad (1810), 
regretting having distressed her by his quarrel with 
Lord Carlisle. In 1811 she is mentioned as rever- 
sionary heiress of his estate. Towards the close of 
1813, there are two allusions which testify to their 
mutual atiection. Next we come to the interesting 
series of letters of 1815-16, pubHshed with the MemoiV 
of Mr. Hodgson, to whom, along with Hobhouse and 
Scrope Davies, his lordship, in a will and codicil, leaves 
the management of his property. Harness appears- 
frequently at this period among his surviving intimates : 
to this list there was shortly added another. In speak- 
ing of his English Bards and Scotch Bevieicers, the 
author makes occasional reference to the possibiHty 
of his being called to account for some of his attacks. 
His expectation was realized by a letter from the poet 
Moore, dated Dublin, January 1, 1810. couched in per- 
emptory terms, demanding to know if his lordship 
avowed the authorship of the insults contained in the 
poem. This letter, being entrusted to Mr. Hodgson, 
was not forwarded to Byron abroad ; but shortly after 
his return, he received another in more conciliatory 
terms, renewing the complaint. To this he replied, 
in a stiff but manly letter, that he had never meant to 
insult Mr. Moore ; but that he was, if necessary, ready 
to give him satisfaction. Moore accepting the explana- 
tion, somewhat querulously complained of his advances 
to friendship not being received. Byron again replied, 
that, much as he would feel honored by ilr. Moore's 
acquaintance, he being practically threatened by the 
irate Irishman, could hardly make the first advances. 
This called forth a sort of apology ; the correspondents 
met at the house of Mr. Rogers, and out of the some- 
what awkward circumstances, owing to the frankness 
of the "noble author," as the other ever after delights 
to call him, arose the life-long intimacy which had 
such various and lasting results. Moore has been 
called a false friend to Byron, and a traitor to Jiis 
memory. The judgment is somewhat harsh, but the 
association between them was unfortunate. Thomas 
Moore had some sterling qualities, llis best satirical 
pieces are inspired by a real indignation, and lit up by 
a genuine humor. He was also an exquisite musician 
in words, and must have been occasionally a fascinat- 
ing companion. But he was essentially a wordling, 
and, as such, a superficial critic. He encouraged the 
shallow affectations of his great friend's weaker work, 
and recoiled in alarm before the daring defiance of his 
stronger. His criticisms on all Byron wrote and felt 
seriously on religion are almost worthy of a con- 
venticle. His letters to others on Manfred, and Cain,, 
and Don Juan., are the expression of sentiments which 
he had never the couraire to state explicitly to the 
author. On the other hand, Byron was attracted beyond 
reasonable measure by his gracefully deferential man- 
ners, i)aid too much regard to his opinions, and over- 



LONDON LIFE, AND SECOND PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



estimated his genius. For the subsequent destruction 
of the memoirs, urged'bj Mr. Hobliouse and Mrs. Leigh, 
he was not wholly responsible ; though a braver man, 
having accepted the position of his lordship's literary 
legatee, with the express understanding that he would 
see to the fulfilment of the wishes of his dead friend, 
would have to the utmost resisted their total frustration. 

Meanwhile, on landing in England, the poet had 
placed in the hands of Mr. Dallas the Hints from 
Horace^ which he intended to have brought out by the 
publisher Cawthorne. Of this performance — an in- 
ferior edition, relieved by a few strong touches of the 
Bards and Reviewers — Dallas ventured to express his 
disapproval. " Have you no other result of your 
travels?" he asked; and got for answer, "A few 
short pieces, and a lot of Spenserian stanzas; not 
worth troubling you with, but you are welcome to 
them." Dallas took the remark literally, saw they 
were a safe success, and assumed to himself the merit 
of the discovery, the risks, and the profits. There 
was no mistake about their proof of power, their 
novelty, and adaptation to a public taste as yet unjaded 
by eloquent and imaginative descriptions of foreign 
scenery, manners, and climates. 

The poem — after being submitted to Gifford, in de- 
fiance of the protestations of the author, who feai-ed 
that the reference might seem to seek the favor of the 
august Quarterly — was accepted by Mr. Murray, and 
proceeded through the press, subject to change and 
additions, during the next five months. The Hints 
from Horace^ fortunately postponed and then sus- 
pended, appeared posthumously in 1831. Byron re- 
mained at J>rewstead till the close of October, nego- 
tiating with creditors and lawyers, and engaged in a 
correspondence about his publications, in the course of 
which he deprecates any identification of himself and 
his hero, though he had at first called him Childe Byron. 
"Instruct Mr. Murray," he entreats, "not to call the 
work 'Child of Harrow's Pilgrimage,' as he has done 
to some of my astonished friends, avIio Avrote to inquire 
after my sanity, as well they might." At the end of 
the month we find him in London, again indulging in 
a voyage in "the ship of fools," in which Moore claims 
to have accompanied him ; but at the same time ex- 
hibiting remarkable shrewdness in reference to the 
affairs of his household. In February, 1812, he again de- 
clares to Hodgson his resolve to leave England forever, 
and fix himself in "one of the fairest islands of the 
East." On the 27th he made in the House of Lords 
his speech on a bill to introduce special penalties against 
the frame-breakers of oS'ottingham. This effort, on 
which he received many compliments, led among other 
results to a friendly correspondence with Lord Holland. 
On April 21 of the same year he again addressed the 
House on behalf of Roman Catholic Emancipation; 
and in June. 1813, in favor of Major Cartwright's 
petition. On all these occasions, as afterwards on the 
continent, Byron espoused the Liberal side of politics. 
But his role was that of Manlius or C^sar, and he never 
fails to remind us that he himself was for the people, 
not o/them. His latter speeches, owing partly to his 
delivery, blamed as too Asiatic, were less successful. 
To a reader the three seem mucli on the same level. 
They are clever but evidently set performances, and leave 
us no ground to suppose that the poet's abandonment of 
a parliamentary career was a serious loss to the nation. 

On the 29th of February the first and second cantos 
of Childe Harold appeared. The dedication of the 
poem was to "lanthe" (Lady Charlotte Harley), then 
in her eleventh year. Her portrait Avas painted by 
"Westall, by Byron's order. An early copy was sent 
to Mrs. Leigh, Avith the inscription: "To Augusta, my 
dearest sister and my best friend, aa^Lo has ever loved 



me much better than I deserved, this A^olume is pre- 
sented by her father's son and most affectionate brother, 
B." The book ran through seven editions in four 
Aveeks. The effect of the first edition of Burns, and 
the sale of Scott's Lays, are the only parallels in 
modern poetic literature to this success. All eyes 
we]-e suddenly fastened on the author, who let his 
satire sleep, and threw politics aside, to be the ro- 
mancer of his day, and for two years the darling of 
society. Previous to the publication, Mr. Moore con- 
fesses to have gratified his lordship with the expression 
of the fear that Childe Harold was too good for the 
age. Its success Avas due to the reverse being the 
truth. It Avas just on the level of its age. Its flow- 
ing verse, its prevailing sentiment, occasional boldness, 
its half-atfected rakishness, here and there elevated by 
a rush as of morning air, and its frequent richness — not 
yet, as afterAvards, splendor — of description, were all 




Lady Ctiarlctte Harley. 
From the original painting by E. Westall, R. A. 

appreciated by the fashionable London of the Regency ; 
while the comparatively mild satire, not keen enough 
to scarify, only gave a more piquant flavor to the whole. 
Byron's genius, yet in the green leaf, was not too far 
aboA^e the clever masses of pleasure-loA^ng manhood 
by which it was surrounded. It was natural that the 
address on the reopening of DruryLane Theatre (page 
436) should be written by "the world's new joy" — 
the first great English poet-peer ; as natural as that in 
his only published satire of the period he should inveigh 
against almost the only amusement in which he could 
not share. The address Avas written at the request of 
Lord Holland, when of some hundred competitive 
pieces none had been found exactly suitable — a cir- 
cumstance Avhich gave rise to the famous parodies en- 
titled The Rejected, Addresses — and it Avas thought that 
the ultimate choice Avould conciliate all rivalry. The 
care Avhich Bvron bestowed on the correction of the 



LONDON LIFE, AND SECOND PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



first draft of this piece is characteristic of his liabit of 
writing off his poems at a gush, and afterwards care- 
fully elaborating them. 

The Waltz (page 365) was published anonymously in 
April 1813, It was followed in May by the Giaour 
(page 50), the first of the tiood of yerse romances 
which, during the three succeeding years, he poured 
forth with impetuous fluency, and which were receiyed 
with almost unrestrained applause. The Hebrew Melo- 
dies (page 370), written in December, 1814, are inter- 
esting, in connection with the authors early familiarity 
with the Old Testament, and from the force and music 
that mark the best of them; but they can hardly be 
considered an important contribution to the deyotional 
verse of England. The Siege of Corinth (page 98) and 
Parisina (page 107), composed after his marriage, in 
the summer and autunm of 1815, appeared in the fol- 
lowing year. The former is founded on the siege of 
the city, when the Turks took it from Menotti. Pari- 
sina, though unequal, is on the whole a poem of a 
higher order than the others of the period. 




Lord. Byron. 

Fi'ora the original painting by Westall, ISIU. 

These romances belong to the same period of the 
author's poetic career as the first two cantos of CMlde 
Harold. They followed one another like brilliant 
fireworks. They all exhibit a command of words, a 
sense of melody, and a fiow of rhythm and rhyme, 
which mastered Moore and eyen Scott on their 
own ground. Fourteen thousand copies of the 
Corsair were sold in a day. But hear the author's 
own half-boast, half-apology: '■"Lara I wrote while 
undressing after coming home from balls and mas- 
querades, in the year of revelry 1814. The Bride 
was written in four, the Corsair in ten days. This I 
take to be a humiliating confession, as it proyes my 
own want of judgment in publishing, and the public's 
in reading, things which cannot haye stamina for per- 
manence." 

The pecuniary profits accruing to Byron from his 
works began with Lara^ for whicli he receiyed $8500. 
He had made over to Mr. Dallas, besides other gifts to 
the same ungrateful recipient, the profits of Childe 
Harold, amounting to $3000, and of the Corsair, which 
brought $2625. The proceeds of the Giaour and the 
Bride were also surrendered. 

During this period, 1813-1816, he had become 
familiar with all the phases of London society, "tasted 
their pleasures," and, towards the close, '" felt their 
xxviii 



decay." His associates in those years were of two 
classes — men of the world and authors. Feted and 
courted in all quarters, he patronized the theatres, 
became in 1815 a member of the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee, " liked the dandies," including Beau Brummell, 
and was introduced to the Eegent. Their interview, 
in June, 1812, in the course of which the latter paid 
unrestricted compliments to CMlde Harold and the 
poetry of Scott, is naively referred to by Mr. Moore 
" as reflecting even still more honor on the Sovereign 
himself than on the two poets." Byron, in a different 
spirit, writes to Lord Holland: "I have now great 
hope, in the event of Mr. Pye's decease, of warbling 
truth at Court, like Mr. Mallet of indifferent memory. 
Consider, one hundred marks a year! besides the 
wine and the disgrace." We can hardly conceive the 
future author of the Vision of Judgment writing odes 
to dictation. He does not seem to have been much 
fascinated with the first gentleman of Europe, whom 
at no distant date he assailed in the terrible " Avatar," 
and left the laureateship to Mr. South ey. 

xVmcmg leaders in art and letters he was brought 
into more or less intimate contact with Sir Humphry 
Davy, the Edgeworths, Sir James Mackintosh, Colman 
the dramatic author, the elder Kean, Monk Lewis, 
Grattan, Curran, and Madame de Stael. Of the meet- 
ing of the last two he remarks, "It was like the 
confluence of the Rhone and the Saone, and they 
were both so ugly that I could not help wondering 
how the best intellects of France and Ireland could 
have taken up respectively such residences." 

About this time a communication from Mr. Murray, 
in reference to the meeting with the Eegent, led to a 
letter from Sir Walter Scott to Lord Byron, the begin- 
ning of a life-long friendship, and one of the most 
pleasing pages of biography. These two great men 
were for a season perpetually pitted against one another 
as the foremost competitors for literary favor. When 
Eol^ehy came out, contemporaneously with the Giaour, 
the undergraduates of Oxford and Cambridge ran 
races to catch the first copies, and laid bets as to which 
of the rivals would win. During the anti-Byronic 
fever of 1840-1860 they were perpetually contrasted 
as the representatives of the manly and the morbid 
schools. A later sentimenralism has affected to despise 
the work of both. The fact, therefore, that from an 
early period the men themselves knew each other as 
they were is worth illustrating. 

Scott's letter, in which a generous recognition of the 
pleasure he had derived from the work of the English 
poet, was followed by a manly remonstrance on the 
subject of the attack in the Bards and Berieicers, drew 
from Byron in the following month (July, 1812) an 
answer in th^e same strain, descanting on the Prince's 
praises of the "Zr<?/" and '' Marmion''' and candidly 
apologizing for the '' evil w^orks of his nonage." " This 
satire," he remarks, "was written when I was very 
young and very angry, and fully bent on displaying 
my wrath and my wit; and now I am haunted by tlie 
ghosts of my wholesale assertions." This, in turn, 
called forth another letter to Byron, eager for more 
of his verses, with a cordial invitation to Abbotsford, 
on the ground of Scotland's maternal claim on him, 
and asking for information about Pegasus and Par- 
nassus. After this the correspondence continues with 
greater freedom, and the same display on either side 
of mutual respect. When Scott says, " the Giaour is 
praised among our mountains," and Byron returns, 
''Waverley is the best novel I have read," there is no 
suspicion of flattery — it is the interchange of compli- 
ments between men. They talk in just the same manner 
to third parties. " I gave over writing romances," says 
Scott, in the spirit of a great-hearted gentleman, '' be- 



MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



cause Byron beat me. He hits the mark where I don't 
even pretend to tledge ray arrow. He has access to a 
stream of sentiment unknown to me.'' The younger 
poet on the other hand, deprecates the comparisons 
tliat were being invidiously drawn between them. He 
presents his copy of the Giaour to Scott, with the 
phrase, " To the monarch of Parnassus," and compares 
the feeling of those who cavilled at his fame to that of 
tlie Athenians towards i^ristides. From those senti- 
ments he never swerves, recognizing to the last the 
breadth of character of the most generous of his critics, 
and referring to him, during his latei- years in Italy, as 
the Wizard and the Ariosto of the Xorth. A meeting 
was at length arranged betAveen them. Scott looked 
forward to it with anxious interest. 

They met in London during the spring of 1815. The 
following sentences are from Sir Walter's account of 
it : '' Report had prepared me to meet a man of pe- 
culiar habits and quick temper, and I had some doubts 
whether we were likely to suit each other in society. 
I was most agreeably disappointed in this respect. I 
found Lord Byron in the highest degree courteous, 
and even kind. We met for an hour or two almost 
daily in Mr. Murray's drawing-room, and found a great 
deaf to say to each other. Our sentiments agreed a 
good deal, except upon the subjects of religion and poli- 
tics, upon neither of which I was inclined to believe 
that Lord Byron entertained very fixed opinions. Of 
politics he used sometimes to express a high strain on 
Avhat is now called Liberalism ; but it appeared to me 
that the pleasure it afforded him as a vehicle of display- 
ing his wit and satire against individuals in office was 
at the bottom of this habit of thinking. At heart, I 
would have termed Byron a patrician on principle. 
His reading did not seem to me to have been very ex- 
tensive. I remember repeating to him the fine poem 
of Hardyknute, and some one asked me what I could 
possibly have been telling Byron by which he was so 
much agitated. I saw him for the last time in (Sep- 
tember) 1815, after I returned from France; he dined 
or lunched with me at Long's in Bond Street. I never 
saw him so full of gaiety and good humor. The day of 
this interview was the most interesting I ever spent. 
Several letters passed between us — one perhaps every 
half year. Like the old heroes in Homer, we ex- 
changed gifts ; I gave Byron a beautiful dagger 
mounted with gold, which had been the property of 
the redoubted Elfi Bey. But I was to play the part of 
Diomed in the Iliad, for Byron sent me, some time 
after, a large sepulchral vase of silver full of dead men's 
bones, found within the land walls of Athens. He was 
often melancholy, almost gloomy. When I observed 
him in this humor I used either to wait till it went off 
of its own accord, or till some natural and easy mode 
occurred of leading him into conversation, when the 
shadows almost always left his countenance, like the 
mist arising from a landscape. I think I also remarked 
in his temper starts of suspicion, when he seemed to 
pause and consider whether there had not been a se- 
cret and perhaps offensive meaning in something that 
was said to him. In this case I also judged it best to 
let his mind, like a troubled spring, work itself clear, 
which it did in a minute or two. A downright steadi- 
ness of manner was the way to his good opinion. 
Will Rose, looking by accident at his feet, saw him 
scowling furiously ; but on his showing no conscious- 
ness, his lordship resumed his easy manner. What I 
liked about him, besides his boundless genius, was his 
generosity of spirit as well as of purse, and his utter 
contempt of all the affectations of literature. He liked 
Moore and me because, with all our other differences, 
we were both good-natured fellows, not caring to main- 
tain our dignity, enjoying the mot-pour-rire. He wrote 



from impulse, never from effort, and therefore I have 
always reckoned Burns and Byron the most genuine 
poetic geniuses of my time, and of half a century be- 
fore me. We have many men of high poetic talents, 
but none of that ever-gushing and perennial fountain 
of natural waters." Scott, says Lockhart, considered 
Byron the only poet of transcendent talents we had 
had since Dryden. 



CHAPTER VL 



LADY CAROLINE LAMB— MARKIAGE AND SEPARA- 
TION—THE TWO CLER3I0NTS — LADY JERSEY'S 
BALL— FAREAVELL TO ENGLAND. 

[1815-1816.] 

" /4 S for poets," says Scott, "I have seen all the best 
j\_ of my time and country, and, though Burns had 
the most glorious eye imaginable, I never thought any 
of them would come up to an artist's notion of the 
character, except Byron.. His countenance is a thing 




Sir Waiter Seott. 
F)-om the originaZ painting, Abbotsford. 

to dream of." Coleridge writes to the same effect, in 
language even stronger. We have from all sides simi- 
lar testimony to the personal beauty which led the 
unhappiest of his devotees to exclaim, " That pale face 
is my fate ! " 

Southern critics, as De Chasles, Castelar, even Maz- 
zini, have dealt leniently with the poet's relations to 
the other sex ; and Elze extends to him in this regard 
the same stretch of charity. "Dear Childe Harold," 
exclaims the German professor, "was positively be- 
sieged by women. They have, in truth, no right to 
complain of him : from his childhood he had seen them 
on their worst side." It is the casuistry of hero-wor- 
ship to deny that Byron was unjust to women, not 
merely in isolated instances, but in his prevailing views 
of their character and claims. "I regard them," he 
says, in a passage only distinguished from others by 
more extravagant petulance, "as very jjretty but infe- 
rior creatures, who are as little in their place at our 
tables as they would be in our council chambers. The 
whole of the present system with regard to the female 
xxix 



3IAREIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



sex is a remnant of the barbarism of tlie cbivab-y of 
our forefatliers. I look on them as grown-np cliiklren ; 
but, like a foolish mamma, I am constantly the slave 
of one of them. The Turks shut up their women, and 
are much happier; give a woman a looking-glass and 
burnt almonds, and she will be content." 

In contrast with this, we have the moods in which 
lie drew his pictures of Angiolina, and Haidee, and 
Aurora Raby,* and wrote the invocations to the shade 
of Astarte, and his letters in prose and verse to Au- 
gusta; but the foregoing passage could never have 
been written by Chaucer, or Spenser, or Shakespeare, 
or Shelley. The class whom he was reviling seemed, 
however,' during "the day of his destiny," bent on 
confirming his judgment by the blindness of their wor- 
ship. His rank and fame, the glittering splendor of 
his verse, the romance of his travels, his picturesque 
melancholy and affectation of mysterious secrets, com- 
bined with the niat>-ic of his presence to bewitch and 




Lady Caroline Lamb. 
Engraved from the Original, in the possession of Mr. Murray. 

bewilder them. The dissenting malcontents, con- 
demned as prudes and blues, had their revenge. Gen- 
erally, we may say that women who had not written 
books adored Byron; women who had written or 
w^ere writing books distrusted, disliked, and made him 
a moral to adorn their tales, often to point their fables 
wath. lie was by the one set caressed and spoilt, and 
"beguiled too long;" by the other, "betrayed too 
late." The memoirs of Frances Ann Ivemble present 
a curious record of the process of passing from one 
extreme to the other. She dwells on the fascination 
exerted over her mind by the first reading of his' po- 
etry, and tells how she " fastened on the book with a 
grip like steel," and carried it off and hid it under her 
pillow; how it affected her "like an evil potion," and 
stirred her whole being with a tempest of excitement, 
till finally she, with equal weakness, flung it aside, 

*In Aurora llaby, of Don Juan, Byron idealized Guiccioli. 
V XXX 



" resolved to read that grand poetry no more, and broke 
through the thraldom of that powerful spell." The 
confession brings before us a type of the transitions 
of the century, on its Avay from the Byronic to the 
anti-Byronic fever, of which later state Mrs. Jamieson, 
Mrs. Xorton, and Mrs. Marti neau are among the most 
pronounced representatives. 

Byron's freedom of speaking with regard to those 
delicate matters on which men of more prudence or 
chivalry are wont to set the seal of silence, has often 
the same practical effect as reticence ; for he talks so 
much at large — every page of his Journal being, by his 
own admission, apt to "confute and abjure its prede- 
cessor " — that we are often none the wiser. Amid a 
mass of conjecture, it is manifest that during the years 
between his return from Greece and final expatriation 
(1811-1816), including the whole period of his social 
glory — though not yet of his solid fame+ — he was lured 
into liaisons of all sorts and shades. Some, noAv ac- 
knowledged as innocent, were blared abroad by tongues 
less skilled in pure invention than in distorting truth. 
On others, as commonplaces of a temperament " all 
meridian," it w^ere waste of time to dwell. Byron 
rarely put aside a pleasure in his path; but his pas- 
sions were seldom unaccompanied by affectionate emo- 
tions, genuine while they lasted. The verses to the 
memory of a lost love veiled as "Thyrza,"J of moder- 
ate artistic merit, were not, as Moore alleges, mere 
plays of imagination, but records of a sincere grief.§ 
Another intimacy exerted so much influence on this 
phase of the poet's career, that to pass it over lightly 
would be hke omitting Vanessa's name from the record 
of Swift. Lady Caroline Lamb, granddaughter of the 
first Earl Spencer, was one of those few w^omen of 
our climate who, by their romantic impetuosity, recall 
the "children of the sun." She read Burns in her 
ninth year, and in her thirteenth idealized William 
Lamb (afterwards Lord Melbourne) as a statue of Lib- 
erty. In her nineteenth (1805) she married him, and 
lived for some years, during which she was a reigning 
belle and toast, a domestic life only marred by occa- 
sional eccentricities. She is thus described: "Her 
eyes were dark, and her countenance (in repose) was 
grave. Her complexion was fair, her figure slight, her 
hair fawn-flaxen, shot with gold." Rogers, whom in 
a letter to Lady Morgan she numbers among her lovers, 
said she ought to know the new poet, who was three 
years her junior, and the introduction took place in 
March, 1812. After the meeting, she wrote in her 
journal, "Mad — bad — and dangerous to know;" but 
when the fashionable Apollo called at Melbourne 
House, she "flew to beautify herself." Flushed by 
his conquest, he spent a great part of the following 
year in her company, dm-ing which time the apathy or 
self-confidence of the husband laughed at the worship 
of the hero. " Conrad " detailed his travels and ad- 
ventures, interested her by his woes, dictated her 
amusements, invited her guests, and seems to have set 
rules to the establishment. "Medora," on the other 
hand, made no secret of her devotion, declared that 
they were atflnities, and offered him her jewels to re- 
lieve his financial difficulties. But after the first ex- 
citement, he began to grow weary of her talk about 
herself, and could not x>i'<^ise her indifferent verses: 
'•he grew moody, and she fretful, when their mutual 
egotisms jarred." Byron at length concurred in her 
being removed for a season to her father's house in 
Ireland, on which occasion he wrote one of his glowing 



t See poem and foot-note, page 437. 

% Foot-notes and poems, pp. 432, 433, 434, 435. 

gMr. TrelaAvny says that Thyrza was a cousin, but that on this 
subject Byron was always reticent. Mr. Minto, as we ba-^^e seen, 
associates her with the dise;uised girl of 1807-S. 



MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



farewell letters. "When she came back, matters were 
little better. The would-be Juliet beset the poet with 
renewed advances, on one occasion penetrating to his 
rooms in the disguise of a page, on another threaten- 
ing to stab herself with a pair of scissors, and again, 
developing into a Medea, offering her gratitude to any 
one who would kill him. "The 'Agnus' is furious," 
he writes to Hodgson, in February, 1813, in one of the 
somewhat ungenerous bursts to which he was too 
easily provoked. "You can have no idea of the hor- 
rible and absurd things she has said and done since 
(really from the best motives) I withdrew my homage. 
. . . The business of last summer I broke off, and now 
the amusement of the gentle fair is writing letters lit- 
erally tlireatening my hfe." With one member of the 
family, Lady Melbourne, Mr. Lamb's mother, and sister 
of Sir Ralph Milbanke, he remained throughout on 
terms of pleasant intimacy. He appreciated the talent 
and sense, and was ready to profit by the experience 
and tact, of "the cleverest of women." But her well- 
meant advice had unfortunate results, for it was on her 
suggestion that he became a suitor for the hand of her 
niece. Miss Milbanke. Byron first proposed to this 
lady in 1813 ; his offer was refused, but so graciously 
that, they continued to correspond on" friendly, which 
gradually grew into intimate terms, and his second offer, 
towards the close of the following year, was accepted. 

After a series of vain protests and petulant warnings 
against her cousin by marriage, who she said was 
punctual at church, and learned, and knew statistics, 
but Avas " not for Conrad, no, no, no I " Lady Caro- 
line lapsed into an attitude of fixed hostility; and 
shortly after the crash came, and her predictions were 
realized, vented her wrath in the now almost forgotten 
novel of Glenarvon^^ in which some of Byron's real 
features were represented in conjunction with many 
fantastic additions. Madame de Stael was kind enough 
to bring a copy of the book before his notice when 
she met Byron on the Lake of Geneva, but he seems 
to have been less moved by it than by most attacks. 
We must, however, bear in mind his own admission in 
a parallel case. " I say I am perfectly calm ; I am, 
nevertheless, in a fury." Over the sad vista of the 
remaining years of the unhappy lady's life we need not 
linger. During a considerable part of it she appears 
hovering about the thin line that separates some kinds 
of wit and passion from madness ; writing more novels, 
burning her hero's effigy and letters, and then clamor- 
ing for a lock of his hair or a sight of his portrait ; 
separated from, and again reconciled to, a husband to 
whose magnanimous forbearance and compassion she 
bears testimony to the last, comparing herself to Jane 
Shore ; attempting Byronic verses, loudly denouncing 
and yet never ceasing inwardly to idolize the man 
whom she regarded as her betrayer, really only, with 
justice perhaps, in that he had unwittingly helped to 
overthrow her mental balance. After eight years of 
this life, lit up here and there by gleams of social bril- 
liancy, we find her carriage, on the 12th of July, 1824, 
suddenly confronted by a funeral. On hearing that 
the remains of Byron were being carried to the tomb, 
she shrieked and fainted. Her health finally sank, and 
her mind gave way under this shock ; but she lingered 
till January, 1828, when she died, after writing a calm 
letter to her husband, and bequeathing the poet's min- 
iature to her friend. Lady Morgan, f 

"I have paid some of my debts and contracted 
others," Byron writes to Moore, on September 15, 
1814; "but I have a few thousand pounds which I 
can't spend after my heart in this climate, and so I 
shall go back to the south. I want to see Venice and 



;cc foot-note, page 488. 



t See poem, page 602 



the Alps, and Parmesan cheeses, and look at the coast 
of Greece from Italy. A\\ this, however, depends upon 
an event which may or may not happen. Whether it 
will, I shall probably know to-morrow ; and if it does, 
I can't well go abroad at present." "A wife," he had 
written, in the January of the same year, "would be 
my salvation." 

But a marriage entered upon in such a flippant 
frame of mind could scarcely have been other than 
disastrous. In the autumn of the year we are told 
that a friend, observing how cheerless was the state 
both of his mind and prospects, ad\ased him to marry, 
and after much discussion he consented, naming to his 
corres|3ondent Miss Milbanke. To this his adviser ob- 
jected, remarking that she had, at present, no fortune, 
and that his embarrassed affairs would not allow him 
to marry without one, etc, Accordingly, he agreed 




Lady Byron. 
From the painting by Newton. 

that his friend should write a proposal to another lady, 
which was done. A refusal arrived as they were one 
morning sitting together. ■■* You see," said Lord Byron. 
" that after all Miss Milbanke is to be the person." and 
wrote on the moment. His friend, still remonstrating 
against his choice, took up tlie letter; but, on reading 
it, observed, " Well, really, this is a very pretty letter : 



it is a pity it should not go. 



Then it shall so," said 



Lord Byron, and, in so saying, sealed and sent off this 
fiat of his fate. The incident seems cut from a French 
novel ; but so does tlie whole strange story — the one 
apparently insoluble enigma in an otherwise only too 
transparent life. On the arrival of the lady's answer 
he was seated at dinner, when his gardener came in 
and presented him with his mother's wedding-ring, 
lost many years before, and which had just been found, 
buried in the mould beneath her window. Almost at 
the same moment the letter arrived, and Byron ex- 
claimed, "If it contains a consent (which it did), I 
will be married with this very ring." 



3IARRIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



He had the highest anticipations of liis bride, appre- 
ciating "lier talents, and excellent qualities," and say- 
ing, " she is so good a person that 1 wish I was a bet- 
ter." Without being beautiful, Miss Milbanke was by 
no means unattractive to those who were not repelled 
by her formality and coldness. Simple, nnaflected, and 
inore hkely to "think too much than too little of her 
dignity, she had the air of natural refinement rather 
than of fashion. Her presence would have gained 
greatly in effectiveness by two, or even three, more 
inches' in stature, but "her figure" (to use Byron's 
own words) " was perfect for her height." Though 
her countenance was remarkable for the roundness 
which suggested to Byron the pet name of ''Pippin" 
for her, it had a piquant and sometimes slyly humor- 
ous expression. If they were wanting in regularity, 
her features were delicate, feminine, and intellectual. 
There was nothing in her face to indicate liardness of 




Ada. 
Drawn by F. Stone from the original viiniature. 

nature, unless it was the placid severity it could wear 
to those who were distasteful to her. She was known 
to be clever and well read, so far as the reading of 
gentlewomen went in the days of the blue-stockings. 
Campbell went much too far when he said that her 
poetry would endure comparison with her husband's. 
Her best verses just missed the goodness that would 
have qualified them to be compared with his worst 
verses. Two of the minor poems, however, of Mr. 
Murray's complete edition of Byron's works were cer- 
tainly of her writing. At the same time her slightest 
and most trivial essays in poetical composition were 
superior to the average poetry of the ''Keepsakes," 
and other fashionable collections of " Vers de Soci- 

About this date Byron writes to various friends in 
the good spirits raised by his enthusiastic reception 

* See foot-note, page 459. 
xxxii 



I from the Cambridge undergraduates, when in the- 
I course of the same month lie went to the Senate House 
I to give his vote for a Professor of Anatomy. 
I the most constant and best of friends was his sister, 

Augusta Leigh, whom, from the death of Miss Cha- 
I worth to his own, Byron, in the highest and purest 
I sense of the word, loved more than any other human 
I being. Tolerant of errors which she lamented, and 
j violences in which she had no share, she had a touch 
j of their common family pride, most conspicuous in an 
I almost cat-like clinging to their ancestral home. Her 
; early published letters are full of regrets about the- 
j threatened sale of Xewstead, on the adjournment of 
! which, when the first purchaser had to pay $125,000 

for breaking his bargain, she rejoices, and over the- 

consummation of which she mourns, in the manner of 

Milton's Eve — 

'• Must I then leave tliee, Paradise? " 

In aU her references to the approaching marriage 
there are blended notes of hope and fear. In thank- 
ing Hodgson for his kind congratulations, she trusts it 
will secure her brother's happiness. Later she adds 
her testimony to that of all outsiders at this time, as- 
to the graces and genuine worth of the object of his 
choice. After the usual prehminaries, the ill-fated 
pair were united, at Seaham House, on the 2d of Jan- 
uary, 1815. Byron was married hke one walking in 
his ' sleep. He trembled like a leaf, made the wrong 
responses, and almost from the first seems to haver 
been conscious of his irrevocable mistake. 

" I saw liim. stand • 

Before an altar with a gentle bride : 
Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The stiirlight of his boyhood. He could see 
Not that which was— but that Avhich should have been — 
But the old mansion, the accustom'd hall. 
And she who was his destiny came back. 
And thrust herself between him and the light."t 

Here we have faint visions of Miss Chaworth, 
mingling with later memories. In handing the bride 
into the carriage he said, "Miss Milbanke, are you 
ready ? " — a mistake said to be of evil omen. Byron 
never really loved his wife, though he has been 
absurdly accused of marrying for revenge. On the- 
other hand, it is not unfair to say that she was fas- 
cinated by a name, and inspired by the philanthropic 
zeal of reforming a literary Corsair. Both were dis- 
appointed. Miss Milbanke's fortune was mainly settled 
on herself; and Byron, in spite of plentiful resolutions, 
gave little sign of reformation. For a considerable 
time their life, which, after the "treacle moon," as 
the bridegroom called it, spent at Halnaby, near Dar- 
lington, was divided between residence at Seaham and 
visits to London, seemed to move smoothly. In a 
letter, evidently mis-dated the 15th December, Mrs. 
Leigh writes to Hodgson: "I have every reason to 
think that my beloved B. is very happy and comfort- 
able. I hear constantly from him and his rib. It 
appears to me that Lady B. sets about making him 
happy in the right way. I had many fears. Thank 
God that they do not appear likely to l)e reahzed. In 
short, there seems to me to be but one drawback to 
all our felicity, and that, alas, is the disposal of dear 
Xew stead. I never shall feel reconciled to the loss of 
that sacred, revered Abbey. The thought makes me 
more melancholy than perhaps the loss of an inanimate 
object ought to do. Did you ever hear that landed 
property^ the gift of the Crowx, could not be sold? 
Lady B. writes me word that she never saw her father 

t See page 381, stanza vi. 



MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



iind mother so liappy; that she believes the latter 
would go to the bottom of the sea herself to find fish 
for B.'s dinner, etc." Augusta Ada was born in Lon- 
<lon on the 10th of December, 1815. 

During the next months a few cynical mutterings 
are the only interruptions to an ominous silence ; but 
these could be easily explained by the increasing em- 
barrassment of the poet's affairs, and the importunity 
■of creditors, who in the course of the last half-year 
had served seven or eight executions on his house and 
furniture. Their expectations were raised by ex- 
aggerated reports of his having married money ; and 
by a curious pertinacity of pride he still declined, even 
when he had to sell his books to accept advances from 
liis publisher. In January the storm which had been 
•secretly gathering suddenly broke. On the 15th, i. e., 
five weeks after her daughter's birth. Lady Byron left 
home with the infant to pay a visit, as had been agreed, 
to her own family at Kirkby Mallory, in Leicestershire. 
On the Avay she despatched to her husband a tenderly 
playful letter, which has been often quoted. Shortly 
afterwards he was informed — first by her father, and 
then by herself — that she did not intend ever to return 
to him. The accounts of their last interview, as in 
the whole evidence bearing on the afiair, not only 
■differ, but flatly contradict one another. On behalf 
of Lord Byron it is asserted that his wife, infuriated 
by his offering some innocent hospitality on occasion 
of bad weather to a respectable actress, Mrs. Mardyn, 
who had called on him about Drury Lane business, 
rushed into tiie room, exclaiming, "I leave you for 
ever " — and did so. According to another story, Lady 
Byron, finding him with a friend, and observing him 
to be annoyed at her entrance, said, " Am I in your 
way, Byron? '' whereupon he ansAvered, "Damnably." 
Mrs. Leigh, Hodgson, Moore, and others did everything 
that mutual friends could do to bring about the 
reconciliation for Avhicli Byron himself professed to be 
•eager, but in vain; and in vain the effort was renewed 
in later years. The wife was inveterately bent on a 
separation, of the causes of Avhich the husband alleged 
he was never informed, and with regard to which as 
long as he lived she preserved a I'igid silence. 

Two ladies named Clermont were memorable per- 
sonages of the Byronic story — Mrs. Clermont, the 
mischief-maker, and Jane Clermont, the mother of 
Allegra. If they were not members of the same 
family, they were acquaintances bearing the same 
peculiar surname. Whilst Mrs. Clermont appeared 
at Lady XoePs receptions as the whilom governess of 
Miss Milbanke, and the gentlewoman ever in faith- 
ful attendance on Lady Byron's rather overbearing and 
hot-tempered mother, Jane Clermont's people were 
personages of a literary set, some of whose members 
Lady Noel condescended to favor. The theme of 
Byron's scathing "Sketch" (see page 375), Mrs. Cler- 
mont, the mischief-maker, every one has heard, almost 
as much to his own discredit as to her infamy. But 
the poet's biographers have hitherto been strangely 
and suspiciously reticent about the charming girl who 
gave Byron his natural daughter, Allegra. The sur- 
name of these two ladies has been spelled in various 
ways. One comes upon it in the form of Clareraont, 
Clairmont, and Charlemont as well as Clermont. Jane 
Clermont (as her name is rightly spelled in the British 
Museum Catalogue), the clever and brilhant daughter 
of William Godwin's second wife, had no liking either 
for her Christian name or her surname. Dropping 
Jane (either because it was Christian or unromantic), 
she cut the second syllable from her surname, and 
adapting the first syllable of it to her sense of the 
fitness of things, called herself — Claire. A beautiful 
brunette, with fine, though irregular features, this girl 



of a wayward spirit and Italian aspect called on Byron, 
as a person of power in the Drury Lane Theatre, when 
he was in the midst of his domestic troubles. Claire's 
purpose in the visit was to ask the poet to introduce 
her as an actress to the stage. The girl's name caught 
the ear of the poet, whose pulse always quickened at 
the sound of his old schoolmate's name (Clare) ; and 
the brightness of her beauty charmed his fancy. 

Why Claire's application for employment on the 
stage was unsuccessful does not appear. Possibly By- 
ron saw she would not make a good actress. Possibly 
he thought she would do better by becoming his 
mistress. Anyhow, the poet conceived a passion for 
Claire; and Claire, "holding" (as Mr. Rossetti ex- 
presses it) " independent notions on questions such as 
that of marriage," fell in love with the poet — love 
that changed slowly to detestation. The day of 
Claire's first interview with Byron is unknown; the 
precise time at which she yielded to his addresses is 
of course unknown. Circumstances, however, point 
to some one of tlie earlier days of February, 1816 — 
some day closely following on Sir Ralph Noel's an- 
nouncement to Byron of his wife's desire for separa- 
tion — as the time at which the poet's brief association 
with William Godwin's step-daughter began. It is 
not very probable that it began earlier. It certainly 
did not begin before Lady Byron's departure from 
Piccadilly Terrace ; though there is reason to believe 
that Lady Byron ^was ere long induced to imagine it 
began whilst she was in town. Partly because he 
felt that greater communicativeness would weaken 
the case against Lady Byron and put discredit on the 
"Fare Thee AVell," and partly because he wished to 
spare the feelings of Godwin and Mrs. Shelley, Moore 
skates very lightly over the dangerous surface of 
Byron's scarcely edifying friendship with Allegra's 
mother. After insisting that Byron's official connec- 
tion with Drury Lane Theatre afforded nothing at 
which his wife could fairly take umbrage, he observes, 
"The sole case in which he afforded anything like 
real grounds for such an accusation did not take place 
till after the period of separation." The period of 
separation is an elastic expression. It may be taken 
as covering only the time between Lady Byron's 
journey from Piccadilly to the second day of the fol- 
lowing month, the day on which Byron was informed 
of his wife's purpose to keep away from him ; or it 
may be taken as covering the far greater time between 
Lady Byron's journey to the country and the 22d of 
April, on which day the deed of separation was signed. 
In his own breast Moore used the expression in the 
smaller sense, whilst he intended his readers to con- 
sti'ue it in the larger sense. Feeling it would be im- 
prudent to make no reference to a matter which was 
imperfectly known to a large number of peoj^le, Moore 
thought it best to refer to it in a manner which 
would cause his readers to infer that the matter was 
of a time subsequent to the pubhcation of the verses 
on the unforgiving wife. 

Born at least as early as January 22, 1817, Allegra 
was no offspring of a premature birth. ' Leaving Eng- 
land on xVpril 25th, Bynm saw nothing more of Claire 
till the 27th of the following month at Geneva, whither 
she travelled in the company of the Shelleys. Allegra's 
birth was due to nothing that took place after Byron's 
withdrawal from England. Byron had taken Claire 
for his goddess, and she had enjoyed his patronage for 
several weeks before he crossed the water from Dover 
to Ostend. The "Fare Thee Well " (published in the 
middle of April, 181G, see page 375), did not set the 
sentimental women weeping till the poet had for a 
considerable period found consolation in Claire's smiles 
for the cruelty of his unforgiving wife. 
xxxiii 



MARRIAGE AND SEPARATION. 



Willie the poet's liaison with Jane Clermont was a 
new arranijement, it came to the knowledge of Mrs. 
Clermont, tlie mischief-maker, who rendered Lord 
Byron the considerable dis-service, and lier former 
pupil the questionable ser%ice. of informing Lady 
Byron of the attair. The intelligence could not fail 
to incense Lady Byron. It did incense her. For 
though Byron could have arged in his defence that he 
had not knelt to Claire till he had been discarded by 
his wife, the quickness with which he had found 
material consolation for her severity was peculiarly 
calculated to pique Lady Byron's self-love, quicken 
her animosity against him, and contirm her in her 
purpose of having nothing more to do with him. On 
coming to her knowledge, the liaison may well have 
been regarded by Lady Byron as a demonstration that 
he had never really loved her. An unsuspicious 
woman, in Lady Byron's position, would have been 





Madame De Stael. 
From the original by Gerard. 

almost certain to assume that the liaison had begun 
before the separation, even to assume that her hus- 
band had sent her into the country, in order that he 
might enjoy the society of his mistress with greater' 
security from detection. Being of a suspicious nature. 
Lady Byron leaped to the erroneous conclusions to 
which an unsuspicious woman would have come. 

Having taken this view of the liaison, it was natural 
for Lady Byron to place it amongst her original 
grounds of displeasure with her husband — to think 
and speak of it as part of her original case against him. 

For some time after the separation, Byron spoke of 
his wife with at least apparent generosity. Of Lady 
Byi-on, he wrote (March 8, 1816): •'I do not believe 
that there ever was a brighter, and a kinder, or a more 
amiable or agreeable being than Lady Byron. I never 
had nor can have any reproach to make to her, Avhen 
with me."' Elsewhere he adds, that he would will- 
ingly, if he had the chance, '• renew his marriage on 

xxxiv 



a lease of twenty years." But as time passed and his 
overtures were rejected, his patience gave way, and in 
some of his later satires he even broke the bounds of 
courtesy. Lady Byron's letters at the time of the 
separation, especially those first published in the Acad- 
emy of July 19, 1819, are to Mrs. Leigh always affec- 
tionate and confidential, often pathetic, asking her 
advice "in this critical moment,'' and protesting that, 
"independent of malady, she does not think of the 
past with any spirit of resentment, and scarcely with 
the sense of injury."' In her communications to Mr. 
Hodgson, on the other hand — the first of almost the 
same date, the second a few weeks later— she writes 
with intense bitterness, stating that her action was due 
to offences which she could only condone on the sup- 
position of her husband's insanity, and distinctly im- 
plying that she was in danger of her life.* This sup- 
position having been by her medical advisers pronounced 
erroneous, she felt, in the words only too pungently re- 
called in Don Juan, that her duty both to man and 
God prescribed her course of action. Her playful 
letter on leaving she seems to defend on the ground of 
the fear of personal violence. Till Lord Byron's death 
the intimacy between his wife and sister remained un- 
broken ; through the latter he continued to send numer- 
ous messages to the former, and to his child, who be- 
came a ward in Chancery ; but at a later date it began 
to cool. On the appearance of Lady Byron's letter, in 
answer to Moore's first volume. Augusta speaks of it 
as "a despicable tirade;'' feels "disgusted at such un- 
feeling conduct;" and thinks "nothing can justify any 
one in defaming the dead." Soon after 1830 they liad 
an open rupture on a matter of business, which was 
never really healed, though the then Puritanic pre- 
cisian sent a message of relenting to Mrs. Leigh on 
her deathbed (1851). 

The charge or charges which, during her husband's 
life. Lady Byron from magnanimity or other motive 
reserved, she is ascertained, after his death, to have 
delivered with important modifications to various per- 
sons, with little regard to their capacity for reading 
evidence or to their discretion. On one occasion her 
choice of a confidante was singularly unfortunate. 
"These,"' wrote Lord Byron in his youth, ''these are 
the first tidings that have ever sounded like fame in 
my ears — to be redde on the banks of the Ohio." 
Strangely enough, it is from the country of "Washing- 
ton, whom the poet was wont to reverence as the 
purest patriot of the modern world, that in 1869 there 
emanated the hideous story which scandalized both 
continents, and ultimately recoiled on the retailer of 
the scandal. t The grounds of the reckless charge have 
been weighed by those who have wished it to prove 
false, and by those who have wished it prove true, and 
found thoroughly wanting. The chaff has been beaten 
in every way and on all sides, without yielding a par- 
ticle of grain ; and it were ill-advised to rake up the 
noxious dust that alone remains. From nothing left 
on record by either of the two persons most intimately 
concerned can we derive any reliable information. It 
is plain that Lady Byron was, during the later years of 
her life, the victim of hallucinations, and that if Byron 
knew the secret, which he denies, he did not choose 
to tell it, putting off Captain Medwin and others with 
absurdities, as that ''He did not like to see women 
eat,'' or with commonplaces, as "The causes, my dear 
sir. were too simple to be found out." 

Thomas Moore, who had the Memoirs supposed to 
have thrown light on the mystery, in the full knowl- 



* See foot-notes, pages 459, 460, 461. 

t " Lady Byron Vindicated." By Harriet Beecher Stowe, 
ton, 1870. 



Bos- 



3IARRIAGE AKD SEPARATION. 



edge of Dr. Lushington's judgment and all the gossip 
of the day, professes to "believe that ''the causes of 
disunion did not differ from those that loosen the links 
of most such marriages," and writes several pages on 
the trite theme that great genius is incompatible with 
domestic happiness. Xegative instances abound to 
modify this sweeping generalization; bat there is a i 
kind of genius, closely associated with intense irrita- 
bility, which it is difficult to subject to the most rea- 
sonable yoke; and of this sort was Byron's. His 
valet, Fletcher, is reported to have said that "Any 
woman could manage my lord, except my lady; " and 
Madame De Stael, on reading the Farewell^^ that "She 
would have been glad to have been in Lady Byron's 
place." But it may be doubted if Byron would have 
made a good husband to any woman ; his wife and he 
were even more than usually ill-assorted. A model of 
the proprieties, and a pattern of the learned philan- 
thropy of which in her sex he was wont to make a 
constant butt, she was no fit consort for a temperament 
like the poet's. What could her placid temperament 
conjecture of a man whom she saw, in one of his fits 
of passion, throwing a favorite watch under the fire. 
and grinding it to pieces with a poker ? Or how could 
her conscious virtue tolerate the recurring irregularities 
which he was accustomed not only to permit himself 
but to parade? The harassment of his affairs stimu- 
lated his violence, till she was inclined to suspect him 
to be mad. Some of her recently printed letters — as 
that to Lady Anne Barnard — and the reports of later 
observers of her character — as William Howitt — tend 
to detract from the earlier tributes to her consistent 
amiability, and confirm our ideas of the incompatibility 
of the pair. It must have been trying to a poet to be 
asked by his wife, impatient of his late hours, when 
he was going to leave off Avriting verses ; to be told he 
had no real enthusiasm ; or to have his desk broken 
open, and its compromising contents sent to the person- 
for whom they were least intended. The smoulderinii 
elements of discontent may have been fanned by the 
gossip of dependents, or the ofiicious zeal of relatives, 
and kindled into a jealous flame by the ostentation of 
regard for others beyond the circle of his home. Lady 
Byron doubtless believed some story which, when com- 
municated to her legal advisers, led them to the con- 
clusion that the mere fact of her believing it made 
reconciliation impossible ; and the inveterate obstinacy 
which lurked beneath her gracious exterior made her 
cling through life to the substance — not always to the 
form, whatever that may have been — of her first im- 
pressions. Her later letters to Mrs. Leigh, as that 
called forth by Moore's L'lfe^ are certainly as open to 
the charge of self-righteousness, as those of her hus- 
band's are to self-disparagement. 

Byron himself somewhere says, " Strength of en- 
durance is worth all the talent in the world."' "I love ! 
the virtues that I cannot share," His own courage was 
all active; he had no power of sustained endurance. 
At a time when his proper refuge was silence, and his | 
prevailing sentiment — for he admits he was somehow j 
to blame — should have been remorse, he vented his I 
anger and his grief in verses, most of them either 
peevish or vindictive, and some of which he certainly 
permitted to be published. " Woe to him," exclaims 
Voltaire, " who says all he could on any subject ! " 
Woe to him, he might have added, wlio says anything ; 
at all on the subject of his domestic troubles I The ' 
poet's want of reticence at this crisis started a host of 
conjectures, accusations, and calumnies, the outcome, 
in some degree at least, of the rancorous jealousy of 
men with whose adulation he was weary. Then began 

* See poem and foot-uote, page 375. 



that burst of British virtue on which Macaulay has ex- 
patiated, and at which tiie social critics of the conti- 
nent have laughed. Byron was accused of every pos- 
sible and impossible vice. He was compared to Sar- 
danapalus, Xero, Tiberius, the Duke of Orleans, Helio- 
gabalus, and Satan — all the most disreputable persons 
mentioned in sacred and profane history; his benevo- 
lences were maligned, his most disinterested actions- 
perverted. Mrs. Mardyn, the actress, was on his ac- 
count, on one occasion, driven off the public stase. 
He was advised not to go to the theatres, lest he should 
be hissed; nor to Parhament, lest he should be insulted. 
On the very day of his departure a friend told hhn that 
he feared violence from mobs assembling at the door 
of his carriage. "L'pon what grounds," the poet 
writes, in an incisive survey of the circumstances, in 
August, 1819, '"the public formed their opinion, I am 
not aware ; but it Avas general, and it was decisive. 
Of me and of mine they know little, except that I had 
written poetry, was a nobleman, hnd married, became a 




Sarah Sophia Fane, Countess of Jersey. 
From the painting by E. T. Parris. 
father, and was involved in differences with my wife 
and her relatives — no one knew why, because the per- 
sons complaining refused to state their grievances.! 

"The press was active and scurrilous; . . . my name 
— which had been a knightly or a noble one since mj 
fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for William the 
Xorman— was tainted. I felt that, if what was whis- 
pered and muttered and murmured was true. I was un- 
fit for England; if false, England was unfit for me. I 
withdrew ; but this was not enough. In other counti'ies- 
— in Switzerland, in the sliadow of the Alps, and by the 
blue depth of the lakes — I was pursued and breathed 
upon by the same blight. I crossed the mountains, but 
it was the same; so I went a little farther, and settled 
myself by the waves of the Adriatic, like the stag at 
bay, who betakes himself to the waters.'' 

fSee foot-note, page 171. 
XXXV 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP, 



"Whilst Lady Caroline Lamb was correcting the proof- 
sheets of "Glenarvon," and ordering the superb cover 
for the copy of the novel which she meant to send to 
Byron, Lady Jersey was sending out lier cards of invi- 
tation for the party at which the poet took farewell of 
English society. If she resembled many women in sym- 
pathizing with the poet, and wishing him well out of 
his troubles and well away from his persecutors, Lady 
Jersey* was almost singular in having the courage to 
declare the friendly feeling. But though her generosity 
and daring were exemplary, it is questionable whether 
the countess chose the best way of expressing her 
benevolent regard for the victim of social injustice 
when on the eve of his departure from England she 
invited him to an entertainment, given expressly in his 
honor. For though it was in the power of so mo- 
mentous a personage to fill her drawing-rooms with 
people, ready to humor her generous whim and amuse 
themselves by taking a last look at the departing poet, 
she could not constrain them to treat him with re- 
assuring heartiness. After a lapse of years the guest 
of the evening could write with drollery of the various 
ways in which Lady Jersey's friends indicated their 
various degrees of coldness towards or compassion for 
him; but at the lime it must have caused him more 
mortification than amusement to discover, in hardened 
features and frigid words and looks of obvious em- 
barrassment, only too conclusive evidence that he was 
regarded as the black sheep and discredit of his order 
^ven by the persons who, being (as Moore expresses it) 
habitually ''tolerant of domestic irregularities," were 
the persons of all England most likely to take a 
charitable and lenient view of his real misdemeanors 
and alleged offences. One can imagine what fun was 
made in the destroyed "Memoirs" or the equally ab- 
surd and vexatious incidents of a scene that would 
doubtless have been turned to good account in one of 
the concluding cantos of "Don Juan," had the poet 
lived to finish the great satire. Some of the matrons 
were severely ceremonious, whilst others were loftily 
forgiving. Ladies of the gushing sort plunged into 
amiable familiarity, and then, fearful of committing 
themselves too tar, bridled their impetuosity and with- 
drew into coldness and reserve. Besides Lady Jersey, 
with her smiles of summer sunshine, the only woman 
to delight the culprit with frank and fearless cordiality 
was Miss Mercer (afterwards Lady Keith), of whom he 
wrote gratefully in one of his diaries: " She is a high- 
minded woman, and sliowed me more friendship than 
I deserved from her. I heard also of her having de- 
fended me in a large company, which at that time re- 
quired more courage and firmness than most women 
possess." The men were hard, frigid, and suspicious. 
Some of them barely exchanged the civilities of the 
Milon with the chief guest. Some of them slipped to 
another room, in order to avoid the necessity of greet- 
ing him. Speaking of the poet's disgrace and the acuf e- 
ness of the pain it occasioned him. Harness says: "He 
would have drawn himself up, and ci'ossed his arms, 
and curled his lip, and looked disdainfully on any 
amount of clamorous hostility; but he stole away from 
the ignominy of being silently cut. Even in Lady 
Jersey's drawing-i-oom, where no one could venture to 
show him open incivility, he was troubled by "the 
altered countenances of his acquaintances," and en- 
dured the ignominy of bein^- treated Avith magnanimitv. 

On the 1 6th of April, 1816, shortly before his de- 
parture, he Avrote to Mr. Rogers: "My sister is now 
with me. and leaves town to-morrow. We shall not 
meet again for some time, at all events, if ever (it was 
their final meeting), and under these circumstances I 

*See poem. paa:e 441. 
xxxvi 



trust to stand excused to you and Mr. Slieridan for be- 
ing unable to wait upon him this evening." In all this 
storm and stress, Byron's one refuge was in the affec- 
tion of Augusta,t which rises like a well of purity amid 
the passions of his turbid life. 

" In the desert a fountain is springing, 
In the wild waste there still is a tree; 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 
That speaks to my spirit of thee." 

The fashionable world was tired of its spoilt child, 
and he of it. Hunted out of the country, bankrupt 
in purse and heart, he left it, never to return ; but he 
left it to find fresh inspiration by the "rusliing of the 
arrowy Rhone," and under Italian skies to write the 
works which have immortalized his name. 



CHAPTER YIL 

LIFE ABROAD— SWITZEKLAND TO VENICE — THIRD 
PERIOD OF ALTTHORSHIP — CHILDE HAROLD (ill., 
lY. ) — MA^s^FRED— VILLA DIODATI — SHELLEY — 
THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 

[1816-1820.] 

0;N' the 25th of April, 1816, Byron embarked for Os- 
tend. Erom the " burning marl " of the staring 
streets he planted his foot again on the deck with a 



" Once more upon the waters, yet once more, 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows her rider. Welcome to the roar ! " 

But he brought with him a relic of English extrava- 
gance, setting out on his land travels in a huge coach, 
copied from that of Napoleon taken at Genappe, and 
being accompanied by Fletcher, Rushton, Berger, a 
Swiss, and an Italian physician called Pohdori. son of 
Alfieri's secretary, — a man of some talent but fatal 
conceit. A question arises as to the source from which 
he obtained the means for these and subsequent luxu- 
ries, in striking contrast with Goldsmith's walking- 
stick, knapsack, and flute. Byron's financial affairs 
are almost inextricably confused. We can, for in- 
stance, nowhere find a clear statement of the result of 
the suit regarding the Rochdale estates, save that he 
lost it before the Court of Exchequer, and that his 
appeal to the House of Lords was still unsettled in 
1822. The sale of Kewstead to Colonel Wildman in 
1818, for $450,000, went mostly to pay off mortgages 
and debts. In April, 1819, Mrs. Leigh writes, after a 
last sigh over this event: "Sixty thousand pounds was 
secured by his (Byron's) marriage settlement, the in- 
terest of which he receives for life, and which ought 
to make him very comfortable." This is unfortunately 
decisive of the fact that he did not in spirit adhere to 
the resolution expressed to Moore never to touch a 
farthing of his wife's money, though we may accept 
his statement to Medwin, that he twice repaid the 
dowry of $50,000, brought to him at the marriage, as 
in so far diminishing the obligation. Xone of the 
capital of Lady Byron's family, came under his control 
till 1822, when, on the death of her mother. Lady 
Noel, Byron arranged the appointment of referees — 
Sir Francis Burdett on his behalf. Lord Dacre on his 
wife's. The result was an equal division of a property 
worth about !i^35,000 a year. While in Italy the poet 
received, besides, about $50,000 for his writings — 
$20,000 being given for Childe Harold (iii., iv.) and 



•fSee poem and foot-note, page 377. 



LIFE AB ROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIR 



Manfred. ''I^e pas etre dupe " was one of his deter- 
iiiinations, and, tliough he began bv caring little for 
making money, he was always fond of spending it 
-I tell you It is too much," he said to Murray in re- 
turning a thousand guineas for the Corinth .and Pa- 
rismcL Hodgson, Moore, Bland, Thomas Ashe, the 
family of Lord Falkland, the British consul at Venice 
and a host of others were ready to testify to his superb 
inunitacence. On tlie other hand, he would stint his 
pleasures, or his benevolences, which were amono- 
them, for no one; and when he found that to spend 
money lie had to make it, he saw neither rhyme nor 
reason in accepting less than his due. In 1817 he be- 
gins to dun Murray, declaring, with a frankness in 
which we can find no fault, "You offer 1500 guineas 

!' tlr^^^- ''''''^^ (^- ^- ^^O- I won^t take it. I 
ask 2o00 guineas for it, which you ^yill either o-i^^e or 



mg his withdrawal from England mav be seen from 
the data taken from Murray's published hst of pay- 
ments to the poet, and the same publisher's - Chronol- 
ogy of Lord Byron's Life and Works "* 

We have only a few glimpses of Byron's progress. 
At Brussels the Napoleonic coach was set asidefor a 
more seiwiceable caleche. During his stay in the Bel- 
gian capital he paid a yisit to the scene of Waterloo 
wrote the famous stanzas beginning, ''Stop, for thy 
tread is on an empire's dust !" and, in unpatriotic prose 
recorded his impressions of a plain which appeared to 
him to - want little but a better cause" to make it vie 
in interest with those of Platea and Marathon 

The rest of his journey lay up the Ehine to Basle 
thence to Berne, Lausanne, and Geneva, where hi 
settled for a time at the Hotel Secheron, on the west- 
ern .Iiore ot the lake. Here began the most interest- 




The Villa Diodati, 
The Residence of Lord Byron. From a drawing by Purser. 



ye«;.nfS-f ?^ ^'^P^'- ^""^^ the remaining 
iZ?.i ^''.^'^^}'^ r^'\ '"«i-e and more exact, driving 

lfLl■^'''''^^\''\^'^' ^'""'''''^ ^'^''^'^ and boats, and 
htting himself, had he lived, to be Chancellor of the 
Exchequer m the newly-liberated State, from which 
he took a bond securing a fair interest for his loan 
He made out an account in £ .. d. against the ungrate^ 
iDon hin.' 'l ''^T^r^\ Hunt threatened to sponge 
iipon him, he got a harsh reception. But there is 
nothing to countenance the view that Bvron was ever 
realy possessed by the "good old gentlemanly vice' ' 
of thewoH?f7'''- ^^-^ ^^^Voles and Chadbands 
It i eQ^.Tl n f' f.^^^'^^^V^^^l^^d to talk of filthy lucre: 
It 1^ equally a fashion of really lavish people to boast 
that they are good men of business. 

fromlTS'Y^- ""^ 'I'^r^^^^^ that came to Byron 
fiom his pen during the five years immediately ensu- 



I ing literary relationship of his life, for here he fir'^t 

I came in contact with the impassioned Ariel of English 

yerse, Percy Bysshe Shellev. Thev lived in nrox n tv 

: iLnrAL '' ''^ ^r^^^' Shelley's\XXrb iS 
at Mont Alegre and Byron's for the remainder of the 

r3v';T''''7^"? ^'''^''''^ '""^ ^^^"' acquaintance 
lapidly ripened into an intimacy which, with some 
mtei-ruptions, extended over the ^six remaining vea^-s 
of their joint lives The place for an estimate Sf \heir 
mntual influence belongs to the time of their Italian 
partnership. Meanwhile, we hear of them mainly as 
if''J-^''^^''^'omstsjihont the lake, which, on one 
occasion, departing from its placid poetical character, 
nff Mi-ir^^"''T'^/^'?^'^ ^^tii, along with Hobhouse, 
off Meillene^J>The boat," says Byron, "was nearly 

* See pages 648, 649, Appendix. 
XXX vii 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIR 



wrecked near the very spot where St. Preux and Julia 
were in danger of being drowned. It would have 
been classicarto have been lost there, but not agree- 
able. I ran no risk, being so near the rocks and a 
good swimmer ; but our party were wet and incom- 
moded." The only anxiety of Shelley, who could not 
swim, was, that no one else should risk a life for his. 
Two such revolutionary or such brave poets were, in 
all probability, never before nor since in a storm in a 
boat together. During this period Byron complains 
of being still persecuted. "I was in a wretched state 
of health and worse spirits when I was in Geneva: 
but quiet and the lake — better physicians than Polidori 
— soon set me up. I never led so moral a life as during 
my residence in that country, but I gained no credit 
by it. On the contrary, there is no story so absurd 
that they did not invent at my cost. I was watched 
by glasses on the opposite side of the lake, and by 



Percy Bysslie Shelley. 
From the original picture now in possession of his family. 

glasses, too, that must have had very distorted optics. 
I was waylaid in my evening drives. I believe they 
looked upon me as a man-monster." Shortly after his 
arrival in Switzerland, Byron met the Shelleys and 
Miss Clermont, then living with them.* The notice- 
able events of the following two months are ajoint 
excursion to Chamouni, and a visit in July to Madame 
de Stael at Coppet, in the course of which he met 
Frederick Schlegel. During a wet week, when the 
families were reading together some German ghost 
stories, an idea occurred of imitating them, the main 
result of which was Mrs. Shelley's Franl^enstein. Byron 
contributed to the scheme a fragment of The Vamjyire 
(page 56), afterwards completed and published in the 
name of his patron by Polidori. This eccentric physi- 
cian now began to develop a vein of half insanity; his 
jealousy of Shelley grew to such a pitch that it resulted 

* See ante, xxxiii. 
xxxviii 




I in the doctor's sending a challenge to the poet. Shelley 

j only laughed at this ; but Byron, to stop further imper- 

I tinences of the kind, rem.arked, " Recollect that, though 

i Shelley has scruples about duelling, I have none, and 

shall be at all times ready to take his place." Polidori 

had ultimately to be dismissed, and, after some years 

of absurd adventure, committed suicide. 

The Shelleys left for England in September, and 
Byron made an excursion with Hobhouse through the 
Bernese Oberland. They went by the Col de Jaman 
and the Simmenthal to Thun; then up the valley to 
the Staubbach, which he compares to the tail of the 
pale horse in the Apocalyjjse — not a very happy, though 
a striking comparison. Thence they proceeded over 
the Wengern to Grindelwald and the Rosenlau glacier : 
then back by Berne, Friburg, and Yverdun to Diodati. 
The following passage in reference to this tour may 
be selected as a specimen of his prose description, and 
of the ideas of mountaineering before the days of the 
Alpine Club : 

"Before ascending the mountain, went to the torrent 
again, the sun upon it forming a rainbow of the lower 
part, of all colors, but principally purple and gold, the 
bow moving as you move. I never saw anything like 
this ; it is only in the sunshine. . . . Left the horses, 
took off my coat, and went to the summit, seven thou- 
sand English feet above the level of the sea, and live 
thousand feet above the valley we left in the morning. 
On one side our view comprised the Jungfrau, with all 
her glaciers; then the Dent d'Argent, shining like 
truth; then the Eighers and the Wetterhorn. Heard 
the avalanclies falling every five minutes. From where 
Avc stood on the Wengern Alp we had all these in view 
on one side ; on the other, the clouds rose up from the 
opposite valley, curling up in perpendicular precipices, 
like the foam of the ocean of hell during a spring 
tide; it was white and sulphury, and immeasurably 
deep in appearance. . . . Arrived at the Grindelwald; 
dined ; mounted again, and rode to the higher glacier 
— like a frozen hurricane; starlight beautiful, but a 
devil of a path. Passed whole woods of withered 
yjines, all withered; trunks stripped and barkless, 
branches lifeless; done by a single Avinter. Their ap- 
pearance reminded me of me and iny family." 

Byron was, during the whole of this period, almost 
preternaturally active. Detained by bad weather at 
Ouchy for two days (June 26, 27). he wrote the Pris- 
oner of GTdllon (page 112), which, with his noble in- 
troductory sonnet on Bonnivard, in some respects sur- 
passes any of his early romances. The opening lines — 

" Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls; 
A thousand feet in depth below, 
Its massy waters meet and fiow."t 

From the same place, at the same date, he announces 
to Murray the completion of the third canto of Childe 
Harold. The productiveness of July is portentous. 
During that month he wrote the Monody on Sheridan 
(page 379), The Dream (page 380), ChurchilVs Grave 
(page 445), the Sonnet to La.he Leman (page 446), 
Could I Eemount the River of my Years (page 446), 
part of Manfred, Prometheus (page 445), the Stanzas 
to Augusta, beginning, 

" My sister ! my sweet sister ! If a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine ; " X 

and the terrible dream of DarMess (page 444), which 
at least in the ghastly power of the close, wliere the 
survivors meet by the lurid light of a dim altar fire, 

t See page 113, stanza vi., and photograph of the castle of Chil- 
lon, page 115. 
X See poem, stanza v., page 113. 



LIFE ABROAD AND FIRST PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP, 



^nd die of each other's hideonsness, surpasses Camp- 
beirs Last Man. At Lausanne the poet made a pil- 
grimage to the haunts of Gibbon, broke a sprig from 
his acacia tree, and carried otf some rose leaves from 
his garden. Though entertaining friends, among them 
Mr.^M. Gr. Lewis and Scrope Davies, he systematically 
shunned "the locust swarm of English tourists," re- 
marking on their obtrusive platitudes; as when he 
heard one of them at Chamouni inquire, "Did you 
ever see anything more truly rural?" Ultimately he 
got tired of the' Calvinistic Genevese — one of whom 
is said to have swooned as he entered tlie room — and 
early in October set out with Ilobhouse for Italy. 
They crossed the Simplon, and proceeded by the Lago 
Maggiore to Milan, admiring the pass, but slighting the 
somewhat hothouse beauties of the Borromean Islands. 
From Milan he writes, pronouncing its cathedral to be 
only a little inferior to that of Seville, and delighted 
with " a correspondence, all original and amatory, be- 
tween Lucretia Borgia and Cardinal Bembo." He 
secured a lock of the golden hair of the Pope's 
daughter, and wished himself a cardinal. 

At Yerona, Byron dilates on the amphitheatre, as sur- 
passing anything he had seen even in Greece, and on the 
faith of the people in the story of Juliet, from whose 
reputed tomb he sent some pieces of granite to Ada and 
Ills nieces. In i^^ovember we find him settled in Yen- 
ice, "the greenest isle of liis imagination." There he 
began to form those questionable alliances which are 
so marked a feature of his life, and so frequent a theme 
in his letters, that it is impossible to pass them without 
notice. The first of his temporary idols was Mariana 
Segati, "the wife of a merchant of A'enice," for some 
time his landlord. With this woman, whom he de- 
scribes as an antelope with oriental eyes, wavy hair, a 
voice like the cooing of a dove, and the spirit of a 
Bacchante, he remained on terms of intimacy for 
about eighteen months, during which their mutual 
devotion was only disturbed by some outbursts of 
jealousy. In December the poet took lessons in Ar- 
menian, glad to find in the study something craggy to 
break his mind upon. He translated into that lan- 
guage a portion of St. Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians, 
/^otes on the carnival, praises of Christahel, inst*i-uc- 
tions about the printing of Ghilde Harold (Canto iii.), 
protests against the publication under his name of some 
spurious "domestic poems" and constant references, 
doubtfully domestic, to his Adriatic lady, fill up the 
records of 1816. On February 15, 1817, lie announces 
to Murray the completion of the first sketch of Man- 
fred (page 14:2), and alludes to it in a bantering man- 
ner as " a kind of poem in dialogue, of a wild met- 
iiphysical and inexplicable kind ; " concluding, "I have 
at least rendered it quite vnpossihle for the stage, for 
which my intercourse with Drury Lane has given me 
the greatest contempt." 

About this time Byron seems to have entertained 
the idea of returning to England in the spring, i. e., 
after a year's absence. This design, however, was 
-soon set aside, partly in consequence of a slow malarial 
fever, by which he was prostrated for several weeks. 
On his partial recovery, attributed to his having had 
neither medicine nor doctor, and a determination to 
live until he had "put one or two people out of the 
world," he started on an expedition to Rome. 

His first stage was Arqua ; then Ferrara, where he 
was inspired, by a sight of the Italian poet's prison, 
with the Lament of Tasso (page 382); the next, Flor- 
ence, where he describes himself as drunk with the 
beauty of the galleries. Among the pictures, he was 
inost impressed with the mistresses of Eaphael and 
Titian, to whom, along with Giorgione, he is always 
reverential ; and he recognized in Santa Croce the 



AVestminster Abbey of Italy. Passing through Fo- 
ligno, he reached his destination early in May, and 
met his old friends Lord Lansdowne and Ilobhouse. 
The poet employed his shoi-t time at Rome in visiting 
on horseback the most famous sites in the city and 
neighborhood — as the Alban Mount, Tivoli, Frascati. 
the Falls of Terni, and the Clitumnus— recasting the 
crude first draft of the third act of Manfred, and sitting 
for his bust to Thor waldsen. Of this sitting the sculptor 
afterwards gave some account to his compatriot, Hans 
Anderseii : '' Byron placed himself opposite to me, but 
at once began to put on a quite ditterent expression 
from that usual to him. ' Will you not sit still? ' said 
I. 'You need not assume that look.' ' That is my 
expression,' said Byron. 'Indeed,' said I; and I then 
represented him as I wished." When the bust was fin- 
ished he said, "It is not at all like me; my expression 
is more unhappy.' " West, the American painter, who 
five years later painted his lordship at Leghorn, sub- 
stantiates the above half -satirical anecdote, by the re- 
mark, " He was a bad sitter ; he assumed a counte- 
nance that did not belong to him, as though he were 
thinking of a frontispiece for Ghilde ILarold.'''' Thor- 




Bust of Lord Byron. 
By Thoncald^en, 1816. 

waldsen's bust, the first cast of which was sent to 
Hobhouse, and pronounced by Mrs. Leigh to be the 
best of the numerous likenesses of her brother, was 
often repeated. Professor Brandes, of Copenhagen, 
introduces his striking sketch of the poet by a refer- 
ence to the model, that has its natural place in the 
museum named from the great sculptor whose genius 
had flung into the clay the features of a character so 
unlike his own. The bust, says the Danish critic, at 
first sight, impresses one with an imdefinable classic 
grace; on closer examination, the restlessness of a life 
is reflected in a brow over which clouds seem to hover, 
but clouds from which we look for lightnings. The 
dominant impression of the whole is that of some irre- 
sistible power (Unwiderstehlichkeit). Thorwaldsen, 
at a much later date (1829-1833), executed the marble 
statue, first intended for the Abbey, which is now to 
be seen in the library of Trinity College, in evidence 
that Cambridge is still proud of her most brilhant son._/ 
Towards the close of the month — after almost faint- / 
ing at the execution by guillotine of three bandits — 
he professes impatience to get back to Mariana, and 
early in the next we find him established with her 
near Yenice, at the villa of La Mira, where for some 
time he continued to reside. His letters of June i-efer 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



to the sale of Xewstead, the mistake of Mrs. Leigh 
and others in attributing to him the Tales of a Land- 
lord^ the appearance of Lalla Bool:h^ preparations for 
Marino Faliero, and the progress of Childe Harold 
(Canto iv.). This poem, completed in September, and 
published early in 1818 (with a dedication to Hobhouse, 
who had supplied most of the ihustrative notes), first 
made manifest the range of the poet's power. Only 
another slope of ascent lay between him and the x^in- 
nacle, over which shines the red star of Cain. Had 
Lord Byron's public career closed when he deft Eng- 
land, he would have been remembered for a genera- 
tion as the author of some musical minor verses, a 
clever satire, a journal in verse exhibiting flashes of 
genius, and a series of fascinating romances — also giv- 
ing promise of higher power — which had enjoyed a 
marvellous popularity. The third and fourth cantos 
of Childe Harold placed him on another platform, that 
of the Dii Majores of English verse. These cantos are 
separated from their predecessors, not by a stage, but 
by a gulf. Previous to their publication he had only 
shown how far the force of rhapsody could go ; now 
he struck with his right hand, and from the shoulder. 
Knowledge of life and study of Xature were the main- 
springs of a growth which the indirect influence of 
AVordsworth, and the happy companionship of Shelley, 
played their part in fostering. 

Byron has made himself so master of the glories and 
the wrecks of Rome, that almost everything else that 
has been said of them seems superfluous. ISTathaniel 
Hawthorne, in his Jlarile Fawi^ comes nearest to him; 
but Byron's Gladiator and Apollo, if not his Laocoon, 
are unequalled. ''The voice of Marius," says Scott, 
•' could not sound more deep and solemn among the 
ruins of Carthage than the strains of the pilgrim among 
the broken shrines and fallen statues of her subduer." 
As the third canto has a fitting close with the poet's 
pathetic remembrance of his daughter, so the fourth is 
woundup with consummate art — the memorable dirge 
on the Princess Charlotte being followed by the ad- 
dress to the sea, which, enduring unwrinkled through 
all its ebbs and flows, seems to mock at the mutabihty 
of human life. 

Manfred — his witch drama, as the author called it — 
has had a special attraction for inquisitive biographers, 
because it has been supposed in some dark manner to 
reveal the secrets of his prison-house. Its lines have 
been tortured, like the witches of the seventeenth cen- 
tury, to extort from them the meaning of the " all 
nameless hour,'' and every conceivable horror has been 
alleged as its motif. 

Manfred is a chaos of pictures, suggested by the 
scenery of Lauterbrunnen and Grindelwald, half ani- 
mated by vague personifications and sensational narra- 
tive. Like Childe Harold and Scott's Marmion, it just 
misses being a great poem. The CoHseum is its mas- 
terpiece of description; the appeal, "Astarte, my 
beloved, speak to me," its nearest approach to pathos. 
The lonely death of the hero makes an eflTective close 
to the moral tumult of the preceding scenes. 

The summer and early months of the autumn of 
1817 were spent at La Mira, and much of the poet's 
time was occupied in riding along the banks of the 
Brenta, often in the company of the few congenial 
Englishmen who came in his way ; others, whom he 
avoided, avenged themselves by retailing stories, none 
of which were "too improbable for the craving appe- 
tites of their slander-loving countrymen." In August 
he received a visit from Mr. Hobhouse, and on this 
occasion drew up the remarkable document afterwards 
given to Mr. M. G. Lewis for circulation in England, 
which appeared in the Academy of October 9, 1869. 
In this document he says: "It has been intimated to 
xl 



me that the persons understood to be the legal advisers 
of Lady Byron have declared their lips to be sealed 
up on the cause of the separation between her and 
myself. If their hps are sealed up they are not sealed 
up by me, and the greatest favor they can confer upon 
me will be to open them." He goes on to state that 
he repents having consented to the separation — will be 
glad to cancel the deed, or to go before any tribunal to 
discuss the matter in the most public manner; adding, 
that Mr. Hobhouse (in whose presence he was writing) 
proposed, on his part, to go into court, and ending with 
a renewed asseveration of his ignorance of the allega- 
tions against him, and his inability to understand for 
what purpose they had been kept back, " unless it was 
to sanction the most infamous calumnies by silence." 
Hobhouse and others, during the four succeeding years, 
ineffectually endeavored to persuade the poet to return 
to England. Moore and others insist that Byron's 
heart was at home when his pi-esencc- was abroad, and 
that, with all her faults, he loved his country still. 
Leigh Hunt, on the contrary, asserts that he cared 
nothing for England or its affairs. Like many men of 
genius, Byron was never satisfied with what he had at 
the time: at Seaham he is bored to death, and pants 
for the excitement of the clubs; in London society he 
longs for a desert or island in the Cyclades ; after their 
sepaiation, he begins to regret his wife ; after his exile, 
his country. "Where," he exclaimed to Hobhouse, 
"is real comfort to be found out of England? " 

In September (1817) Byron entered into negotiations, 
afterwards completed, for renting a country house 
among the Euganean hills near Este, from Mr. Hopp- 
ner, the English Consul at Venice, Avho bears frequent 
testimony to his kindness and courtes}^ In October 
we find him settled for the winter in Venice, where he 
first occupied his old quarters in the Spezieria, and 
afterwards hired one of the palaces of the Countess 
Mocenigo on the Grand Canal. Between this mansion, 
the cottage at Este, and the villa of La Mira, he divided 
his time for the next two years. During the earlier 
part of his Venetian career he had continued to fre- 
quent the salon of the Countess Albrizzi, where he met 
with people of both sexes of some rank and standing 
who appreciated his genius, though some among them 
fell into absurd mistakes. A gentleman of the com- 
pany informing the hostess, in answer to some inquiry 
regarding Canova's busts, that General Washington 
was shot in a duel by Burke, "What in the name of 
folly are you thinking of? " said Byron, perceiving that 
the speaker was confounding Washington with Hamil- 
ton, and Burke with Burr. He afterwards transferred 
himself to the rival coterie of the Countess Benzoni, 
and gave himself up with little reserve to the intrigues 
which are discreditable to this portion of his life. 
Nothing is so conducive to dissipation as despair, and 
Byron had begun to regard the Sea-Cybele as a Sea- 
Sodom, when he wrote, ".To watch a city die daily, as 
she does, is a sad contemplation. I sought to distract 
my mind from a sense of her desolation and my own 
solitude, by plunging into a vortex' that was anytliing 
but pleasure." In any case, he forsook the "Dame," 
and by vrhat his biographer calls a "descent in the 
scale of refinement for which nothing but the wayward 
state of his mind can account," sought the companions 
of his leisure hours among the wearers of the " fazzioli." 
The carnivals of the years 1818. 1819, mark the height 
of his excesses. Early in the former, Mariana Segati 
fell out of favor, owing to Byron's having detected her 
in selling the jewels he had given as presents, and so 
being led to suspect a large mercenary element in her 
devotion. To her succeeded Margarita Cogni, the wife 
of a baker, who proved as accommodating as his pre- 
decessor, the linen-draper. This woman was decidedly 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



a character, and Seiior Castelar has almost elevated her 
into a heroine. A handsome virago, Avith brown shoul- 
ders and black hair, endowed with the strength of an 
Amazon, "a face like Faustina's, and the figure of a 
Juno— tall and energetic as a pythoness," she quartered 
herself for twelve months in the palace as "Donna di 
governo," and drove the servants about without let or 
hindrance. Unable to read or write, she intercepted 
his lordship's letters to little purpose; but she had 
great natural business talents, reduced bv one-half the 
expenses of his household, kept everything in good 
order, and, when her violences roused his wrath, turned 
it off with some ready retort or witticism. She was 
very devout, and would cross herself three times at the 
Angelus. One instance, of a different kind of devotion, 
from Byron's own account, is sufficiently graphic : "In 
the autumn, one day, going to the Lido with my gon- 
doliers, we were overtaken by a heavy squall, and the 
gondola put in peril, hats blown away, boat filling, oar 
lost, tumbhng sea, thunder, rain in torrents, and wind 
unceasing. On our return, after a tight struggle, I 
found her on the open steps of the Mocenigo Palace on 
the Grand Canal, with her great black eyes flashing 
through her tears, and the long dark hair which was 
streaming, drenched with rain, over her brows. She 
was perfectly exposed to the storm; and the wind 
blowing her dress about her thin figure, and the light- 
ning flashing round her, made her look like ISIedea 
alighted from her chariot, or the Sibyl of the tempest 
that w'as rolling around her, the onl}' living thing 
within hail at that moment except ourselves. On see- 
ing me safe, she did not wait to greet me, as might 
have been expected; but, calling out to me, 'Ah! can' 
della Madonna, xe esto il tempo par andar' al' Lido,' 
ran into the house, and solaced herself with scolding 
the boatmen for not foreseeing the ' temporale.' Her 
joy at seeing me again was moderately mixed with 
ferocity, and gave me the idea of a tigress over her 
recovered cubs." 

Some months after, she became ungovernable — threw 
plates about, and snatched caps from the heads of 
other women who looked at her lord in public places. 
Byron told her she must go home ; whereupon she 
proceeded to break glass, and threaten "knives, poison, 
fire ; " and on his calling his boatman to get ready the 
gondola, threw herself in the dark night into the canal. 
She was rescued, and in a few days finally dismissed ; 
after which he saw her only twice, at the theatre. 
Her whole picture is more like that of Theroigne de 
Mericourt than that of Eaphael's Fornarina, whose 
name she received. 

Other stories, of course, gathered round this strange 
life — personal encounters, aquatic feats, and all man- 
ner of romantic and impossible episodes ; their basis 
being that Byron on one occasion thrashed, on another 
challenged, a man who tried to cheat him, was a fre- 
quent rider, and a constant swimmer, so that he came 
to be called " the English fish," " water-spaniel," " sea- 
devil," etc. One of the boatmen is reported to have 
said, "He is a good gondolier, spoilt by being a poet 
and a lord;" and in answer to a traveller's inquiry, 
" Where does he get his poetry? " " He dives for it." 
His habits, as regards eating, seem to have been gener- 
ally abstemious ; but he drank a pint of gin and water 
over his verses at night, and then took claret and soda 
in the morning. 

Riotous living may have helped to curtail Byron's 
life, but it does not seem to have seriously impaired 
his powers. Among these adverse surroundings of 
the "court of Circe," he threw off Bepjw (page 116), 
Mazejjpa (page 123), and the early books of Don 
Juan. The first canto of Don Juan w^as written in 
N"ovember, 1818; the second in January, 1819; the 



third and fourth towards the close of the same year. 
Bepyo^ its brilliant prelude, sparkles like a draught of 
champagne. This "Venetian story," or sketch, in 
which the author broke ground on his true satiric field 
— the satire of social life — and first adopted the meas- 
ure avowedly suggested by Frere's Whistlecraft, was 
drafted in October, 1817, and appeared in May, 1818. 
It aims at comparatively little, but is perfectly success- 
ful in its aim, and unsurpassed for the incisiveness of 
its side strokes, and the courtly ease of a manner that 
never degenerates into mannerism. In ^azeppa the 
poet reverts to his earlier style, and that of Scott; the 
description of the headlong ride hurries us along with 
a breathless expectancy that gives it a conspicuous place 
among his minor efforts. The passage about the howl- 
ing of the wolves, and the fever faint of the victim, is 
as graphic as anything in Burns. 




Margarita Cogni. 

From the original, taken at the request of Lord Byron. 

In the May or June of 1818, Byron's little daughter, 
Allegra, had been sent from England, under the care 
of a Swiss nurse, too young to undertake her manage- 
ment in such trying circumstances, and after four 
months of anxiety he placed her in charge of Mrs. 
Hoppner. In the course of this and the next year 
there are frequent allusions to the child, all, save one 
which records a mere affectation of indifference, full 
of affectionate solicitude. In June, 1819, he writes, 
" Her temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like 
mine, as well as her features; she will make, in that 
case, a manageable young lady." Later he talks of 
her as " flourishing like a pomegranate blossom." In 
March, 1820, we have another reference. "xVllegra is 
prettier, I think, but as obstinate as a mule, and as 
ravenous as a vulture ; hejilth good, to judge by the 
complexion ; temper tolerable, but for vanity and per- 
i tinacity. She thinks herself handsome, and will do as 
1 she pleases." In May he refers to having received a 
j letter from her mother, but gives no details. In the 
xli 



LIFE ABROAD AXD THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



following year, he plcaced her for education in the con- 
vent of Cavalli Bagni in the Romagna. '' I have," he 
writes to Hoppner, who had thought of having her 
boarded in Switzerland, ''neither spared care, kind- 
ness, nor expense, since the child was sent to me. The 
people may say what they please. I must content my- 
self with not deserving, in this instance, that they 
should speak ill. The place is a country town, in a good 
air, and less liable to objections of every kind. It has 
always appeared to me that the moral defect in Italy 
does not proceed from a conventual education; be- 
cause, to my certain knowledge, they come out of their 
convents innocent, even to ignorance of moral evil ; 
but to the state of society into which they are directly 
plunged on coming out of it. It is like educating an 
infant on a mountain top, and then taking him to the sea 
and throwing him into it, and desiring him to swim." 



April 22d, he seemed at first utterly prostrated. The- 
death of Allegra must have touched Byron the more 
acutely because the child was sent to the convent, 
where she caught the fatal fever, in contemptuous dis- 
regard of Claire's feelings and vehement protestations. 
On recovering from the tirst shock of his grief for the- 
loss of the child, he said to Theresa Guiccioli, '" she is- 
more fortunate than we are; besides, her position in 
the world would scarcely have allowed her to be happy. 
It is God's will — let us mention it no more." His sor-, 
row for the child does not, however, seem to have 
been attended with compassion or any revival of ten- 
derness for the- child's mother. To Claire he appears 
to have been unrelenting to the last. Though he w as- 
compelled to acquit Shelley of immorality, he seems 
to have remained under the impression that Jane Cler- 
mont had given ^irth to a second child. This unfavor- 




Churehyard at Harro-w. 
From a sketch. 



Elsewhere he says, "I by no means intend to give a 
natural child an English education, because, with the 
disadvantages of her hiith, her after settlement would 
be doublv difficult. Abroad with a fair foreign edu- 
cation, and a portion of 5000Z. or 6000?. (his will leav- 
ing her 5000?., on condition that she should not marry 
an Englishman, is here explained and justified), she 
might," and may, marry very respectably. In England 
such a dowry would be a pittance, while elsewhere it 
is a fortune. It is, besides, my wish that she should 
be a Roman Catholic, which I look upon as the best 
religion, as it is assuredly the oldest of the various 
branches of Christianity."^" It only remains to add 
that, when ]^ heard that the child had fallen ill of 
fever in 1822. Byron was almost speechless with agi- 
tation, and, on the news or her death, which took place 
xlii 



able opinion of Claire is not to be lost sight of, when 
Bvron is judged for his neglect of the mother at the 
time of the child's death, and his omission to make 
any provision in his will for the needy woman whom 
he had injured grievously. 

Alleura s remains rest beneath the elm-tree at Har- 
row* which her father used to haunt in boyhood, with 
the date of birth and death, and the verse — 

" I shall go to her, but she shall not return to me." 

The most interesting of the visits paid to Byron 
during the period of his life at Venice was that of 
Shelley, who, leaving his wife and children at Bagni di 
Lucca, came to see him in August, 1818. He arrived 

* See note, page 338. 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



late, in tlie midst of a thunder-storm ; and next day 
they sailed to the Lido, and rode together along the 
sands. The attitude of the two poets towards each 
other is curious ; the comparatively shrewd man of the 
world often relied on the idealist for guidance and 
help in practical matters, admired his courage and in- 
dependence, spoke of him invariably as the best of 
men, but never paid a sufficiently Avarm tribute in 
public to his work, Shelley, on the other hand, cer- 
tainly the most modest of great poets, contemplates 
Byron in the fixed attitude of a literary worshipper. 

The introduction to Julian and Maddalo^ directly 
suggested by this visit, under the slight veil of a change 
in the name, gives a summary of the view of his friend's 
character which he continued to entertain. " He is a 
person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if 
he would direct his energies to such an end, of becom- 
ing the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is 
his weakness to be proud ; he derives, from a com- 
parison of his own extraordinary mind with the 
dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense ap- 
prehension of the nothingness of human life. His 
passions and his powers are incomparably greater than 
those of other men ; and instead of the latter having 
been employed in curbing the former, they have 
mutually lent each other strength;" but "in social life 
no human being can be more gentle, patient, and un- 
assuming. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more 
serious conversation is a sort of intoxication ; men are 
held by it as by a spell." 

Subsequently to this visit Byron lent the villa at Este 
to his friend, and during the autumn weeks of their 
residence there were written the lines among the 
Euganean hills, where, in the same strain of rever- 
ence, Shelley refers to the " tempest-cleaving swan of 
Albion," to the ''music flung o'er a mighty thunder- 
fit,^' and to the sun-like soul destined to immortalize 
his ocean refuge — 

" As the ghost of Homer clings 
Kound Seamander's wasting springs, 
As divinest Shakespeare's might 
Fills Avon and the world with light." 

" The sun," he says, at a later date, "has extinguished 
the glowworm ;" and again, "I despair of rivalling Lord 
Byron, as well I may; and there is no other with whom 
it is worth contending." 

Shelley was, in the main, not only an exquisite but a 
trustworthy critic ; and no man was more absolutely 
above being influenced by the fanfaronade of rank or 
the din of popularity. These criticisms are therefore 
not to be lightly set aside, nor are they unintelligible. 
Perhaps those admirers of the clearer and more con- 
sistent nature, who exalt him to the rank of a greater 
poet, are misled by the amiable love of one of the 
purest characters in the history of our literature. 
There is at least no difficulty in understanding why he 
should have been, as it were, concussed by Byron's 
greater massiveness and energy into a sense — easy to a 
man half bard, half saint — of inferiority. 

The favorite of fortune and the minor muses, witty, 
genial, shallow, worldly, musical Tom Moore,"^- in the 
course of a short tour through the north of Italy in 
the autumn of 1819, found his noble friend on the 8th 
of October at La Mira, went with him on a sight- 
seeing expedition to Venice, and passed five or six 
days in his company. Of this visit he has recorded 
his impressions, some of which relate to his host's 
personal appearance, others to his habits and leading 
incidents of his life. Byron "had grown fatter, both in 
person and face, and the latter had suffered most by the 

*For poems addressed to Moore, see pages 439, 441, 447, 44S. 



change, having lost by the enlargement of the features 
some of that refined and spiritualized look that had in 
other times distinguished it ; but although less romantic, 
he appeared more humorous." They renewed their 
recollections of the old days and nights in London, and 
compared them with later experiences of Bores and 
Blues, in a manner which threatened to put to flight the 
historical and poetical associations naturally awakened 
by the City of the Sea. Byron had a rooted dishke to 
any approach to fine talk in the ordinary intercourse 
of life ; and when his companion began to rhapsodize 
on the rosy hue of the Italian sunsets, he interrupted 
him with, "Come, d— n it, Tom, donH be poetical." 
He insisted on Moore, who sighed after what he 
imagined would be the greater comforts of a hotel, 
taking up his quarters in his palace ; and as they were 
groping their way through the somewhat dingy en- 
trance, cried out, "Keep clear of the dog!" and a few 
paces farther, "Take care, or the monkey will fly at 
you!" an incident recalhng the old vagaries of the 
menagerie at Newstead. The biographer's reminis- 
cences mainly dwell on his lordship's changing moods 
and tempers and gymnastic exercises, his terror of in- 
terviewing strangers, his imperfect appreciation of art, 
his preference of fish to flesh, his almost parsimonious 




TJneresa Guieeioli. 

From the original Italian portrait. 

economy in small matters, mingled with allusions to his 
domestic calamities, and frequent expressions of a grow- 
ing distaste to Venetian society. On leaving the city, 
Moore passed a second afternoon at La Mira, had a 
glimpse of AUegra, and the first intimation of the ex- 
istence of the celebrated Memoirs. "A short time 
after dinner Byron left the room, and returned carry- 
ing in his hand a white leather bag. 'Look here,' he 
said, holding it up ; ' this would be worth something 
to Murray, though you^ I dare say, would not give six- 
pence for it,' ^What is it?' I asked. 'My life and 
xliii 



LIFE ABROAD AND THIRD PERIOD OF AUTHORSHIP. 



adventures,' lie answered. ' It is not a tiling that 
can be published during my lifetime, but you may 
have it if you like. There, do whatever you please 
with it.' In taking the bag, and thanking him most 
warmly, I added, 'This will make a nice legacy .tor 
my little Tom, who shall astonish the latter days of 
the nineteenth century with it.' "* 

Shortly after, Moore for the last time bade his frienl 
farewell, taking with him from Madame Guiccio''.', a ho 
did the honors of the house, an introduction to her 
brother, Count Gamba, at Eome. "Theresa Guicci- 
oli," says Castelar, "appears like a star on the stormy 
horizon of tlie poet's life." A young Eoinagnese, the 
daughter of a nobleman of Eavenna, of good descent 
but Hmited means, she had been educated in a convent, 
and married in her nineteenth year to a rich widower 
of sixty, in early life a friend of Alfieri, and noted as 
the patron of the National Theatre. This beautiful 



The Countess Guieeioli. 
From a sMch by Brockedon, taken in 1833. 

blonde, of pleasing manners, graceful presence, and a 
strong vein of sentiment, fostered by the reading of 
Chateaubriand, met Byron for the first time casually 
when she came in her bridal dress to one of the Al- 
biHzzi reunions ; but she was only introduced to him 
early in the April of the following year, at the house 
of the Countess Benzoni. " Suddenly the young Italian 



*In December, 1820, Byron sent several more sheets of memo- 
randa from Eavenna ; and in the following year suggested an 
arrangement Dy which Murray paid over to Moore, who Avas then 
in difficulties, S10,000 for the right of publishing the whole, 
under the condition, among others, that Lady Byron .should see 
them, and have the right of reply to aAj-thing that might seem 
to her objectionable. She on her part declined to have anything 
to do with them. AVhen the Memoirs were destroyed, Moore pail 
back the $10,000, but obtained §20,000 for editing the " Life and 
Corresp07idence.'' 

fSee poem and foot-note, page 450. 
xliv 




found herself inspired with a passion of which till that 
moment her mind could not have formed the least 
idea ; she had thought of love but as an amusement, 
and now became its slave." Byron, on the other hand, 
gave what remained of a heart never ahenated from 
her by any other mistress. Till the middle of the 
month they met every day; and when the husband 
took her back to Eavenna she despatched to her idol 
a series of impassioned letters, declaring her resolution 
to mould her life in accordance with his wishes. To- 
wards the end of May she had prepared her relatives 
to receive Byron as a visitor. He started in answer 
to the summons, writing on his way the beautiful stan- 
zas to the Po, beginning — 

" River that rollest by the ancient walls 
Where dwells the lady of my love."t 

Again passing through Ferrara, and visiting Bologna, 
he left the latter on the 8th, and, on his arrival at his 
destination, found the Countess dangerously ill ; but 
his presence, and the attentions of the famous Venetian 
doctor Aglietti, who was sent for by his advice, re- 
stored her. The Count seems to have been proud of 
his guest. " I can't make him out at all, " Byron writes ; 
"he visits me frequently, and takes me out (likeWhit- 
tington the Lord Mayor) in a coach and six horses. 
The fact appears to be, that he is completely governed 
by her — and, for that matter, so am I." 

On Theresa's recovery, in dread of a possible sepa- 
ration, he proposed to fly with her to America, to the 
Alps, to "some unsuspected isle in the far seas; " and 
she suggested the idea of feigning death, like Juliet, 
and rising from the tomb. Neither expedient was 
called for. When the Count Avent to Bologna, in Au- 
gust, with his wife, Lord Byron was allowed to follow ; 
and after consoling himself during an excursion which 
the married pair made to their estate, by hovering 
about her empty rooms and writing in her books, he 
established himself, on the Count's return to his head- 
quarters, with her and Allegra at Bologna. Mean- 
while, Byron had written The Fropliecy of Dante 
(page 393), and in August the prose letter, To the Edi- 
tor of the British Bevieic (page 635), on the chai-ge of 
bribery in Bon Juan. Than this inimitable epistle no 
more laughter-compelling composition exists. About 
the same time, we hear of his leaving the theatre in a 
convulsion of tears, occasioned by the representation 
of Alfieri's Mirra. 

He left Bologna with the Countess on the 15th of 
September, when they visited the Euganean hills and 
Arqua, and wrote their names together in the Pil- 
grim's Book. On arriving at Venice, the physicians 
recommending Madame Guieeioli to country air, they 
settled, still by her husband's consent, for the autumn 
at La Mira, where Moore and others found them do- 
mesticated. At the beginning of November the poet 
was prostrated by an attack of tertian iaxQv. In some 
of his hours of delirium he dictated to his careful 
nurses, Fletcher and the Countess, a number of verses, 
which she assures us were correct and sensible. He 
attributes his restoration to cold water and the absence 
of doctors; but, ei-e his complete recovery, Count 
Guieeioli had suddenly appeared on the scene, and run 
away with his own wife. The lovers had for a time 
not only to acquiesce in the separation, but to agree 
to cease their correspondence. In December Byron, 
in a fit of spleen, had packed up his belongings, with 
a view to return to England. "He was," we are told, 
"ready dressed for the journey, his boxes on board 
the gondola, his gloves and cap on, and even his little 
cane in his hand, when my lord declares that if it 
should strike one — which it did — before everything 
was in order, he would not go that day. It is evident 



RAVENNA AND COUNTESS GUICCIOLL 



he had not the heart to go."' ISText dav he heard that 
Madame Guiccioli was again seriously ill, received and 
accepted the renewed invitation which bound liim to 
her and to the south. He left Venice for the Last time 
almost by stealth, rushed along the familiar rot^ds, and 
Avas welcomed at Kavenna. 



CHAPTER Yin. 



RAVENNA — COUNTESS GUICCIOLI— THE DRAMAS 
—CAIN -VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

[1820-1821.] 

BYROI^'S life at Ravenna was during the first months 
comparatively calm ; nevertheless, he mingled in 
society, took part in the Carnival, and was received at 
the parties of the Legate. " I may stay," he writes in 
January, 1820, "a day — a week — a year — all my hfe." 
Meanwhile, he imported his movables from Venice, 
hired a suite of rooms in the Guiccioli palace, executed 
his marvellously close translation of Pulci's Morgante 
Muggiore (page 386), wrote his version of the story 
of Francesca of Rimini (page 399), and received visits 
from his old friend Bankes and from Sir Humphry 
Davy.* At this time he was accustomed to ride about 
armed to the teeth, apprehending a possible attack from 
assassins on the part of Count Guiccioli. In April his 
letters refer to the insurrectionary movements then 
beginning against the Holy Alliance. " We are on the 
verge of a row here. Last niglit they have over-writ- 
ten all the city walls with ' Up with the Republic ! ' 
and ' Death to the Pope ! ' The pohce have been 
searching for the subscribers, but have caught none as 
yet. The other day they confiscated the whole trans- 
lation of the fourth canto of Chllde Harold^ and have 
prosecuted the translator." In July a Papal decree of 
separation between the Countess and her husband was 
obtained, on condition of the latter paying from his 
large income a pittance to the lady of $1000 a year, and 
her undertaking to live in her father's house — an en- 
gagement which was, first in the spirit, and subse- 
quently in the letter, violated. For a time, however, 
she retired to a villa about fifteen miles from Ravenna, 
where she was visited by Byron at comparatively rare 
intervals. By the end of July he had finished Marino 
Faliero (page 154), and ere the close of the year the 
fifth canto of Don Juan. In September he says to 
Murray, "I am in a fierce humor at not having Scott's 
Monastery, '^o more Keats,t I entreat. There is no 
bearing the drivelling idiotism of the manikin. I don't 
feel inclined to care further about Don Juan. What do 
you think a very pretty Itahan lady said to me the 
other day, when I remarked that it would live longer 
than Childe Harold? 'Ah! but I would rather have 
the fame of Childe Harold for three years than an im- 
mortality of D. J. ' " This is to-day the common female 
judgment; it is known to have been La Guiccioli's, as 
well as Mrs, Leigh's, and by their joint persuasion 
Byron was for a season induced to lay aside that 
"horrid, wVarisome Don. "J About this time he wrote 
the memorable reply to the remarks on that poem in 
Blachicood'' s Magazine (page 639), where he enters on 

* Seefoot-Hote, page 468. 

t 111 a note on a similar passage, bearing the date November 12, 
1821, he, however, confesses : " My indignation at Mr. Keats' de- 
preciation of Pope has hardly permitted me to do justice to his 
own genius, which malgre all the fantastic fopperies of his style 
was undoubtedly of great promise. His fragment of Hyperion 
seems actually inspired by the Titans, and is as sublime as 
iEschylus. He is a loss to our literature." 

X See foot-note, page 506. 



a defence of his life, attacks the Lakers, and champions 
Pope against the new school of poetry, lamenting that 
his own practice did not square with his precept ; and 
adding, ''We are ail wrong, except Rogers, Crabbe, 
and Campbell." 

In November he refers to reports of his letters being 
opened by the Austrian officials, and the unpleasant 
things the Huns, as he calls them, are likely to find 
therein. Early in the next month he tells Moore that 
the commandant of their troops, a brave officer, but 
obnoxious to the people, had been found lying at his 
door, with five slugs in him, and, bleeding inwardly, 
had died in the palace, where he had been brought to 
be nursed. 

This incident is versified in Don Juan (page 508) 
with anatomical minuteness of detail. After ti-ying in 
vain to wrench an answer out of death, the poet ends 
in his accustomed strain — 

" But it was all a mysterJ^ Here we are. 
And there we go ;— but where ? Five bits of lead — 
Or three, or two, or one — send very far ! " 

Assassination has sometimes been the prelude to 
revolution, but it may be questioned if it has ever pro- 
moted the cause of liberty. Most frequently it has 
served as a pretext for reaction, or a red signal. In 
this instance — as afterwards in 1848 — overt acts of 
violence made the powers of despotism more alert, and 
conduced, with the half-hearted action of their adver- 
saries, to the suppression of the rising of 1820-21. 
Byron's sympathy with the movement seems to have 
been stimulated by his new associations. Theresa's 
brother. Count Pietro, an enthusiastic young soldier,, 
having returned from Rome and Naples, surmounting: 
a prejudice not wholly unnatural, became attached to 
him, and they entered into a partnership in behalf of 
what — adopting a phrase often flaunted in opposite 
camps — they called constitutional principles. Finally, 
the poet so committed himself to the party of insur- 
rection that, though his nationality secured -him from 
direct attack, his movements were necessarily affected 
by the fiasco. In July theGambas were banished from 
the Romagna, Pietro being actually carried by force 
over the frontier ; and, according to the articles^ of her 
separation, the Countess had to follow them to Flor- 
ence. Byron lingered for some months, partly from 
a spirit of defiance, and partly from his affection 
towards a place where he had enlisted the regards of 
numerous beneficiaries. The Gambas were for some 
time bent on migrating to Switzerland ; but the poet, 
after first acquiescing, subsequently conceived a violent 
repugnance to the idea, and early in August wrote to 
Shelley, earnestly requesting his presence, aid, and coun- 
sel. Shelley at once complied, and, entering into a cor- 
respondence with Madame Guiccioli, succeeded in induc- 
ing her relatives to abandon their transmontane plans, 
and agree to take up their headquarters at Pisa. This 
incident gave rise to a series of interesting letters, in 
which the younger poet gives a vivid and generous 
account of the surroundings and condition of his 
friend. On the 2d of August he writes from Ravenna: 
" I arrived last night at ten o'clock, and sat up talking 
with Lord B. tiU five this morning. He was dehghted 
to see me. He has, in fact, completely recovered his 
health, and lives a hfe totally the reverse of that 
which he led at Venice. . . . Poor fellow ! he is now 
quite well, and immersed in politics and literatui-e. 
We talked a great deal of poetry and such mattere last 
night, and, as usual, differed, I think, more than ever. 
He affects to patronize a system of criticism fit only 
for the production of mediocrity; and, although all 
his finer poems and passages have been produced in 
defiance of this system, yet I recognize the pernicious 
effects of it in the Doge of Venice:^ Again, on the 
xlv 



EAVU^^JVA AND COUNTESS GUICCIOLL 



15th: "Lord B. is greatly improved in every respect 
— in genius, in temper, in moral views, in health and 
happiness. His connection with La Guiccioli has been 
an inestimable benefit to him. He lives in considera- 
ble splendor, but within his income, which is now 
about 4000^. a year, lOOOZ. of which he devotes to 
purposes of charity. Switzerland is little fitted for 
him ; the gossip and the cabals of those Anglicised 
coteries would torment him as they did before. Ra- 
venna is a miserable place. He would in every respect 
be better among the Tuscans. He has read to me one 
of the unpublished cantos of Don Juan. It sets him 
not only above, but far above, all the poets of the day. 
Every word has the stamp of immortality. ... I 
have spoken to him of Hunt, but not with a direct 
\\q\x of demanding a contribution. I am sure, if I 
asked, it Avould not be refused ; yet there is some- 
thing in me that makes it impossible. Lord B. and T 
are excellent friends ; and were I reduced to poverty, 
or were I a writer who had no claim to a higher posi- 
tion than I possess, I would freely ask him any favor. 
Such is not now the case." 

Shelley took his leave, after a visit of ten days' dura- 
tion, about the 17th or 18th of April. In a letter, 
dated August 26, he mentions having secured for his 
lordship the Palazzo Lanfranchi, an old spacious build- 
ing on the Lung' Arno, once the family residence of 
the destroyers of Ugolino, and still said to be haunted 
by their ghosts. Towards the close of October, he 
says they have been expecting him any day these 
six weeks. Byron, however, did not leave till the 
morning of the 29th, On his road, there occurred at 
Imola the accidental meeting with Lord Clare.* Clare 
— who on this occasion merely crossed his friend's 
path on his way to Rome — at a later date came on 
purpose from Geneva before returning to England to 
visit the poet, who, then at Leghorn, recorded in a 
letter to Moore his sense of this proof of old affection 
undecayed. At Bologna — his next stage — he met 
Rogers by appointment, and the latter has preserved 
his memory of the event in well-known lines. To- 
gether they revisited Florence and its galleries, where 
they were distracted by the crowds of sight-seeing 
visitors. Byron must have reached Pisa not later than 
the 2d of :N'ovember (1821) for his first letter from 
there bears the date of the 3d. 

The later months of the poet's life at Ravenna were 
marked by intense literary activity. Over a great 
part of the year was spread the controversy with 
Bowles about Pope, i. ^., between the extremes of 
Art against Nature, and I^ature against Art. It was 
a controversy for the most part free from personal 
animus, and on Byron's part the genuine expression 
of a reaction against a reaction. To this year belong 
the greater number of the poet's Historical Dramas. 

The author, having shown himself capable of being 
pathetic, sarcastic, sentimental, comical, and sublime, 
we would be tempted to think that he had written 
these plays to show, what no one before suspected, 
that he could also be at times dull, were it not for his 
own exaggerated estimation of them. Lord Byron 
had few of the powers of a great dramatist; he had 
little architectural imagination, or capacity to conceive 
and build up a whole. His dramas are mainly masses 
of fine, splendid, or humoi-ous writing, heaped together ; 
the parts are seldom forged into one, or connected by 
any indissoluble link. 

Byron's other Venetian drama, the Tico Foscari 
(page 222), composed at Ravenna, between the 11th 
of June and the 10th of July, 1821, Avas published in 
the following December. 



* See note and poem, page 337, and portrait, ante " Life of Byron 
xlvi 



In the same volume appeared Sarclaiuqialus (page 
195), written in the previous May, and dedicated to 
Goethe. In this play, which marks the author's last 
reversion to the East, we are more arrested by the 
majesty of the theme — 

" Thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd's tale "— 

by the grandeur of some of the passages, and by the 
development of the chief character, made more vi^id 
by its being distinctly autobiogi-aphical. Sardanapalus 
himself is Harold, raised "high on a throne." and 
rousing himself at the close from a life of eff'eminate 
lethargy. Myrrha has been often identified with La 
Guiccioli, and the hero's relation to his Queen Zariua 
compared with that of the poet to his wife. The 
domestic play of Werner (page 272), was completed 
at Pisa, in January, 1822, and published in iSTovember. 
Werner was Byron's sole success on the modern British 
stage. 

The Deformed Transformed (page 241), suggested 
by a forgotten novel called The Three Brothers, with 
reminiscences of Faust, and possibly of Scott's Blacl: 
Dicarf was begun at Pisa in 1821, but not published 
tiU January, 1824. This fragment owes its interest to 
the bitter infusion of personal feeling in the first scene, 
and its occasional charm to the march of some of the 
lines, especially those describing the Bourbon's ad- 
vance on Rome. The Deformed Transformed bears 
somewhat the same relation to Manfred, as Heaven 
and Earth (page 185) — an occasionally graphic dream 
of the world before the Deluge, written October, 1821, 
and issued about the same time as Moore's Zores of the 
Angels, on a similar theme — does to Cain. The last 
named, begun in July, and finished at Ravenna in Sep- 
tember, is the author's highest contribution to the 
metaphysical poetry of the century. In Cain (page 
255), Byron grapples with the perplexities of a befieft 
which he never either accepted or rejected, and with 
the yet deeper problems of life and death, of good 
and ill. In dealing with these, his position is not that 
of one justifying the way? of God to man — though he 
somewhat disingenuously appeals to Milton in his de- 
fence — nor that of the definite antagonism of Queen 
3Iad. The distinction in this respect between Byron 
and Shelley cannot be over-emphasized. The latter 
had a firm faith other than that commonly called 
Christian. The former was, in the proper sense of the 
word, a skeptic beset with doubts, and seeking for a 
solution which he never found, shifting in his expres- 
sion of them with every change of a fickle and incon- 
sistent temperament. The atmosphere of Cain is 
almost wholly negative; for under the guise of a 
drama, which is mainly a dialogue between tAvo halves 
of his mind, the author appears to sweep aside with 
something approaching to disdain the answers of a 
blindly accepted tradition, or of a superficial optimism. 

Cain, between which and the Ce?ici lies the award 
of the greatest single performance in dramatic shape 
of our century, raised a storm. It was published, with 
Sardanapalus and. Tlie Two Foscari^ in December. 1821, 
and the critics soon gave evidence of the truth of 
Elze's remark — " In England freedom of action is 
cramped by the want of freedom of thought. The con- 
verse is the case with us Germans ; freedom of thought 
is restricted by the want of freedom in action. To us 
this skepticism presents nothing in the least fearful." 
But Avith us it appeared as if a literary Guy FaAvkes 
had been detected in the act of blowing up half the 
cathedrals and all the chapels of the country. The 
rage of insular orthodoxy % was in proportion to its 



t See foot-note, page 497. 



:j; See foot-note, page 518. 



EAVUJS'NA AND COUNTESS GUI C CIO LI. 



impotence. Every scribbler with a cassock denounced 
tlie book and its antlior, though few attempted to 
answer liim. The hubbub was such that Byron wrote 
to Murray, authorizing him to disclaim all responsibil- 
ity, and olfering to refund the payment he had re- 
ceived. " Say that both you and Mr. Gifford remon- 
strated. I will come to England to stand trial," and 
much to the same eftect. It may be here stated that 
Byron had always the highest opinion of Gifford (see 
page 049) and in English Bards had handled him gen- 
tly" (see page 349). The book was pirated ; and on the 
publisher's application to have an injunction. Lord El- 
don refused to grant it. The majority of the minor re- 
viewers became hysterical, and Dr.Watkins, amid much 
almost inarticulate raving, said that Sir Walter Scott, 
who had gratefully accepted the dedication, would go 
down to posterity with the brand of Cain upon his 
brow. Several even of the higher critics took fright. 
Jeffrey, while protesting his appreciation of the liter- 
ary merits of the work, lamented its tendency to un- 
settle faith. Mr. Campbell talked of its "frightful 
audacity," Bishop Heber wrote at great length to 
prove that its spirit was more dangerous than that of 
Paradise Lost — and succeeded. The Quarterly began 
to cool towards the author. Moore wrote to him, that 
Cain was ''wonderful, terrible, never to be forgotten," 
but ''dreaded and deprecated" the influence of Shel- 
ley. Byron showed the letter to Shelley, who wrote 
to a common friend to assure Mr. Moore that he had 
not the smallest influence over his lordship in matters 
of i-eligion, and only wished he had, as he would " em- 
ploy it to eradicate from his great mind the delusions 
of Christianity, which seem perpetually to recur, and 
to lie in ambush for the hours of sickness and distress." 
Shelley elsewhere writes ; " What think you of Lord 
B.'s last volume? In my opinion it contains finer 
poetry than has appeared in England since Paradise 
Lost. Cain is apocalyptic ; it is a revelation not be- 
fore communicated to man." In the same strain, Scott 
says of the author of the "grand nnd tremendous 
drama :" " He has certainly matched Milton on his own 
ground." 

Byron having, with or without design, arraigned 
some of the Thirty-nine Articles of his countrymen, 
proceeded in the following month (October, 1821) to 
commit an outrage, yet more keenly resented, on the 
memory of their sainted king, the pattern of private 
virtue and public vice, George III. The pei-petration 
of this occurred in the course of the last of his numer- 
ous literary duels, of which it was the close. That 
Mr. Southey was a well-meaning and independent man 
of letters there can be no doubt. It does not require 
the conclusive testimony of the esteem of Savage Lan- 
<lor to compel our respect for the author of the Life 
of JSfelson, and the open-handed friend of Coleridge; 
nor is it any disparagement that, with the last-named 
and with Wordsworth, he in middle life changed his 
political and other opinions. But in his dealings with 
Lord Byron, Southey had " eaten of the insane root." 
He attacked a man of incomparably superior powers, 
for whom his utter want of humor — save in its com- 
paratively childish forms — made him a ludicrously un- 
equal match, and paid the penalty in being gibbeted 
in satires that will endure with the language. The 
strife, which seems to have begun on Byron's leaving 
England, rose to its height when his lordship, in the 
humorous observations and serious defence of his 
■character against "the Eemarks" in Blachwood, 1819 
(August), accused the laureate of apostasy, treason, 
and slander (page 639). 

In 1821, when the latter published his Vision of 
Judgment — the most quaintly preposterous panegyric 
«ver penned — he prefixed to it a long explanatory note, 
D 



in the course of which he characterizes Don Juan as 
a "monstrous combination of horror and mockery, 
lewdness and impiety," regrets that it has not been 
brought under the lash of the law, salutes the writer 
as chief of the Satanic school, inspired by the spirits 
of Moloch and Belial, and refers to the remorse that 
will overtake him on his death-bed. To which Byron, 
inter alia: "Mr. Southey, with a cowardly ferocity, 
exults over the anticipated death-bed repentance of the 
objects of his disHke, and indulges himself in a 
pleasant ' Vision of Judgment,' in prose as well as verse, 
full of impious impudence. What Mr. Southey's sen- 
sations or ours may be in the awful moment of leaving 
this state of existence, neither he nor we can pretend 
to decide. In common, I presume, with most men of 
any reflection, / have not waited for a death-bed to re- 
pent of many of my actions, notwithstanding the 'dia- 
bolical pride ' which this pitiful renegado in his ran- 
cor would impute to those who scorn him." This 




Gifford. 
From the original painting by W. H. Watts. 

dignified, though trenchant, rejoinder would have been 
unanswerable ; but the writer goes on to charge the 
laureate with spreading calumnies. To this charge 
Southey, in January, 1822, replies with '* a direct and 
positive denial," and then proceeds to talk at large of 
the "whip and branding-iron," "slaves of sensuality," 
" stones from slings," "Goliaths," "public panders," 
and what not, in the manner of the brave days of old. 
In February, Byron, having seen this assault in the 
Courier^ writes off in needless heat, " I have got 
Southey's pretended reply ; what remains to be done 
is to call him out " — and despatches a cartel of mortal 
defiance. Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, through whom this 
was sent, judiciously suppressed it, and the author's 
thirst for literary blood was destined to remain un- 
quenched. Meanwhile he had written his own Vision 
of Judgment (page 404). This extraordinary work, 
having been refused by both Murray and Longman, 
xlvii 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAN. 



appeared in 1822 in the pages of tlie Liberal. It passed 
the bounds of British endurance ; and tlie publisher, 
Mr, John Hunt, Avas prosecuted and fined for the pub- 
lication. 

Readers of our day will generally admit that the 
•'gouty hexameters" of the original ]>oem, which cel- 
ebrates the apotheosis of King George in heaven, are 
nuich more blasphemous than the ottava rima of the 
travesty, which professes to narrate the difficulties of 
his getting there. Byron's Vision of Judgment is as 
unmistakably the tirst of parodies as the Iliad is the 
tirst of epics, or the Pilgrim's Progress the first of 
allegories. In execution it is almost perfect. Bon 
Juan is in scope and magnitude a far wider work; but 
no considerable series of stanzas in Don Juan are so 
free from serious artistic flaw. From first to last, 
every epithet hits the white ; every line that does not 
convulse with laughter stings or lashes. It rises to 
greatness by the fact that, underneath all its lambent 
buffoonery, it is aflame with righteous wrath. Xowhere 
in such space, save in some of the prose of Swift, is 
there in English so much scathing satire. 



CHxiPTER IX. 



PISA— GENOA— THE LIBERAL — DON JUAX. 

[1821-1823.] 

BYRO^N", having arrived at Pisa with liis troop of 
carriages, horses, dogs, foAvls, monkeys, and ser- 
vants, settled himself quietly in tlie Palazzo Lanfran- 
chi for ten months, interrupted only by a sojourn of 
six weeks in the neighborhood of Leghorn. His life 
in the old feudal building followed in the main the 
tenor of his life at Ravenna. He rose late, received 
visitors in the afternoons, played billiards, rode or 
practised with his pistols in concert with Shelley, whom 
he refers to at this time as " the most companionable 
man under thirty"' he had ever met. Both poets were 
good shots, but Byron the safest ; for, though his hand 
often shook, he made allowance for the vibration, and 
never missed liis mark. On one occasion he set up a 
slender cane, and at twenty paces divided it with his 
bullet. The early part of the evening he gave to a 
frugal meal and the society of La Guiccioli — now ap- 
parently, in defiance of the statute of limitations, es- 
tablished under the same roof — and then sat late over 
his verses. He was disposed to be more sociable than 
at Venice or Ravenna, and occasionally entertained 
strangers ; but his intimate acquaintanceship was con- 
fined to Captain Williams and his wife, and Shelley's 
cousin, Cai)tain Medwin.^ The latter used frequently 
to dine and sit with his host till the morning, collect- 
ing materials for the Conversations ^'lixohliQ afterwards 
gave to the world. The value of these reminiscences j 
is impaired by the fact of their recording, as serious ' 
revelations, the absurd confidences in which the poet's \ 
humor for mystification was wont to indulge. Another j 
of the group, an Irislnnan, called Taafe, is made, in 
his lordship's correspondence of the period, to cut a 
somewhat comical figure. Tlie master-passion of this 
Avorthy and genial fellow was to get a publisher for a \ 
fair commentary on Dante, to wliich he had firmly 
linked a very bad translation, and for about six months ! 
Byron pesters Murray with constant appeals to satisfy j 
him ; e. ^., Xovember 16, " He must be gratified, though ! 
the reviewers will make him suffer more tortures than 
there are in his original." Mai-ch 6, "He will die if i 
he is not published; he will be damned if he is; but ' 

* See Appendix, Note 52, page 648. | 

xlviii 



that he don't mind.'' March 8, "I make it a point 
that he shall be in ])rint ; it will make the man so ex- 
uberantly happy. He is such a good-natured Christian 
that we must give him a shove through the press. Be- 
sides, he has had another fall from his horse into a 
ditch." Taafe, whose horsemanship was on a par with 
his poetry, can hardly have been consulted as to the 
form assumed by these apparently fruitless recommen- 
dations, so characteristic of the writers frequent kind- 
liness and constant love of mischief. About this time 
Byron received a letter from Mr. Shepherd, a gentle- 
man in Somersetshire, referring to the death of his 
wife, among whose papers he had found the record of 
a touching, because evidently heartfelt, prayer for the 
poet's reformation, conversion, and restored peace of 
mind. To this letter he at once returned an answer, 
marked by mucli of the fine feeling of his best moods. 
Pisa, December 8: "Sir : I have received your letter. 
I need not say that the extract which it contains has 
affected me, because it would imply a want of all feeling 
to have read it with indifference. . . . Your brief and 
simple picture of the excellent person, whom I trust 
you will again meet, cannot be contemplated without 
the admiration due to her virtues and her pure and 
unpretending piety. I do not know that I ever met 
with anything so unostentatiously beautiful. Indis- 
putably, the firm believers in the Gospel have a great 
advantage over all others — for this simple reason, that 
if true they will have their reward hereafter; and if 
there be no heareafter, they can but be with the infidel 
in his eternal sleep. . . . But a man's creed does not 
depend upon h imself: who can say, I icill believe this, 
that, or the other? and least of all that which he least 
can comprehend. ... I can assure you that not all 
the fame which ever cheated humanity into higher 
notions of its own importance would ever weigh in my 
mind against the pure and pious interest which a vir- 
tuous being may be pleased to take in my behalf. In 
this point of view I would not exchange the pi-ayer of 
the deceased in my behalf for the united glory of Ho- 
mer, Caesar, and Napoleon." 

The letter to Lady Byron, which he afterwards 
showed to Lady Blessington, must have been borne 
about the same date ; and we have a further indication 
of his thoughts reverting homeward in an urgent re- 
quest to Murray — written on December 10th, Ada's 
sixth birthday — to send his daughter's miniature. 
After its arrival nothing gave him greater i)leasure 
than to be told of its strong likeness to himself. In 
the course of the same month an event occurred which 
strangely illustrates the manners of the place and the 
character of the two poets. An unfortunate fanatic 
having taken it into his head to steal the wafer-box 
out of a church at Lucca, and being detected, was, in 
accordance with the ecclesiastical law till lately main- 
tained against sacrilege, condemned to be burnt alive. 
Shelley, who believed that the sentence would really 
be carried into effect, proposed to Byron that they 
should gallop off together, and by aid of their servants 
rescue by force the intended victim. Byron, however, 
preferred, in the first place, to rely on diplomacy ; some 
vigorous letters passed ; ultimately a representation, 
conveyed by Taafe to the English ambassador, led to 
a commutation of the sentence, and the man was sent 
to the galleys. 

The January of 1822 was marked by the addition to 
the small circle of Captain E. J. Trelawny, the famous 
rover and bold free-lance (now sole survivor of the 
remarkable group), who accompanied Lord Byron to 
Greece, and has recorded a variety of incidents of the 
last months of his life. Trelawny, who appreciated 
Shelley Avith an intensity that is often apt to be exclu- 
sive, saw, or has reported, for the most part, the weaker 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAN. 



side of Byron. We are constrained to accept as correct 
the conjecture that his judgment was biased by their 
rivah*y in physical prowess, and tlie political differences 
which afterwards developed between them. Letters 
to his old correspondents— to Scott about the Waver- 
leys^ to Murray about the Dramas, and the Vision of 
Judgment, and Gain — make up almost the sole record 
of the poet's pursuits during the five following months. 
On February 6 he sent, through Mr. Kinnaird, the 
challenge to Southey, of the suppression of which he 
was not aware till May 17. The same letter contains 
a sheaf of the random cynicisms, as — " Cash is virtue," 
'^ Money is power; and when Socrates said he knew 
nothing, he meant he had not a drachma " — by which 
he sharpened the shafts of his assailants. A little later, 
on the occasion of the death of Lady Noel, he expresses 
himself with natural bitterness on hearing that she had 
in her will recorded a wish against his daughter Ada 
seeing his portrait. In March he sat, along with La 
Guiccioli, to the sculptor Bartolini. On the 24th, when 
the company were on one of their riding excursions 
outside the town, a half-drunken dragoon on horseback 
broke through them, and by accident or design knocked 
Shelley from his seat. Byron, pursuing him along the 
Lung' Arno, called for his name, and, taking him for 
an officer, llung his glove. The sound of the fray 
brought the servants of the Lanf ranchi to the door ; 
and one of them, it was presumed — though in the 
scuffle everything remained uncertain — seriously 
wounded the dragoon in the side. An investigation 
ensued, as the result of which the Gambas were 
ultimately exiled from Tuscany, and the party of 
friends Avas practically broken up. Shelley and his 
wife, with the AVilliamses and Trelawny, soon after 
settled at the Villa Magni at Lerici, in the Gulf of 
Spezia. Byron, with the Countess and her brother, 
established themselves in the Villa Rossa, at Monte 
Nero, a suburb of Leghorn, from which port at this 
date the remains of Allegra were conveyed to England. 

Among the incidents of this residence were the 
homage paid to the poet by a party of Americans; tlie 
painting of his portrait and that of La Guiccioli by 
their compatriot. West, who has left a pleasing account 
of his visits ; Byron's letter making inquiry about the 
country of Bolivar (where it was his fancy to settle) ; 
and another of those disturbances by which he seemed 
destined to be harassed. One of his servants — among 
whom were unruly spirits, apparently selected with a 
kind of Corsair bravado — had made an assault on 
Count Pietro, wounding him in the face. This out- 
burst, though followed by tears and penitence, con- 
firmed the impression of the Tuscan police that the 
whole company were dangerous, and made the gov- 
ernment press for their departure. In the midst of 
the uproar, there suddenly appeared at the villa Mr. 
Leigh Hunt, with his wife and six children. They had 
taken passage to Genoa, where they were received by 
Trelawny, in command of the "Bolivar" — a yacht 
constructed in that port for Lord Byron, simultane- 
ously with the "Don Juan" for Shelley. The latter, 
on liearing of the arrival of his friends, came to meet 
them at Leghorn, and went with them to Pisa. Early 
in July they were all estabhshed on the Lung' Arno, 
having assigned to them the ground-floor of the pal- 
azzo. 

We have now to deal briefly — amid conflicting assev- 
erations it is hard to deal fairly — with the last of the 
vexatiously controverted episodes which need perplex 
our narrative. Byron, in wishing Moore from Ravenna 
a merry Christmas for 1820, proposes that they shall 
embark together in a newspaper, " with some improve- 
ment on the plan of the present scoundrels," "to give 
the age some new lights on policy, poesy, biography, 



criticism, morality, theology," etc. Moore absolutely 
refusing to entertain the idea. Hunt's name was brought 
forward in connection with it, during the visit of Shel- 
ley. Shortly after the return of the latter to Pisa, he 
writes (August 26) to Hunt, stating that Byron was 
anxious to start a periodical work, to be conducted in 
Italy, and had proposed that they should both go shares 
in the concern, on which follow some suggestions of 
difficulties about money. Nevertheless, in August, 
1821, he presses Hunt to come. Moore, on the other 
hand, strongly remonstrates against the project. "I 
heard some days ago that Leigh Hunt was on his way 
to you with all his family; and the idea seems to be 
that you and he and Shelley are to conspire together 
in the Examiner. I deprecate such a plan with all my 
might. Partnerships in fame, like those in trade, 
make the strongest party answer for the rest. I trem- 
ble even for you with such a bankrupt Co. ! You must 




Mr. Murray. 
From a portrait by H. W. Pickergill, i?. A. 

stand alone." Shelley — who had in the meantime given 
his bond to Byron for an advance of one thousand dollars 
towards the expenses of his friends, besides assisting 
them himself to the utmost of his power — began, 
shortly before their arrival, to express grave doubts as 
to the success of the alliance. His last published letter, 
written July 5, 1822, after they had settled at Pisa, is 
full of forebodings. On the 8th he set sail in the 
"Don Juan" — 

" That fatal and perfidious bark. 
Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd -with curses dark," 

and was overtaken by the storm in which he perished. 
Three days after, Trelawny rode to Pisa, and told 
Byron of his fears, when the poet's lip quivered, and 
his voice faltered. On the 22d of July the bodies of 
Shelley, Williams, and A'^ivian were cast ashore. On 
the 16th August, Hunt, Byron, and Trelawny were 
present at the terribly weird cremation, which they 
xlix 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAK 



have all described, and after which they Avere seized 
with a fit of the hilarious delirium which is one of the 
phases of the tension of grief. Byron's references to 
the event are expressions less of the loss which he 
indubitably felt, than of his indignation at the " world's 
wrong." ''Thus," he writes, "there is another man 
gone, about whom the world was ill-naturedly and ig- 
norantly and brutally mistaken. It will, perhaps, do 
him justice now, when he can be no better for it." 
Towards the end of the same letter the spirit of his 
dead friend seems to inspire the sentence — " With these 
things and these fellows it is necessary, in the present 
clash of philosophy and tyranny, to throw away the 
scabbard. I know it is against fearful odds, but the 
battle must be fought." 

^leanwhile, shortly after the new settlement at the 
Lanfranchi, the preparations for issuing the Liberal — 
edited by Leigh Hunt in Italy, and published by John 
Hunt in London — progressed. The first number, which 
appeared in September, was introduced, after a few 
Avords of preface, by the Vision of Judgment, with the 
signature. Quevedo Redivivus, and adorned by Shel- 
ley's translation of the "May-Day Night," in Faust. 
It contained, besides, the Letter to the Editor of my 
Grandmothers RevieiD, an indifferent Florentine story, 
a German apologue, and a gossiping account of Pisa, 
presumably by Hunt. Three others followed, con- 
taining Byron's Heaven and Earth fpage 185), his 
translation of the Jlorgante Maggiore (page 386), and 
The Blues (page 400) — a satire on literary ladies; some 
of Shelley's posthumous minor poems, among them 
"I arise from dreams of thee," and a few of Hazlitt's 
essays, including, however, none of his best. Leigh 
Hunt himself wrote most of the rest, one of his con- 
tributions being a palpable imitation of Don Juan, en- 
titled the Booh of Beginnings ; but he confesses that, 
owing to his weak health and low spirits at the time, 
none of these did justice to his ability; and the gen- 
eral manner of the magazine being insufficiently vigor- 
ous to carry off the frequent eccentricity of its matter, 
the prejudices against it prevailed, and the enterprise 
came to an end. Partners in failing concerns are apt 
to dispute ; in this instance the unpleasantness which 
arose at the time rankled in the mind of the survivor, 
and gave rise to his singularly tasteless and injudicious 
book — a performance which can be only in part con- 
doned by the fact of Hunt's afterwards expressing 
regret, and practically withdrawing it. He represents 
himself throughout as a much-injured man, lured to 
Italy by misrepresentations that he might give the aid 
of his journalistic experience and undeniable talents 
to the advancement of a mercenary enterprise, and 
that when it failed he was despised, insulted, and re- 
jected. Byron, on the other hand, declares, "The 
Hunts pressed me to engage in this work, and in an 
evil hour I consented ; " and his subsequent action in 
the matter — if not always gentle, never unjust — goes 
to verify his statements in the letters of the period, 
"I am afraid," he writes from Genoa, October 9, 1822, 
"the journal is a bad business. I have done all I can 
for Leigh Hunt since he came here ; but it is almost 
useless. His wife is ill, his six children not very tract- 
able, and in the affairs of this world he himself is a 
child." Later he says to Murray. "You and your 
friends, by your injudicious rudeness, cement a connec- 
tion which you strove to prevent, and which, had the 
Plunts prospered, would not in all probability have 
continued. As it is ... I can't leave them among the 
breakers." On February 20 we have his last word on 
the subject, to the same eftect. 

In the following sentences Moore seems to give a 
fair statement of the motives which led to the estab- 
lishment of the unfortunate journal : " The chief in- 
1 



ducements on the part of Lord Byron to this unworthy- 
alliance were, in the first place, a wish to second the 
kind views of his friend Shelley in inviting Mr. Hunt 
to Italy ; and in the next, a desire to avail himself of 
the aid of one so experienced as an editor in the favor- 
ite object he has so long contemplated of a periodical 
work in which all the offspring of his genius might be 
received as they sprung to light." For the accomplish- 
ment of this purpose, Mr. Leigh Hunt was a singularly 
ill-chosen associate. A man of radical opinions on all 
matters, not only of religion but of society — opinions 
which he acquired and held easily but firmly — could 
never recognize the propriety of the claim to defer- 
ence which " the noble poet " was always too eager to 
assert, and was inclined to take liberties which his 
patron perhaps superciliously repelled. Mrs. Hunt 
does not seem to have been a very judicious person. 
"Trelawny here," said Byron, jocularly, "has been 
speaking against my morals." "It is the first time I 
ever heard of them," she replied. Mr. Hunt, by his 
own admission, had "pecuhar notions on the subject 
of money." Byron, on his part, was determined not 
to be "put upon," and doled out through his steward 
stated allowances to Hunt, who says that only " stern 
necessity and a large family " induced him to accept 
them. Hunt's expression that the $1000 was, in the 
first instance^ a debt to Shelley, points to the conclu- 
sion that it was remitted on that poet's death. Besides, 
this, Byron maintained the family till they left Genoa 
for Florence, in 1823, and defrayed up to that date all 
their expenses. He gave his contributions to the Lib- 
eral gratis; and, again by Hunt's own confession, left 
to him and his brother the profits of the proprietor- 
ship. According to Mr, Gait, " The whole extent of 
the pecuniary obligation appears not to have exceeded 
£500 ; but, little or great, the manner in which it was 
recollected reflects no credit either on the head or heart 
of the debtor," 

Of the weaknesses on which the writer — bent on 
verifying Pope's fines on Atossa — from his vantage in 
the ground-floor, was enabled to dilate, many are but 
slightly magnified, We are told, for instance, in very 
many words, that Byron clung to the privileges of his 
rank while wishing to seem above them; that he had 
a small library, and was a one-sided critic ; that Bayle 
and Gibbon supplied him with the learning he had loft 
at school ; that, being a good rider with a graceful seat, 
he liked to be told of it ; that he showed letters he 
ought not to have shown ; that he pretended to think 
worse of Wordsworth than he did ; that he knew little 
of art or music, adored Rossini, and called Rubens a 
dauber ; that, though he wrote Don Juan under gin 
and water, he had not a strong head, etc. It may be 
true, but not new. But when Hunt proceeds to say 
that Byi'on had no sentiment; that La Guiccioli did 
not really care much about him ; that he admired Gif- 
ford because he was a sycophant, and Scott because 
he loved a lord; that he had no heart for anything 
except a feverish notoriety; that he was a miser from 
his birth, and had " as little regard for liberty as 
Alfieri " it is new enough, but it is manifestly not true. 
Hunt's book, which begins with a caricature on the 
frontispiece, and is inspired in the main by imchari- 
tableness, yet contains here and there gleams of a 
deeper insight than we find in all the volumes of 
Moore — an insight which, in spite of his irritated 
egotism, is the mark of a man with the instincts of a 
poet, Avith some cosmopolitan sympathies, and a cour- 
age on occasion to avow them at any risk, "Lord 
Byron," he says truly, "has been too much admired 
by the English because he Avas sulky and wilful, and 
reflected in his OAvn person their love of dictation and 
excitement. They owe his memory a greater regard, 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAN. 



and would do it much greater honor if they admired 
him for letting them know they were not so perfect a 
nation as they supposed themselves, and that the}^ 
might take as well as give lessons of humanity, by a 
candid comparison of notes with civilization at large." 
In July, when at Leghorn, the Gambas received 
orders to leave Tuscany, and on his return to Pisa, 
Byron, being persecuted by the police, began to pre- 
pare for another change. After entertaining projects 
about Greece, America, and Switzerland — Trelawny 
undertaking to have the "Bolivar" conveyed over the 
Alps to the Lake of Geneva — he decided on following 
his fj-iends to Genoa. He left in September with La 
Guiccioli, passed by Lerici and Sestri, and then for the 
ten remaining months of his Italian hfe took up his 
quarters at Albaro, about a mile to the east of the city, 
in the Villa Saluzzo, which Mrs. Shelley had procured 
for him and his party. She herself settled with the 
Hunts — who travelled about the same time, at Byron's 
expense, but in their own company — in the neighbor- 
ing Casa Negroto. Not far off, Mr. Savage Landor 
was in possession of the Casa Pallavicini, but there 
was httle intercourse between the three. Landor and 
Byron, in many respects more akin than any other two 
Englishmen of their age, were always separated by an 
unhappy bar or intervening mist. The only family 
with whom the poet maintained any degree of inti- 
macy was that of the Earl of Blessington, consisting 
of the Earl himself — a gouty old gentleman, with 
stories about him of the past — the Countess, and her 
sister, Miss Power, and the "cupidon dechaine," the 
Anglo-French Count Alfred d'Orsay — who were to 
take part in stories of the future. In the spring of 
1823, Byron persuaded them to occupy the Villa Para- 
diso, and was accustomed to accompany them fre- 
(juently on horseback excui-sions along the coast to 
their favorite N'ervi. It has been said that Lady Bles- 
siugton's Conversations with Lord Byron are, as regards 
trustworthiness, on a par with Landor's Imaginary 
Conversations. Let this be so, they are still of interest 
on points of fact Avhich it must have been easier to 
record than to imagine^ However adorned, or the 
reverse, by the fancies of a habitual novelist, they 
convey the impressions of a good-humored, lively, and 
tascinating woman, derived from a more or less inti- 
mate association with the most brilliant man of the 
age. Of his personal appearance — a matter of which 
she was a good judge — we have the following: " One 
of Byron's eyes was larger than the other ; his nose 
was rather thick, so he was best seen in profile; his 
mouth was splendid, and his scornful expression was 
real, not affected; but a sweet smile often broke 
through his melancholy. He was at this time very 
pale and thin (which indicates the success of his regi- 
men of reduction since leaving Venice). His hair was 
dark brown, here and there turning gray. His voice 
was harmonious, clear, and low. There is some gau- 
clierie in his walk, from his attempts to conceal his 
lameness. Ada's portrait is like him, and he is pleased 
at the likeness, but hoped she would not turn out to 
be clever — at any event not poetical. He is fond of 
gossip, and apt to speak slightingly of some of his 
friends, but is loyal to others. His great defect is 
tlippancy, and a total want of self-possession." The 
narrator also dwells on his horror of interviewers, by 
whom at this time he was even more than usually 
beset. One visitor of tlie period ingenuously observes 
— "Certain persons will be chagrined to hear that 
Byron's mode of life does not furnish the smallest food 
for calumny." Another says, "I never saw a counte- 
nance more composed and still — I might even add, 
more sweet and prepossessing. But his temper was 
easily ruffled, and for a whole day ; he could not endure 



the ringing of bells, bribed his neighbors to repress, 
their noises, and failing, retaliated by surpassing them ; 
he never forgave Colonel Carr for breaking one of his 
dog's ribs, though he generally forgave injuries without 
forgetting them. He had a bad opinion of the inert- 
ness of the Genoese, for whatever he himself did he 
did with a will — 'toto se corpore miscuit,' and was 
wont to assume a sort of dictatorial tone — as if ' I have 
said it, and it must be so,' w^ere enough." 

From these waifs and strays of gossip we return to 
a subject of deeper interest. The Countess of Bles- 
sington, with natural curiosity, was anxious to elicit 
from Byron some light on the mystery of his domestic 
affairs, and renewed the attempt previously made by 
Madame de Stael, to induce him to some movement 
towards a reconciliation with his wife. His reply to 
this overture was to show her a letter which he had 
written to Lady Byron from Pisa, but never forwarded, 
of the tone of which the following extracts must be a 
sufficient indication: "I have to acknowledge the re- 
ceipt of Ada's hair. ... I also thank you for the in- 
scription of the date and name; and I will tell you 
Avhy. I believe they are the only two or three words 
of your handwriting in ray possession, for your letters- 




Lord Byron. 

From the original portrait hy Harlowe, 1817. 

I returned, and except the two words — or rather the 
one word ' household ' written twice — in an old ac- 
count-book, I have no other. Every day which keeps 
us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften 
our mutual feelings, which must always have one rally- 
ing-point as long as our child exists. ^Ve both made a 
bitter mistake, but now it is over. I considered our 
reunion as not impossible for more than a year after 
the separation, but then I gave up the hope. I am 
violent, but not malignant; for only fresh provocations 
can awaken my resentment. Remember that if you 
have injured me in aught, this forgiveness is something, 
and that if I have injured you, it is something more 
still, if it be true, as moralists assert, that the most 
offending are the least forgiving." "It is a strange 
business," says the Countess, about Lady Byron. 
""When he was praising her mental and pei'sonal 
quahfications, I asked him how all that he now said 
agreed with certain sarcasms supposed to be a refer- 
ence to her in his works. He smiled, shook his head, 
and said they were meant to spite and vex her, when 
he was wounded and irritated at her refusing to re- 
ceive or answer his letters; that he was sorry he had 
written them, but might on similar provocations recur 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAN. 



to the same vengeance." On another occasion he said, 
"Lady B.'s first idea is Avliat is due to herself. I Avisli 
slie thouglit a little more of ^vhat is due to others. My 
besetting" sin is a Avant of that self-respect which she 
has in excess. When I have broken out, on slight prov- 
ocation, into one of my nngovernable tits of rage, her 
calmness piqued and seemed to reproach me; it gave 
her an air of superiority that vexed and increased my 
onainuiise humeury To Lady Blessington, as to every 
one. he always spoke of his sister Mrs. Leigh with the 
same unwavering admiration, love, and respect. 

"My first impressions were melancholy — my poor 
mother gave them ; but to my sister, who, incapable 
of wrong herself, suspected no wrong in others, I owe 
the little good of which I can boast; and had I earlier 
known Tier it might have influenced my destiny. 
Augusta was to me in the hour of need a tower of 
strength. Her aftection was my last rallying-point, 
and is now the only bright spot that the horizon of 
England offers to my view. She has given me such 
good advice — and yet, finding me incapable of follo\v- 
ing it, loved and pitied me but the more because I was 
erring." Similarly, in the height of his spleen, writes 
Leigh Hunt — "I Ijeheve there did exist one person to 
whom he would have been generous, if she pleased : 
perhaps was so. At all events, he left her the bulk 
of his property, and always spoke of her with the 
greatest esteem. This Avas his sister, Mrs, Leigh. He 
told me she used to call him 'Baby Byron.' It was 
easy to see that of the two i)ersons she had by far the 
greatei- judgment." 

Byron, liaving laid aside Don Juan for more than a 
year, in deference to La Guiccioli, was permitted to 
resume it again in July, 1822, on a promise to observe 
the proprieties. Cantos vi.-xi. were written at Pisa. 
Cantos xii.-xvi. at Genoa, in 1823. These latter por- 
tions of the poem were published by John Hunt. His 
other works of the period are of minor consequence. 
The Age of Bronze (page 413) is a declamation, rather 
than a satire, directed against the Convention of Cintra 
and the Congress of Verona, especially Lord London- 
derry's part in the latter, only remarkable, from its 
advice to the Greeks, to dread 

" The false friend worse than the infuriate foe ; " 

i. e.. to prefer the claw of the Tartar savage to the 
paternal hug of the great Bear — 

" Better still toil for masters, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate." 

In the Island (page 130) — a tale of the mutiny of the 
"Bounty" — he i-everts to the manner and theme of 
his old romances, finding a new scene in the Pacific 
for the exercise of his fancy. In this piece his love 
of nautical adventure reappears, and his idealization 
of primitive life, caught from Eousseau and Chateau- 
briand. There is more repose about this poem than 
in any of the author's other compositions. In its 
pages the sea seems to plash about rocks and caves 
that bask under a southern sun. " 'Byron, the sor- 
cerer,' he can do with me Avhat he will," said old Dr. 
Parr, on reading it. As the swan-song of the poet's 
sentimental verse, it has a pleasing if not pathetic 
calm. During the last years in Italy he planned an 
epic on the Conquest and a play on the subject of 
Hannibal, neither of which was executed. 

In the criticism of a famous work there is often 
little left to do but to criticise the critics — to bring to 
a focus the most salient things that have been said 
about it, to eliminate the absurd from the sensible, the 
discriminating from the commonplace. Don Juan^ 
more than any of its precursors, is Byron, and it has 
been similarly handled. The early cantos were ushered 
lii 



into the world amid a chorus of mingled applause and 
execration. The minor Reviews, representing middle- 
class respectability, Avere generally vituperative, and 
the higher authorities diA^dedin their judgments. The 
British Magazine said that "his lordship had degraded 
his personal character by the composition; " the Lon- 
don, that the poem Avas "a satire on decency;" the 
Edinhurgh Monthly, that it was "a melancholy spec- 
tacle: " the Eclectic, that it Avas "an outrage Avorthy 
of detestation." Blaclcwood declared that the author 
Avas " brutally outraging all the best feelings of hu- 
manity.'' Moore characterizes it as "the most painful 
display of the versatility of genius that has CA'er been 
left for succeeding ages to Avonder at or deplore." Jef- 
frey found in the Avhole composition "a tendency to 
destroy all belief in the reality of virtue ; " and Dr. 
John Watkins classically named it "the Odyssey of 
Immorality." ''Don Juan will be read," Avrote one 
critic, " as long as satire. Avit, mirth, and supreme ex- 
cellence shall be esteemed among men." "Stick to 
Don Juan,'''' exhorted another; "it is the only sincere 
thing you have Avritten, and it Avill live after all your 
Harolds have ceased to be ' a school-girl's tale, the 
wonder of an hour.' It is the best of all your works 
— the most spirited, the most straightforward, the 
most interesting, the most poetical." " It is a Avork/' 
said Goethe, "full of soul, bitterly savage in its misan- 
thropy, exquisitely delicate in its tenderness." -Shelley 
confessed, "It fulfils in a certain degree Avhat I haA^e 
long preached, the task of producing something Avholly 
new and relative to the age, and yet surpassingly beau- 
tiful." And Sir Walter Scott, in the midst of a hearty 
panegyric, "It has the variety of Shakespeare himself, 
Neither Childe Harold, nor the most beautiful of By- 
ron's earlier tales, contain more exquisite poetry than 
is to be found scattered through the cantos of Don 
Juan, amid verses Avhich the author seems to have 
thrown from him Avith an effort as spontaneous as that 
of a tree resigning its leaves." 

One noticeable feature about these comments is 
their sincerity : reviewing, hoAvcA^er occasionally one- 
sided, had not then sunk to be the mere register of 
adverse or friendly cliques ; and, Avith all his anxiety 
for its A^erdict, Byron never solicited the favor of any 
portion of the press. Another is the fact that the 
adverse critics missed their mark. They had not learnt 
to say of a book of which they disapproved, that it 
Avas weak or dull : in pronouncing it to be Aicious, they 
helped to promote its sale ; and the most decried has 
been the most Avidely read of the author's Avorks. 
Many of the readers of Don Juan have, it must be 
confessed, been found among those least likely to ad- 
mire in it Avhat is most admirable — who have been 
attracted by the A'ery excess of buffoonery, A-iolations 
of good taste, and occasionally almost vulgar slang, 
which disfigure its pages. Their patronage is, at the 
best, of no more value than that of a mob gathered 
by a showy Shakespearian rcA^val. But the welcome 
of the Avork in other quarters is as indubitably due to 
higher qualities. In writing Don Juan, Byron at- 
tempted something that had never been done before, 
and his genius so chimed with his enterprise that it 
need never be done again. "Down," cries M. Chasles, 
" with the imitators Avho did their best to make his 
name ridiculous." In commenting on their failure, an 
excellent critic has explained the preestablished fitness 
of the ottava rima — the first six lines of which are a 
dance, and the concluding couplet a '* breakdoAvn " — 
for the mock-heroic. Byron's choice of this measure 
may have been suggested by Whistlecraft: but he had 
studied its cadence in Pulci, and the Novelle Galanti 
of Casti, to whom he is indel)ted foi- other features of 
his satire ; and he added to Avhat has been Avell termed 



PISA; GENOA; THE LIBERAL; DON JUAN 



its characteristic jaimtiness, by his ahnost constant use 
t>f the double rhyme. That the ottava rima is out of 
l)lace in consistently pathetic poetry, may be seen from 
its obvious misuse in Iveats's Pot of Basil. Many writ- 
ers, from Frere to Moultrie, have employed it success- 
fully in burlesque or mere society verse ; but Byron 
alone has employed it triumphantly, for he has made 
it the vehicle of thoughts grave as well as gay, of 
'•black spirits and white, red spirits and gray," of 
sparkling fancy, bitter sarcasm, and tender memories. 
He has swept into the pages of his poem the experi- 
ence of thirty years of a life so crowded with vitality 
tluit our sense of the plethora of power which it ex- 
hibits makes us ready to condone its lapses. Byron, 
it has been said, balances himself on a ladder like other 
acrobats ; but alone, like the Japanese master of the 
art, he all the while bears on his shoulders the weight 
of a man. Much of Don Juan is as obnoxious to crit- 
icism in detail as his earlier work ; it has every mark 
of being written in hot haste. In the midst of the 
most serious passages (for instance, the "Ave Maria '^) 
we are checked in our course by bathos or common- 
place, and thrown where the writer did not mean to 
throw us ; but the mocking spirit is so prevailingly 
present that we are often left in doubt as to his design, 
and what is in Harold an outrage is in this case only a 
tiaw. His command over the verse itself is almost 
miraculous : he glides from extreme to extreme, from 
punning to pathos, from melancholy to mad merriment, 
sighing or laughing by the way at his readers or at 
himself or at the stanzas. Into them he can fling any- 
thing under the sun, from a doctor's prescription to a 
metaphysical theory. 

" When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter, 
And proved it, 'twas no matter what he said," 

is as cogent a refutation of ideahsm as the cumbrous 
wit of Scotch logicians. 

The popularity of the work is due not mainly to the 
verbal skill which makes it rank as the cleverest of 
English verse compositions, to its shoals of witticisms, 
its winged words, telling phrases, and incomparable 
transitions ; but to the fact that it continues to address 
a large class who are not in the ordinary sense of the 
word lovers of poetry. Don Juan is emphatically the 
poem of intelligent men of middle age, who have grown 
weary of mere sentiment, and yet retain enough of 
sympathetic feeling to desire at times to recall it. 
Such minds, crusted like Plato's Glaucus with the 
world, are yet pervious to appeals to the spirit that 
survives beneath the dry dust amid which they move ; 
but only at rare intervals can they accompany the pure 
lyrist '• singing as if he would never be old," and they 
are apt to turn with some impatience even from Romeo 
and Juliet to Hamlet and Macbeth. To them, on the 
other hand, the hard wit of Hudihras is equally tire- 
some, and more distasteful ; their chosen friend is the 
humorist who, inspired by a subtle perception of the 
contradictions of life, sees matter for smiles in sorrow 
and tears in laughter. Byron was not, in the highest 
sense, a great humorist ; he does not blend together 
the two phases, as they are blended in single sentences 
or whole chapters of Sterne, in the April sunshine of 
Ptichter, or in Sartor Resartus ; but he comes near to 
produce the same effect by his unequalled power of 



er dry 



alternating them. His wit is seldom hard, nev 
for it is moistened by the constant juxtaposition of 
sentiment. His tenderness is none the less genuine 
that he is perpetually jerking it away — an equally 
favorite fashion with Carlyle — as if he could not trust 
himself to be serious for fear of becoming sentimental ; 
and, in recollection of his frequent exhibitions of un- 
affected hysteria, we accept his own confession — 



" If I laugh at any mortal thing, 
'T is that I may not weep "— 

as a perfectly sincere comment on the most sincere^ 
and therefore in many respects the most effective, of 
his works. He has, after his way, endeavored in grave 
prose and light verse to defend it against its assailants, 
saying, "In Don J?<rm I take a vicious and unprinci- 
pled character, and lead him through those ranks of 
society whose accomplishments cover and cloak their 
vices, and paint the natural effects; " and elsewhere, 
that he means to make his scamp " end as a member 
of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, or by the 
guillotine, or in an unhappy marriage." It were easy 
to dilate on the fact that in interpreting the phrases of 
the satirist into the language of the moralist we often 
require to read them backwards : Byron's own state- 
ment, "I hate a motive," is, however, more to the 
point. Don Juan can only be credited with a text in 
the sense in which every large experience, of its own 
accord, conveys its lesson. It was to the author a 
picture of the world as he saw it ; and it is to us a 
mirror in which every attribute of his genius, every 
peculiarity of his nature, is reflected without distortion. 
After the audacious though brilliant opening, and the 
vmfortunately pungent reference to the poet's domestic 
affairs (pages 460, 461, 462) we find in the famous storm 
(page 476) a bewildering epitome of his prevailing man- 
ner. Home-sickness, sea-sickness, the terror of the 
tempest, " waihng, blasphemy, devotion," the crash of 
the wreck, the wild farewell, "the bubbling cry of 
some strong swimmer in his agony," the horrors of 
famine, the tale of the two fathers, the beautiful ap- 
paritions of the rainbow and the bird, the feast on 
Juans spaniel, his reluctance to dine on "his pastor 
and his master," the consequences of eating Pedrillo — 
all follow each other like visions in the phantasmagoria 
of a nightmare, till at last the remnant of the crew are 
drowned by a ridiculous rhyme — 

" Finding no place for their landing better, 
They ran the boat ashore, and overset her." . 

Then comes the episode of Haidee, "a long low island 
song of ancient days," the character of the girl her- 
self being like a thread of pure gold running through 
the fabric of its surroundings, motley in every page ; 
after the impassioned close of the " Isles of Greece " 
(page 495), we have the stanza: 

" Thus sang, or would, or could, or should, have sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
Yet in those days he might have done much worse—" 

with which the author dashes away the romance of 
the song, and then launches into a tirade against Bob 
Southey's epic and Wordsworth's pedler poems. This 
vein exhausted, we come to the "Ave Maria," one of 
the most musical, and seemingly heartfelt, hymns in 
the language. The close of the ocean pastoral (in 
Canto IV.) is the last of pathetic narrative in the book ; 
but the same feeling that "mourns o'er the beauty of 
the Cyclades," often re-emerges in shorter passages. 
The fifth and sixth cantos, in spite of the ghttering 
sketch of Gulbeyaz, and the fawn-like image of DudCi, 
are open to the charge of diffuseness, and the character 
of Johnson is a failure. From the seventh to the 
tenth, the poem decidedly dips, partly because the 
writer had never been in Russia ; then it again rises, 
and shows no sign of falling off to the end. 

No part of the work has more suggestive interest 
or varied power than some of the later cantos, in 
which Jaan is whirled through the vortex of the fash- 
ionable life which Byron knew so well, loved so much, 
and at last esteemed so little. There is no richer piece 
liii 



POLITICS; EXPEDITION TO GREECE; DEATH. 



•of descriptive writing in his works than that of I^ew- 
stead,* nor is there any analysis of female character 
so subtle as that of the Lady Adeline. Conjectures 
as to the originals of imaginary portraits are generally 
futile, but Miss Millpond — not Donna Inez — is ob\i- 
ously Lady Byron; in Adeline we may suspect that 
at Genoa he was drawing from the hfe in the Villa 
Paradiso; while Aurora Raby seems to be an ideaU- 
zation of La Guiccioli. ConstantK', towards the close 
of the work, there is an echo of home and country, a 
half-involuntary cry after 

" The love of higher things and better days ; 

Th' unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of Avhat is call'd the world and the world's ways." 

In the concluding stanza of the last completed canto, 
beginning — 

" Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 

'Twixt night and morn, on the horizon's verge "— 

we have a condensation of the refrain of the poet's 
philosophy; but the main drift of the later books is a 
satire on London society. There are elements in a 
great city which may be wrought into something nobler 
than satire, for all the energies of the age are concen- 
trated where passion is fi^ercest and thought intensest, 
amid the myriad sights and sounds of its glare and 
gloom. But those scenes, and the actors in them, are 
apt also to induce the f'-ame of mind in which a prose 
satirist describes himself as reclining under an arcade 
of the Pantheon: "Xot the Pantheon by the Piazza 
!N'avona. Avhere the immortal gods were worshipped — 
the immortal gods now dead; but the Pantheon in 
Oxford Street. Have not Selwyn, and Walpole, and 
March, and Carlisle figured there? Has not Prince 
Florizel flounced through the hall in his rustling 
domino, and danced there in powdered splendor? O 
m\ companions, I have drunk many a bout with you, 
and always found ' Vanitas Yanitatum ' written on the 
bottom of the pot.'' This is the mind in which Don 
Juan interprets the universe, and paints the still living 
court of Florizel and his buffoons. A "nondescript 
and ever varying rhyme " — " a versified aurora bore- 
alis,'' half cynical, half Epicurean, it takes a partial, 
though a subtle view of that microcosm on stilts called 
the great world. It complains that in the days of old, 
" men made the manners — manners now make men." 
It Avas the natural conclusion of the foregone stage of 
Byron's career. Years had given him power, but they 
were years in which his energies were largely wasted. 
Self-indulgence had not petrified his feeling, but it had 
thrown wormwood into its Springs. He had learnt to 
look on existence as a walking shadow, and was strong 
only with the strength of a sincere despair. 

" Through life's road, so dim and dirty, 
I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
What have those years left to me? 
Nothing, except thirty-three." 

These lines are the summary of one who had drained 
the draught of pleasure to the dregs of bitterness. 



CHAPTEPv X. 



POLITICS — THE CARBONARI— EXPEDITION^ TO 
GREECE — DEATH. 



v> 



[1821—1824.] 

IX leaA-ing Yenice for Ravenna, Byron passed from 
the society of gondoliers and successive sultanas to 
^ comparatively domestic life, with a mistress who at 

* Page 573. stanza Iv. 
liv 



least endeavored to stimulate some of his higher aspi- 
rations, and smiled upon his wearing the sword along 
with the lyre. In the last episode of his constantly 
checkered and too voluptuous career, we have the 
waking of Sardanapalus realized in the transmutation 
of the fantastical Childe Harold into a practical strate- 
gist, financier, and soldier. Ko one ever lived who in 
the same space more thoroughly ran the gauntlet of 
existence. Having exhausted all other sources of 
vitality and intoxication — travel, gallantry, and verse — 
it remained for the despairing poet to become a hero. 
But he was also moved by a public passion, the genu- 
ineness of which there is no reasonable ground to 
doubt. Like Alfieri and Rousseau, he had taken for 
his motto, "I am of the opposition;" and, as Dante 
under a republic called for a monarchy, Byron, under 
monarchies at home and abroad, called for a common- 
wealth. Amid the inconsistencies of his political sen- 
timent, he had been consistent in so much love of lib- 
erty as led him to denounce oppression, even when he 
had no great faith in the oppressed — whether English, 
or Italians, or Greeks. 

Byron regarded the established dynasties of the con- 
tinent with a sincere hatred. He talks of the "more 
than infernal tyranny" of the House of Austria. To 
his fancy, as to Shelley's, Xew England is the star of 
the future. Attracted by a strength or ratlier force of 
character akin to his own, he worshipped Xapoleon, 
even when driven to confess that "the hero had sunk 
into a king." He lamented his overthi-ow ; but, above 
all, that he was beaten by "three stupid, legitimate 
old dynasty boobies of regular sovereigns,"! "I write 
in ipecacuanha that the Bourbons are restored, " ' 'What 
right have we to prescribe laws to France? Here we 
are retrograding to the dull, stupid old system, balance 
of Europe — poising straws on kings' noses, instead of 
wringing them off," "The king-times are fast finish- 
ing. There will be blood shed like water, and tears 
like mist ; but the peoples will conquer in the end. I 
shall not live to see it, but I foresee it." " Give me a 
republic. Look in the history of the earth — Rome, 
Greece, Yenice, Holland, France, America, our too 
short Commonwealth — and compare it with wliat tliey 
did under masters," 

His serious political verses are all in the strain of the 
lines on Wellington — 

" Never had mortal man such opportunity— 
Except Napoleon— or abused it more ; 
You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity 
Of tyrants, and been blessed from shore to shore." 

An enthusiasm for Italy, which survived many disap- 
pointments, dictated some of the most impressive pas- 
sages of his Harold^ and inspired the Lament of Tasso 
and the Ode on Yenice (page 384), Tlie Prophecy of 
Dante (page 393) contains much that has since proved 
prophetic — 

" What is there wanting, then, to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we, 
Her sons, may do this with one deed— r??ife.'" 

His letters reiterate the same idea, in language even 
more emphatic. "It is no great matter, supposing 
4hat Italy could be liberated, who or what is sacrificed. 
It is a grand object — the very poetry of politics: only 
think — a free Italy!" Byron acted on his assertion 
that a man ought to do more for society than write 
verses. Mistrusting its leaders, and detesting the 
wretched lazzaroni, who "would have betrayed them- 
selves and all the world," he yet threw himself heart 

t See poems, pages 368, 442, 444. 



POLITICS; EXPEDITION TO GREECE; DEATH. 



and soul into the insurrection of 1820, saying, "AVhat- 
€ver I can do bv money, means, or person, 1 will ven- 
ture freely for their freedom." He joined the secret 
society of the Carbonari, wrote an address to the Lib- 
eral government set up in j^aples, supplied arms and a 
refuge in his house, which he was prepared to convert 
into" a fortress. In February, 1821, on the rout of 
the Neapolitans by the Austrians, the conspiracy was 
crushed. Byron, who ''had always an idea that it 
would be bungled," expressed his fear that the country 
would be thrown back five hundred years into barbar- 
ism, and the Countess Guiccioli confessed with tears 
that the Italians must return to composing and strum- 
ming operatic airs. Carbonarism having collapsed, it 
of course made way for a reaction; but the encourage- 
ment and countenance of the English poet and peer 
helped to keep alive the smouldering fire that Mazzini 
fanned into a llame, till Cavour turned it to a practical 
purpose, and the dreams of the idealists of 1820 were 
finally realized. 

On the failure of the luckless conspiracy, Byron 
naturally betook himself to history, speculation, satire, 
and ideas of a journalistic propaganda ; but all through 
his mind was turning to the renewal of the action 
which was his destiny. "If I live ten years longer," 
he writes in 1822, ''you will see that it is not all over 
with me. I don't mean in literature, for that is noth- 
ing—and I do not think it was my vocation ; but I 
shall do something." The Greek war of liberation 
opened a new field for the exercise of his indomitable 
energy. This romantic struggle, begun in April, 1821, 
Avas carried on for two years Avith such remarkable 
success, that at the close of 1822 Greece was beginning 
to be recognized as an independent state : but in the 
following months the tide seemed to turn ; dissensions 
broke out among the leaders, the spirit of intrigue 
seemed to stifle patriotism, and the energies of the in- 
surgents were hampered for want of the sinev^s of 
war. There was a danger of the movement being 
starved out, and the committee of London sympathiz- 
ei-s — of which the poet's intimate friend and frequent 
correspondent, Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, and Captain 
Blaquiere, were leading promoters — was impressed 
with the necessity of procuring funds in support of 
the cause. With a view to this it seemed of conse- 
quence to attach to it some shining name, and men's 
thoughts almost inevitably turned to Byron. ISTo other 
T^nghshman seemed so fit to be associated with the 
enterprise as the warlike poet, who had twelve years 
before finked his fame to that of " gray Marathon " 
and "Athena's tower," and, more recently, immortal- 
ized the isles on which he cast so many a longing glance. 
Hobhouse broke the subject to him early in the spring 
of 1823 : the committee opened communications in 
April. After hesitating through May, in June" Byron 
consented to meet Blaquiere at Zante, and, on hearing 
the results of the captain s expedition to the Morea, 
to decide on future steps. His share in this enterpri^ 
has been assigned to purely personal and comparatively 
mean motives. He was, it is said, disgusted with his 
periodical, sick of his editor, tired of his mistress, and 
bent on any change, from China to Peru, that would 
give him a new theatre for display. One grows weary 
of the perpetual half-truths of inveterate detraction. 
It is granted that Byron was restless, vain, imperious, 
never did anything without a desire to shine in the 
doing of it, and was to a great degree the slave of cir- 
cumstances. Had the Liberal proved a lamp to the 
nations, instead of a mere " red flag flaunted in the 
face of John Bull," he might have cast anchor at Ge- 
noa ; but the whole drift of his work and life demon- 
strates that he was capable on occasions of merging 
tiimself in what he conceived to be great causes, es- 



pecially in their evil days. Of the Hunts he may have 
had enough ; but the invidious statement about La 
Guiccioli has no foundation, other than a somewhat 
random remark of Shelley, and the fact that he left 
her nothing in his will. It is distinctly ascertained that 
she expressly prohibited him from doing so ; they con- 
tinued to correspond to the last, and her affectionate, 
though unreadable, reminiscences are suflficient proof 
that she at no time considered herself to be neglected, 
injured, or aggrieved. 

Byron, indeed, left Italy in an unsettled state of 
mind : he spoke of returning in a few months, and as 
the period for his departui-e approached, became more 
and more irresolute. A presentiment of his death 
seemed to brood over a mind always superstitious, 
though never fanatical. Shortly before his own de- 
I)arture, the Blessingtons were preparing to leave 
Genoa for England. On the evening of his farewell 
call he began to speak of his voyage with despond- 
ency, saying, "Here we are all now together; but 
when and where shall we meet again ? I have a sort 
of boding that we see each other for the last time, 
as something tells me I shall never again return from 
Greece: " after which remark he leaned his head on the 
sofa, and burst into one of his hysterical fits of tears. 
The next week was given to preparations for an expe- 
dition, which, entered on with mingled motives — sen- 
timental, personal, public — became more real and earn- 
est to Byron at every step he took. He knew all the 
Aices of the "hereditary bondsmen'' among whom he 
was going, and went among them with yet unquenched 
aspirations, but with the bridle of discipline in his hand, 
resolved to pave the way towards the nation becoming 
better, by devoting himself to making it free. 

On the morning of July 14 (1823) he embarked in 
the brig "Hercules," with Trelawny; Count Pietro 
Gamba, who remained with him to the last ; Bruno, u 
young Italian doctor ; Scott, the captain of the vessel, 
and eight servants, including Eletcher; besides the 
crew. They had on board two guns, with other arms 
and ammunition, five horses, an ample supply of med- 
icines, with 50,000 Spanish dollars in coin and bills. 
The start was inauspicious. A violent squall drove 
them back to port, and in the course of a last ride 
with Gamba to Albaro, Byron asked, " Where shall 
we be in a year? " On the same day of the same 
month of 1824 he was carried to the tomb of his 
ancestors. They again set sail on the following even- 
ing, and in five days reached Leghorn, where the poet 
received a salutation in verse, addressed to him by 
Goethe, and replied to it. Here Mr. Hamilton Brown, 
a Scotch gentleman with considerable knowledge of 
Greek affairs, joined the party, and induced them to 
change their course to Cephalonia, for the purpose of 
obtaining the advice and assistance of the English 
resident. Colonel Xapier. The poet occupied himself 
during the voyage mainly in reading among other 
-tTooks, Scott's Life of Swft, Grimm's Correspondence. 
La Rochefoucauld, and Las Casas — and watching the 
classic or historic shores which they skirted, especiaRy 
noting Elba, Soracte, the Straits of Messina, and Etna. 
In passing Stromboli he said to Trelawny, "You will 
see this scene in a fifth canto of Ghilde Harold.''' On 
his companions suggesting that he should write some 
verses on the spot, he tried to do so, but threw them 
away, with the remark, "I cannot write poetry at will, 
as you smoke tobacco." Trelawny confesses that he 
was never on shipboard with a better companion, and 
that a severer test of good-fellowship it is impossible 
to apply. Together they shot at gulls or empty bottles, 
and swam every morning in the sea. Early in August 
they reached their destination. Coming in sight of the 
Morea, the poet said to Trelawny, "I feel as if the 
Iv 



POLITICS; EXPEDITION TO GREECE; DEATH, 



eleven long years of bitterness I have passed through 
since I was here were taken from my shoulders, and I 
was scudding through the Greek Archipelago with old 
Bathurst in his frigate." Byron remained at or about 
Cephalonia till the close of the year, Not long after 
his arrival he made an excursion to Ithaca, and, visit- 
ing the monastery at A'athi, was received by the abbot 
with great ceremony, which, in a fit of irritation, 
brought on by a tiresome ride on a mule, he returned 
withunusual discourtesy; but next morning, on his 
giving a donation to their alms-box, he was dismissed 
withthe blessing of the monks. "If this isle were 
mine,"' he declared on his way back, ''I would break 
my staff and bury my book." A little later, Brown 
and Trelawny being sent off with letters to the pro- 
visional government, the former returned with some 
Greek emissaries to London to negotiate a loan ; the 
latter attached himself to Odysseus, the chief of the 
repubhcan party at Athens, and never again saw Byron 
alive. The poet, after spending a month on board the 
" Hercules," dismissed the vessel, and hired a house for 
Gamba and himself at Metaxata, a healthy village about 
four miles from the capital of the island. Meanwhile, 
Blaquiere, neglecting his appointment at Zante, had 
gone to Corfu, and thence to England. Colonel ISTapier 
being absent from Cephalonia, Byron had some pleas- 
ant social intercourse with his deputy, but, unable to 
get from him any authoritative information, was left 
without advice, to be besieged by letters and messages 
from the factions. Among these there were brought 
to him hints that the Greeks wanted a king, and he is 
reported to have said, "If they make me the offer, I 
wiU perhaps not reject it." 

The position would doubtless have been acceptable 
to a man who never — amid his many self-deceptions — 
affected to deny that he was ambitious ; and who can 
say what might not have resulted for Greece had the 
poet lived to add lustre to her crown? In the mean- 
time, while faring more frugally than a day-laborer, 
he yet surrounded himself with a show of royal state, 
had his servants armed with gilt helmets, and gathered, 
around him a body-guard of Suliotes. These wild 
mercenaries becoming turbulent, he was obliged to 
despatch them to Missolonghi, then threatened with 
siege by the Turks, and anxiously waiting relief. 
During his i-esidence at Cephalonia, Byron was grati- 
fied by the interest evinced in him by the Enghsh resi- 
dents. Among these, the physician. Dr. Kennedy, a 
worthy Scotchman, who imagined himself to be a 
theologian, with a genius for conversion, was conduct- 
ing a series of religious meetings at Argostoli, w^hen 
the poet expressed a wish to be present at one of 
them. After listening, it is said, to a set of discourses 
that occupied the greater part of twelve hours, he 
seems, for one reason or another, to have felt called 
on to enter the lists, and found himself involved in 
the series of controversial dialogues afterwards pub- 
lished in a substantial book. This volume, interesting 
in several respects, is one of the most charming exam- 
ples of unconscious irony in the language, and it is 
matter of regret that our space does not admit of the 
abridgment of several of its pages. They bear testi- 
mony, on the one hand, to Byron's capability of 
patience, and frequent sweetness of temper under 
trial; on the other, to Kennedy's utter want of humor, 
and to his courageous honesty. The curiously con- 
fronted interlocutors, in the course of the missionary 
and subsequent private meetings, ran over most of the 
ground debated between opponents and apologists of 
the Calvinistic faith, which Kennedy upheld without 
stint. The Conversations^ add little to what we 



* See foot-notes, pages 151, 256. 
Ivi 



already know of Byron's religious opinions ; nor is it 
easy to say where he ceases to be serious and begins 
to banter, or mce versa. He evidently wished to show 
that in argument he was good at fence, and could han- 
dle a theologian as skilfully as a foil. At the same 
time he wished, if possible, though, as appears, in vain, 
to get some light on a subject with regard to which in 
his graver moods he was often exercised. On some 
points he is explicit. He makes an unequivocal protest 
against the doctrines of eternal punishment and infant 
damnation, saying that if the rest of mankind were to 
be damned, he " would rather keep them company than 
creep into heaven alone." On questions of inspiration, 
and the deeper problems of liuman hfe, he is less dis- 
tinct, being naturally inclined to a speculative necessi- 
tarianism, and disposed to admit original depravity; 
but he did not see his way out of the maze through 
the Atonement, and held that prayer had only signifi- 
cance as a devotional affection of the heart. Byron 
showed a remarkable familiarity with the Scriptures, 
and with parts of Barrow, Chillingworth, and Stilling- 
fleet; but on Kennedy's lending, for his edification, 
Boston's Fourfold State, he returned it with the re- 
mark that it was too deep for him. On another occa- 
sion he said, "Do you know I am nearly reconciled to 
St. Paul, for he says there is no difference between the 
Jews and the Greeks? and I am exactly of the same 
opinion, for the character of both is equally vile." 
The good Scotchman's religious self-confidence is 
throughout free from intellectual pride ; and his own 
confession, " This time I suspect his lordship had the 
best of it," might perhaps be applied to the whole dis- 
cussion. 

Critics who have little history and less war have 
been accustomed to attribute Byron's lingering at 
Cephalonia to indolence and indecision; they write as 
if he ought, on landing on Greek soil, to have put 
himself at the head of an army and stormed Constan- 
tinople. Those who know more, confess that the 
delay was deliberate, and that it was judicious. The 
Hellenic uprising was animated by the spirit of a 
"hon after slumber," but it had the heads of a Hydra 
liissing and tearing at one another. The chiefs who 
defended the country by their arms compromised her 
by their arguments, and some of her best fighters were 
little better than pirates and bandits. Greece was a 
prey to factions — republican, monarchic, aristocratic — 
representing naval, military, and territorial interests, 
and each beset by the adventurers who flock round 
every movement, only representing their own. During 
the first two years of success they were held in embryo ; 
during the later years of disaster, terminated by the 
allies at iSTavarino, they were buried ; during the inter- 
lude of Byron's residence, when the foes were like 
hounds in the leash, waiting for a renewal of the 
struggle, they were rampant. Had he joined any one 
of them, he w^ould have degraded himself to the level 
of a mere condottiere, and helped to betray the com- 
mon cause. Beset by solicitations to go to Athens, to 
the Morea, to Acarnania, he resolutely held apart, 
biding his time, collecting information, making him- 
self known as a man of affairs, endeavoring to con- 
ciliate rival claimants for pension or place, and care- 
fully watching the tide of war. IS'umerous anecdotes 
of the period relate to acts of pubhc or private benev- 
olence, which endeared him to the population of the 
island; but he was on the alert against being fleeced 
or robbed. " The bulk of the English," writes Colonel 
Napier, "came expecting to find the Peloponnesus 
filled with Plutarch's men, and returned thinking the 
inhabitants of Newgate more moral. Lord Byron 
judged the Greeks fairly, and knew that allowance 
must be made for emancipated slaves." Among other 



POLITICS; EXPEDITION TO GREECE; DEATH. 



incidents, we lieaf of his passing a group, who were 
" shrieking and howling as in Ireland " over some men 
buried in the fall of a bank; he snatched a spade, 
began to dig. and threatened to horsewhip the peas- 
ants unless they followed his example. On November 
30 he despatched to the central government a remark- 
able state paper, in which he dwells on the fatal calam- 
ity of a civil war, and says that, unless union and order 
are established, all hopes of a loan— which, being every 
day more urgent, he was in letters to England con- 
stantly pressing — are at an end. "I desire," he con- 
cluded, "the well-being of Greece, and nothing else. 
I will do all I can to secure it ; but I will never consent 
that the English pubhc be deceived as to the real state 
of affairs. You have fought gloriously; act honorably 
towards your fellow-citizens and the world, and it will 
then no more be said, as has been repeated for two 
thousand years, with the Roman historians, that Philo- 
poemen was the last of the Grecians," 

Prince Alexander Mavrocordatos — the most promi- 
nent of the practical patriotic leaders — ^liaving been 
deposed from the presidency, was sent to regulate the 
affairs of AYestern Greece, and was now on his way 
with a fleet to relieve Missolonghi, in attempting which 
the brave Marco Bozzaris had previously fallen. In a 
letter, opening communication with a man for whom 
he always entertained a high esteem, Byron Avrites, 
"■ Colonel Stanhope has arrived from London, charged 
by our committee to act in concert with me. . . . 
Greece is at present placed between three measures — 
either to reconquer her liberty, to become a depend- 
ence of the sovereigns of Europe, or to return to a 
Turkish province. She has the choice only of these 
three alternatives. Civil war is but a road that leads 
to the two latter." 

At length the long-looked-for fleet arrived, and the 
Turkish squadron, with the loss of a treasure-ship, 
retired up the Gulf of Lepanto. Mavrocordatos, on 
entering Missolonghi, lost no time in inviting the poet 
to join him, and placed a brig at his disposal, adding, 
"I need not tell you to what a pitch your presence is 
desired by everybody, or what a prosperous direction 
it will give to all our affairs. Your counsels will be 
listened to like oracles." 

At the same date Stanhope writes, " The people in 
the streets are looking forward to his lordship's arrival 
as they would to the coming of the Messiah," Byron 
was unable to start in the ship sent for him ; but in 
spite of medical warnings, a few days later, i. e.^ De- 
cember 28, he embarked in a small fast-sailing sloop 
called a mistico, while the servants and baggage were 
stowed in another and larger vessel under the charge 
of Count Gamba. From Gamba's graphic account of 
the voyage we may take the following: "We sailed 
together till after ten at night; the wind favorable, a 
clear sky, the air fresh, but not sharp. Our sailors 
sang alternately patriotic songs, monotonous indeed, 
but to persons in our situation extremely touching, and 
we took part in them. We were all, but Lord Byron 
particularly, in excellent spirits. The mistico sailed 
the fastest. When the waves divided us, and our voices 
could no longer reach each other, we made signals by 
firing pistols and carbines. To-morrow we meet at 
Missolonghi — to-morrow. Thus, full of confidence and 
spirits, we sailed along. At twelve we were out of 
sight of each other." 

Byron's vessel, separated from her consort, came 
into the close proximity of a Turkish frigate, and had 
to take refuge among the Scrofes' rocks. Emerging 
thence, he attained a small seaport of Acarnania, called 
Dragomestri, whence sallying forth on the 2d of Janu- 
ary under the convoy of some Greek gunboats, he was 
nearly wrecked. On the 4th Byron made, when vio- 



lently heated, an imprudent plunge in the sea, and was 
never afterwards free from a pain in his bones. On 
the 5th he arrived at Missolonghi, and was received 
with salvos of musketry and music. Gamba was wait- 
ing him. His vessel, the " Bombarda," had been taken 
by the Ottoman frigate, but the captain of the latter, 
recognizing the Count as having formerly saved his 
life in the Black Sea, made interest in his behalf with 
Yussuf Pasha at Patras, and obtained his discharge. 
In recompense, the poet subsequently sent to the Pasha 
some Turkish prisoners, with a letter requesting him 
to endeavor to mitigate the inhumanities of the war. 
Byron brought to the Greeks at Missolonghi the $20,000 
of his personal loan (applied, in the first place, to de- 
fraying the expenses of the fleet), with the spell of his 
name and presence. He was shortly afterwards ap- 
pointed to the command of the intended expedition 
against Lepanto, and, with this view, again took into 
his pay five hundred Suliotes. An approaching general 
assembly to organize the forces of the West had brought 
together a motley crew, destitute, discontented, and 
more likely to wage Avar upon each other than on their 
enemies. Byron's closest associates during the ensuing 
months were the engineer Parry, an energetic artillery- 
man, "extremely active, and of strong practical tal- 
ents," Avho had travelled in America, and Colonel 
Stanhope (afterwards Lord Harrington), equally with 
himself devoted to the emancipation of Greece, but at 
variance about the means of achieving it. Stanhope, 
a moral enthusiast of the stamp of Kennedy, beset by 
the fallacy of religious missions, wished to cover the 
Morea with tracts, and liberate the country by the 
agency of the press. He had imported a converted 
blacksmith, with a cargo of Bibles, types, and paper, 
who on $100 a year undertook to accomplish the re- 
form. Byron, backed by the good sense of Mavrocor- 
datos, proposed to make cartridges of the tracts, and 
small shot of the type ; he did not think that the tur- 
bulent tribes were ripe for freedom of the press, and 
had begun to regard Repubhcanism itself as a matter 
of secondary moment. The disputant alhes in the 
common cause occupied each a flat of the same small 
house ; the soldier by profession was bent on writing 
the Turks down, the poet on fighting them down, 
holding that the " work of the sword must precede 
that of the pen, and that camps must be the training- 
schools of freedom." Their altercations were some- 
times fierce — " Despot ! " cried Stanhope, " after pro- 
fessing liberal principles from boyhood, you, when 
called to act, prove yourself a Turk!" "Radical!" 
retorted Byron, "if I had held up my finger I could 
have crushed your press " — but this did not prevent 
the recognition by each of them of the excellent quali- 
ties of the other. 

Ultimately Stanhope went to Athens, and allied 
himself with Trelawny and Odysseus and the party 
of the Left. Nothing can be more statesmanlike than 
some of Byron's papers of this and the immediately 
preceding period, nothing more admirable than the 
spirit which inspires them. He had come into the 
heart of a revolution, exposed to the same perils as 
those which had wrecked the similar movement in 
Italy. Neither trusting too much nor distrusting too 
much, with a clear head and a good will he set about 
enforcing a series of excellent measures. From first 
to last he was engaged in denouncing dissension, in 
advocating unity, in doing everything that man could 
do to concentrate and utilize the disorderly elements 
with which he had to work. He occupied himself in 
repairing fortifications, managing ships, restraining li- 
cense, promoting courtesy between the foes, and reg- 
ulating the disposal of the sinews of war. 

On the morning of the 22d of January, his last 
Ivii 



POLITICS; EXPEDITION TO GREECE; DEATH, 



birthday, he came from liis room to Stanhope's, and | 
said, smihng, " You were complaining that I never 
write any poetry now," and read tlie famihar stanzas 
(page 455) beginning — 

" 'T is time this heart should be unmoved." 

High thoughts, high resolves; but the brain that was 
overtasked, and the frame that was outworn, would be 
tasked and worn little longer. The lamp of a life that 
had burnt too fiercely was tiickering to its close. "If 
we are not taken off with the sword," he writes on 
February 5, '' we are like to march off with an ague 
in this mud basket; and, to conclude with a very bad 
pun, better martially than marsh-ally. The dykes of 
Holland when broken down are the deserts of Arabia, 
in comparison with Missolonghi." February 25, By- 
ron wrote from Missolonghi his last letter to Mr. 
Murray, a fac-simile of a part of which we give. In 
April, when it was too late, Stanhope wrote from 
Salona, in Phocis, imploring him not to sacrifice health, 
and perhaps life, "in that bog." 

Byron's house stood in the midst of the exhalations 
of a muddy creek, and his natural irritability was in- 
creased by a more than usually long ascetic regimen. 
From the day of his arrival in Greece he discarded 
animal food, and lived mainly on toast, vegetables, and 
cheese, olives and light wine, at the rate of forty paras 
a day. In spite of his strength of purpose, his temper 
was not always proof against the rapacity and turbu- 
lence by which he was surrounded. About the middle 
of February, when the artillery had been got into read- 
iness for the attack on Lepanto — the northern, as Pa- 
tras was the southern, gate of the gulf, still in the 
hands of the Turks — the expedition was thrown back 
by an unexpected rising of the Suliotes. These pecu- 
liarly froward Greeks, chronically seditious by nature, 
were on this occasion, as afterwards appeared, stirred 
up by emissaries of Oolocatroni, who, though assuming 
the position of the rival of Mavrocordatos, was simply 
a brigand on a large scale in the Morea. Exasperation 
at this mutiny, and the vexation of having to abandon 
a cherished scheme, seem to have been the immedi- 
ately provoking causes of a violent convulsive fit which, 
on the evening of the 15th, attacked the poet, and en- 
dangered his life. Next day he was better, but com- 
plained of weiglit in the head ; and the doctors apply- 
ing leeches too close to the temporal artery, he was 
bled till lie fainted. And now occurred the last of 
those striking incidents so frequent in his life, in refer- 
ence to which we may quote the joint testimony of two 
witnesses. Colonel Stanhope writes, "Soon after his 
dreadful paroxysm, when he was lying on his sick-bed, 
with his whole nervous system completely shaken, the 
mutinous Suliotes, covered with dirt and splendid at- 
tires, broke into his apartment, brandishing their costly 
arms and loudly demanding their rights. Lord Byron, 
electrified by this unexpected act, seemed to recover 
from his sickness; and the more the Suliotes raged 
the more his calm courage triumphed. The scene was 
truly sublime." " It is impossible," says Count Gamba, 
" to do justice to the coolness and magnanimity which 
he displayed upon every trying occasion. Upon trifling 
occasions he was certainly irritable; but the aspect of 
danger calmed him in an instant, and restored him the 
free exercise of all the powers of his noble nature. 
A more undaunted man in the hour of peril never 
breathed." A few days later, the riot being renewed, 
the disorderly crew were, on payment of their arrears, 
finally dismissed ; but several of the English artificers 
under Parry left at the same time, in fear of their lives. 
On the 4th, the last of the long list of Byron's letters 
to Moore resents, with some bitterness, the hasty accept- 
ance of a rumor that he had been quietly writing Don 
Iviii 



Juan in some Ionian island. At the same date he writes 
to Kennedy, " I am not unaware of the precarious state 
of my health. I3ut it is proper I should remain in 
Greece, and it were better to die doing something 
than nothing." Visions of enlisting Europe and 
America on behalf of the establisliment of a new 
state, that might in course of time develop itself 
over the realm of Alexander, floated and gleamed in 
his fancy ; but in his practical daily procedure the poet 
took as his text the motto "festina lente," insisted on 
solid ground under his feet, and had no notion of sail- 
ing balloons over the sea. With this view he discour- 
aged Stanhope's philanthropic and propagandist paper, 
the Telegrapho.^ and disparaged Dr. Mayer, its Swiss 
editor, saying, " Of all petty tyrants he is one of the 
pettiest, as are most demagogues." Byron had none 
of Sclavonic leanings, and almost personal hatred of 
Ottoman rule, of some Englishmen; but he saw on 
what side lay the forces and the hopes of the future. 
"I cannot calculate," he said to Gamba, during one of 
their latest rides together, "to what a height Greece 
may rise. Hitherto it has been a subject for the hymns 
and elegies of fanatics and enthusiasts; but now it will 
draw the attention of the politician. . . . At, present 
there is little difference, in many respects, between 
Greeks and Turks, nor could there be ; but the latter 
must, in the common course of events, decline in 
power; and the former must as inevitably become 
better. . . . The English Government deceived itself 
at first in thinking it possible to maintain the Turkish 
Empire in its integrity ; but it cannot be done — that 
unwieldy mass is already putrefied, and must dissolve. 
If anything like an equilibrium is to be upheld, Greece 
must be supported." These words have been well 
characterized as prophetic. During this time Byron 
rallied in health, and displayed much of his old spirit, 
vivacity, and humor, took part in such of his favorite 
amusements as circumstances admitted, fencing, shoot- 
ing, riding, and playing with his pet dog Lion. The last 
of his recorded practical jokes is his rolling about 
cannon-balls, and shaking the rafters, to frighten Parry 
in the room below with the dread of an earthquake. 

Towards the close of the month, after being solicited 
to accompany Mavrocordatos to share the governorship 
of the Morea. he made an appointment to meet Colonel 
Stanhope and Odysseus at Salona, but was prevented 
from keeping it by violent floods which blocked up the 
communication. On the 30th he was presented with 
the freedom of the city of Missolonghi. On the 3d of 
April he intervened to prevent an Italian private, 
guilty of theft, from being flogged by order of some 
German officers. On tlie 9th, exhilarated by a letter 
from Mrs. Leigh with good accounts of her own and 
Ada's health, he took a long ride with Gamba and a 
few of the remaining Suliotes, and after being violently, 
heated, and then drenched in a heavy shower, persisted 
in returning home in a boat, remarking with a laugh, 
in answer to a. remonstrance, "I should make a pretty 
soldier if I were to care for such a trifle." It soon 
became apparent that he had caught his death. Almost 
immediately on his return he was seized with shiver-. 
ings and violent pain. The next day he rose as usual, 
and had his last ride in the olive woods. On the 11th 
a rheumatic fever set in. On the 14tli, Bruno's skill 
being exhausted, it was proposed to call Dr. Thomas 
from Zante, but a hurricane prevented any ship being 
sent. On the 15th, another physician, Mr. Milligen, 
suggested bleeding to allay the fever, but Byron held 
out against it, quoting Di-. Reid to the effect that "less 
slaughter is effected by the lance than the lancet — that 
minute instrument of mighty mischief; " and saying to 
Bruno, "If my hour is come I shall die, whether I 
lose my blood or keep it." Next morning MiUigen in- 



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Fac-simile of Byron's signature. 



NOTES ON BYRON'S CHARACTER, 



diiced him to yield, by a suggestion of the possible loss 
of his reason. Throwing out his arm, he cried, "There! 
you are, I see, a d — d set of butchers. Take away as 
much blood as you like, and have done with it." The 
remedy, repeated on the following day wdth blistering, 
was either too late or ill-advised. On the 18th he saw 
more doctors, but w^as manifestly sinking, amid the 
tears and lamentations of attendants who could not 
understand each other's language. In his last hours 
his dehrium bore him to the field of ai-ms. He fancied 
he was leading the attack on Lepanto, and w^as heard 
exclaiming, ''Forwards! forwards! follow me! " Who 
is not reminded of another death-bed, not remote in 
time from his, and the Tete cVarmee of the great Em- 
peror who with the great Poet divided the wonder of 
Europe ! The stormy vision passed, and his thoughts 
reverted home. "Go to my sister," he faltered out to 
Fletcher; "tell her — go to Lady Byron — you will see 
her, and say" — nothing more could be heard but 
broken ejaculations: "Augusta — Ada — my sister, my 
child. lo lascio qualche cosa di caro nel mondo. For 
the rest, I am content to die." At six on the evening 
of the 18th he uttered his last words, " AeZ //e vvv 
Kadebdetv; " and on the 19th he passed away.* 

Jfever, perhaps, was there such a national lamenta- 
tion. By order of Mavrocordatos, thirty-seven guns — 
one for each year of the poet's life — w^ere fired from 
the battery, and answered by the Turks from Patras 
with an exultant volley. All offices, tribunals, and 
shops were shut, and a general mourning for twenty- 
one days proclaimed. Stanhope wrote, on hearing the 
nev\^s, " England has lost her brightest genius — Greece 
her noblest friend;" and Trelawny, on coming to 
Missolonghi, heard nothing in the streets but " Byron 
is dead!" like a bell tolling through the silence and the 
gloom. Intending contributors to the cause of Greece 
turned back when they heard the tidings, that seemed 
to them to mean she was headless. Her cities con- 
tended for the body, as of ol& for the birth of a poet. 
Athens wished him to rest in the Temple of Theseus 
(page 362). The funeral service was performed at 
Missolonghi. But on the 2d of May the embalmed re- 
mains left Zante, and on the 29th arrived in Dowms. 
His relatives applied for permission to have them in- 
terred in Westminster Abbey, but it was refused ; and 
on the 16tli July they were conveyed to the village 
church of Hucknall, and there buried — his devoted 
sister Augusta, faithful in death as always in life, 
erecting the tomb to his memory, a representation of 
which is shown on the following page. 



CHAPTEE XL 



PARTING NOTES ON BYRON'S CHARACTER— MIS- 
REPRESENTATIONS REGARDING HIM— HYPOC- 
RISY OF ENGLISH SOCIETY OF BYRON'S DAY. 

ALL the ill that can be truly told of Byron has been 
set forth in these pages, together wdth much of the 
good. The grateful worshipper of his genius, who has 
called attention to his fine sensibilities and generous 
impulsiveness, his kindliness and courage, has palliated 
none of the failings, has extenuated none of the errors, 
has exhibited every one of the infirmities of the ex- 
traordinary man, w^ho has stirred England more deeply 
than any other poet since the earlier years of the sev- 
enteenth century, w-ho has influenced human kind out- 
side England more wddely and profoundly than any 
w^riter of our literature, and who, in whatever else of 
his aspirations he failed, will be found in the slowly 

* See Appendix, page 650. 



moving ages to have achieved his ambition to be "re- 
membered in his line with his land's language." His 
passions and pettinesses, his follies and foibles, his sins 
against himself and others, have been recorded. The 
evil of him has been told in every particular, told wdth 
emphasis ; no ugly fact has been glossed ; each dark 
matter has been brought out to the light of heaven. 
And this has been done, so that on closing this volume 
the reader may be confident that he know^s all the 
w^orst, though by no means all the good, of the poet's 
cruelly misrepresented life, and in that confidence may 
dismiss at once and forever, as poisonous falsehood, all 
the odious untrue things that have been uttered to his 
infamy. 

By many readers it will be said that, after being re- 
lieved of all the stains put upon him by slander, the 
real Byron was a man of numerous blemishes and in- 
firmities. Be it so. Where is the man without some 
of the defects of human nature? Why should a higher 
standard of moral excellence be demanded in a poet, 
w^hose genius is in a great degree the result of physical 
endowments and qualities that render him more liable 
than other kinds of men to irregularities of thought 
and action? Instead of fancying that the highest 
poetical faculty exempts its possessor from the tempta- 
tions of desire, and defends him against the forces 
making for certain forms of immorality, people should 
]-ather regard that faculty — not more divine in its fruits. 
than human in its source — as a perilous gift that en- 
titles its holder to the largest measure of charitable 
allowance for his deviations from the sober ways of 
men less sensitive and excitable. It will be no hurtful 
consequence, should this Life of the poet make readers, 
see more clearly than heretofore that poetical genius- 
does not necessarily dispose its possessor to moral or- 
derliness. Good wdll come of it, should this survey 
of a marvellous being's scarcely edifying story teach 
readers that they should enjoy and criticise a great 
poet's w^ritings without feehng it their duty at the 
same time to sit in judgment on his domestic errors. 
People should accept an artist's gifts without being 
over-curious and severely censorious respecting the 
giver's private habits and fireside eccentricities. The 
faultiness of the latter is no reason for declining the 
former. Had all the evil things said of Byron fallen 
short of the truth his writings w^ould be no less de- 
lightful. Had he been as pious as Heber, his poetry 
w^ould be none the better. 

Moreover, in respect to his private morality, Byron 
should be judged (if judged at all), not by the notions 
of propriety and the sentiment of these later times of 
the nineteenth century, but with due reference to the 
views and manners of English society in the century's 
earlier decades. If he was a libertine, it must be re- 
membered that he lived in times w- hen libertinism was 
general. Of all the differences between the England 
of to-day and the England of seventy years since, none 
is more notew^orthy than the present reprobation of 
certain kinds of domestic immorahty that were regarded 
in Byron's day with a leniency wiiich is remembered in 
this year of grace with astonishment. The abolition 
of duelling is largely accountable for this remarkable 
change of social sentiment and manners. So long as 
every father, husband, brother, w^as free to avenge with 
the pistol the wrongs done him by libertinism, society 
troubled itself little about the offences of libertines. 
Instead of going out of their way to punish violators 
of the seventh commandment, English gentlemen left 
such offenders to be dealt with at ten paces by the im- 
mediate sufferers from their offences. In truth, they 
were not without a certain sympathy and admiration 
for the offender, who, following his favorite pleasure 
with the pistol in his hand, in times when physical 
lix 



NOTES ON BYRON'S CHARACTER. 



daring was valued at sonietliing more than its proper 
worth, could at least claim credit for personal courage. 
Under these circumstances the world tolerated and 
even smiled at irregularities, which now, that individ- 
uals may no longer defend themselves against them bv 
process of bloodshed, are checked by the wholesome 
social sentiment that declares them odious offences. ' 
In the England of Byron's childhood, bishops and I 
deans were delighted to dine with Lord Thurlow in i 
Great Ormond Street, at the same table with the [ 
Chancellor's mistress and illegitimate cliildren. The 
England of the poet's boyhood idolized Xelson. al- i 
though he quarrelled with his wife and found a Theresa } 
Guiccioli in Lady Hamilton. The England of Byron's j 
manhood was the England that some seven years after 
the poet's death, looked on with a])proval and sympa- 
thy whilst AVilliam the Fourth made his eldest natural 
son an earl, and in other ways ennobled his other nat- 
ural children, simi)ly because they were his illegitimate 
issue. Is it not a fact that the England of seventy years 
since was an England in which properties were notori- 
ously passing, in every quarter of the country, out of 
the right line of descent, through the confusion of 
progeny consequent on the prevalence of a particular 
kind of domestic immorality ? Whilst libertinism was 
thus prevalent, why should Byron be pilloried and 
stoned for having been something of a rake ? 



And whilst Byron's England was so much more tol- 
erant of libertinism, she was proportionately more in- 
tolerant of free tliought in politics and religion than 
the England of to-day. In this period of virtuous 
homes, and Darwinism in the drawing-room of every 
one of them, it is amusing and instructive to observe 
in Moore's ''Life," how dainty and mealy-mouthed and 
regretful the biographer becomes when he refers to 
Byron's half-hearted skepticism, whilst a few pages 
later he speaks of the puerile dissoluteness of the 
poet's early manhood and the lighter profligacies of 
his continental life, as though they were upon the 
whole very much to his credit. The fact is that, 
whilst making much hypocritical noise about the 
wickedness of their ways with women, society did 
not war against Byron and Shelley on account of 
their libertinism, but on account of their political and 
religious opinions. Had Byron voted with the Tories, 
treated the Prince Regent respectfully, and held his 
pen and tongue about matters touching the Thirty- 
nine Articles, England's higher society would never 
for a single instant have sided with Lady Byron in her 
domestic troubles. These facts must not be overlooked 
or forgotten by readers who would know the Lord 
Byron as he really was. To judge the great poet 
fairly, one must remember the manners of his contem- 
poraries. 



:M1 



'-^'^ 



In The Vault Beneath, 

Where ZSIasy Of His Ancestors And His Mothee j 

Are Buried, 

Lie The Remains Of 

George Gordon Xoel Byron, 

Lord Btron Of Rochdale, 

Tn The County Of Lancaster, 

The Author Of '-Childe Harold's Pilgrimag:^." ] 

He Was Born In London On The I 

22d Of January, 1788. 

He Died At IMissolonghi, In Western Greece, 

On The 19th Of April. 1824. 

Eitgaged In The Glorious Attempt To Restore 

That Country To Her Ancient Freedom 

And Renown. 



His Sister, The Honorable 

Augusta Maria Leigh, 

PiACFD lHi« Tablet To Hi, Mlmoey. 






Lord. Byron's Tomb. 
The scale of the above is one inch to a foot; the ground is dove color, the other parts statuary marble. 



Ix 



^^(^A 


^^^ 




^^^ ^(2\<^|^|» 








^^m 



THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



LORD BYRON 



Ohilde Haeold'S Pilgrimage. 

% llomannt. 



L'univers est une espece de livre, dont on n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu que son pays. J' en ai feuillet6 un assez 
grand nombre, que j'ai trouve 6galement mauvai.ses. Get examen ne m'a point 4te infructueux. Je haissais ma patrie. Toutes ies 
impertinences des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai v^cu, m'ont reconcili6 avee elle. Quand je n'aurais tir6 d'autre b^n^fice de 
mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni Ies frais ni Ies fatigues. Le Cosmopolite.* 



PBEFACE TO THE FIB ST AND SECOND CANTOS. 



THE following poem was written, for the most part, 
amidst the scenes which it attempts to describe. It 
was begun in Albania ; and the parts relative to Spain 
and Portugal were composed from the author's observa- 
tions in those countries. Thus much it may be necessary 
to state for the correctness of the descriptions. The 
scenes attempted to be sketched are in Spain, Portugal, 
Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the present, 
the poem stops : its reception will determine whether the 
author may venture to conduct his readers to the capital 
of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia : these two cantos 
are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of 
giving some connection to the piece ; which, however, 
makes no pretensions to regularity. It has been suggested ! 
to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 
that in this fictitious character, " Childe Harold," I may 
incur the suspicion of having intended some real person- 
age : this I beg leavd^ once for all, to disclaim ; Harold is 
the child of imagination, for the purpose I have stated. 
In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
there might be grounds for such a notion ; but in the 
main points, I should hope, none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation 
" Childe," as " Childe Waters/' " Childe Childers," etc., 
is used as more consonant with the old structure of versi- 



fication which I have adopted. The " Good-Night," in 
the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by " Lord 
Maxwell's Good-Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited 
by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poemiS which have been published 
on Spanish subjects, there may be found some slight coin- 
cidence in the first part, which treats of the Peninsula, 
but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception of a few 
concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in 
the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most 
successful poets, admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie 
makes the following observation : — " Not long ago I began 
a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either 
droll or pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or 
satirical, as the humor strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, 
the measure which I have adopted admits equally of all 
these kinds of composition." Strengthened in my opinion 
by such authority, and by the example of some in the 
highest order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology 
for attempts at similar variations in the following compo- 
sition ; satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their failure 
must be in the execution rather than in the design, sanc- 
tioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
London, February, 1812. 



* Par M. de Montbron, Paris, 1798. 



Lord Byron somewhere calls it " an amusing little volume, full of French flippancy." 

1 



ADDITION TO THE PBEFACE. 



I HAVE now waited till almost all our periodical jour- 
nals have distributed their usual portion of criticism. 
To the justice of the generality of their criticism I have 
nothing to object : it would ill become me to quarrel with 
their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they 
had been less kind they had been more candid. Return- 
ing, therefore, to all and each my best thanks for their 
liberality, on one point alone shall I venture an observa- 
tion. Amongst the many objections justly urged to the 
very indifferent character of the " vagrant Childe" (whom, 
notwithstanding many hints to the contrary, I still main- 
tain to be a fictitious personage), it has been stated that, 
besides the anachronism, he is very unknighily, as the 
times of the Knights were times of Love, Honor, and so 
forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when 
" I'amour du bon vieux tems, 1' amour antique" flourished, 
were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those 
who have any doubts on this subject may consult Sainte- 
Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii., p. 69. The 
vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows 
whatsoever ; and the songs of the Troubadours Avere not 
more decent, and certainly much less refined than those 
of Ovid. The " Cours d' amour, parlemens d'amour, ou de 
courtesie et de gentilesse " had much more of love than of 
courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject 
with Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be 
urged to that most unamiable personage Childe Harold, 
he was so far perfectly knightly in his attributes — " ISTo 
waiter, but a knight templar." By the by, I fear that Sir 
Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should 



be, although very poetical personages and true knights 
" sans peur," though not '' sans reproche." If the story 
of the institution of the " Garter " be not a fable, the 
knights of that order have for several centuries borne the 
badge of a Countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. 
So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted 
that its days are over, though IVIarie- Antoinette was quite 
as chaste as most of those in whose honor lances were 
shivered and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir 
Joseph Banks (the most chaste and celebrated of ancient 
and modern times), few exceptions will be found to this 
statement ; and I fear a little investigation Avill teach us 
not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle 
ages. 

I now leave " Childe Harold " to live his day, such as 
he is. It had been more agreeable, and certainly more 
easy, to have drawn an amiable character ; it had been 
easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more and 
express less ; but he never was intended as an example, 
further than to show that early perversion of mind and 
morals leads to satiety of past pleasures and disappoint- 
ment in new ones, and that even the beauties of nature 
and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most 
poAverful of all excitements) are lost on a soul so consti- 
tuted, or rather misdirected. Had I proceeded with the 
poem, this character would have deepened as he drew to 
the close ; for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern 
Timon,* perhaps a poetical Zeluco. London, 1813. 



TO lANTHE.t 



"VrOT in those climes where T have late been straying, 
li Though Beauty long hath there been matchless 

deem'd ; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language could they 
speak ? 

Ah. ! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring. 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening. 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 

Young Peri J of the West ! — 't is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee. 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 

*In one of his early poems— " Childish Recollections "—Lord 
Byron compares himself to the Athenian misanthrope, of whose 
bitter apophthegms many are upon record, though no authentic 
particulars of his life have come down to us:— 

" Weary of love, of life, devoured with spleen, 
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen," etc. 

tThe Lady Charlotte Harley, second daucrhter of Edward fifth 
Earl of Oxford (afterwards Lady Charlotte Bacon), in the autumn 

2 



Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed. 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours 
decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle' s,§ 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells. 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh. 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend. 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 



Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, lanthe 's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once num.ber'd, should this homage past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the Jyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Such is the most ray memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship 



less 



requi 



of 1812. when these lines were addressed to her, had not com- 
pleted her eleventh year. Mr. Westall's portrait of the .juvenile 
beauty was painted at Lord Byron's request. Ante " Life ofByron." 

t Peri, the Persian term for a beautiful intermediate order of 
beings, is generally supposed to be another form of our own 
word Fairy. 

9" You have the eyes of a gazelle" is considered all over the 
East as the greatest compliment that can be paid to a woman. 



CA^TO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



i.-x. 




(Uhilde iaroW^ lilgnmajge. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's v.ill ! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
Yet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill : 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,^ 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
JSTor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale— this lowly lay of mine. 

IT. 

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth. 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
Ah me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favor in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie. 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 

III. 

Childe Harold was he hight :— but whence his 

name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day : 
Eut one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay 
Nor florid prose, nor honey 'd lies of rliyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

lY. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun. 
Disporting there like any other fly ; 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fullness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's sad 
cell. 

Y. 

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run , 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss. 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 



* The little \'illag'e of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are 
the remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. 
" One," said the g-uide, " of a king who broke his neck hunt- 
ing." His majesty had certainly chosen the fittest spot for 
such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, sup- 
posed the Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it 
is paved, and now a cow-house. On the other side of Castri 
stands a Greek monastery; some way above which is the 



Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste. 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 



YI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee ; 
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie. 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugg'd, lie almost loiig'd for woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades 
below, t 

YII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall : 
It was a vast ?^nd venerable pile ; 
So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
Yet strength was pillar 'd in each massy aisle. 
Monastic dome I condemn 'd to uses vile ! 
AVhere Su];erstition once had made her den 
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 



YIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Ciiilde Harold's 

brow, 
As if the mem.ory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
Bat this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
Por his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not 

control. 

IX. 

And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
He gather 'd revellers from far and near. 
He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros flnds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might 
despair. 



Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot. 
Though parting from that mother he did shun; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel : 
Ye, who have known what 't is to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to 
heal. 



cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, 
and apparently leading to the interior of the mountain— 
probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Pausanias. 
From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews of Cas- 
talie." 

+ In these stanzas, and indeed throughout his works, we 
must not accept too literally Lord Byron's testimony against 
himself. He took a morbid pleasure in darkening every 
shadow of his self-portraiture. 
3 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XI.-XV. 



XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he did delight. 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine. 
And all that mote to luxury invite. 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine. 

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's 
central line.* 

XII. 
The sails were filPd, and fair the light winds blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view. 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept. 

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could string. 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody. 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling. 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing. 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight. 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last '-'Good 
i^ight." 

" Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The JS'ight-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Xightl 

"A few short hours and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

" Come hither, hither, my little page ! f 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. 

Or tremble at the gale? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; 

Our ship is swift and strong: 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. 

" ' Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind : 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend save these alone, 

But thee— and one above. 



* Lord Byron orig-inally intended to visit India. 

+ This "little page" was Robert Rushton, the son of one 
of Lord Byron's tenants. 



% William Fletcher, the faithful valet; who, after a service 
of twenty years ("durinj? which," he says, "his Lord was 
more to him than a father "), received the PUgrini's last Hodgson. 
4 



" ' My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain; 
But sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
Enough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry. 

" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman ! % 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 

Or shiver at the gale?— 
'Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

" ' My spouse and boys dw^ell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake. 
And when they on their father call, 

What answ^er shall she make ? '— 
Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 

" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

JS^o thing that claims a tear. ^ 

" And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea : 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me ? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again 

He 'd tear me where he stands. 

" With thee, my bark, I '11 swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves 

And when you fail my sight. 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves! 

My native Land— Good-Night ! " 

XIY. 

On, on the vessel flies ; the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon. 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way. 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep. 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics 
reap. 

XY. 
Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land : 



words at Missolonghi, and did not quit his remains until he 
had seen them deposited in the family vault at Hucknall. 

§ " I leave Eng-land without reg-ret — I shall return to it 
without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first contact sen- 
tenced to transportation ; but I have no Eve, and have eaten 
no apple but what was sour as a crab."— X/ord B.to Mr, 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



XVI.-XXV. 



What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
What goodl}^ prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high com- 
mand, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 

Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen 
purge. 

XYI. 
What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
Bat now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride. 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing 
lord. 

XYII. 
But whoso entereth within this town. 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee; 
For hut and palace show like filthily : 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt ; 

Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un- 
wash'd, unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves! yet born 'midst noblest 

scenes- 
Why, ]!^ature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen. 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates 

Who to the awe-struck world unlock 'd Elysium's 
gates ? 

. XIX. 
The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown 'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clotlie the shaggy steep, 
The mountain moss byscorching skies imbrown'd. 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep, 
The tender azure of the unrufiled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
Tlie vine on high, the willow branch below, 

Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty glow. 

XX. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
Erom loftier rocks new loveliness survey. 
And rest ye at " Qur Lady's house of woe; "* 
Where frugal monks their little relics show. 



* The convent of "Our Lady of Punishment "—Nossa Senora 
de Pena — on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, 
is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over 
which is his epitaph. From the hills the sea adds to the beauty 
of the view.— iVofe to 1st Edition. Since the publication of 
this poem I have been informed of the misapprehension of 
the term Nossa Senora de Pena. It was owing to the want of 
the tilde or mark over the n, which alters the sig-niflcation of 
the word. With it, Pena signifies a rock ; without it, Pena 
has the sense I adopted. I do not think it necessary to alter 
the passage ; as, though the common acceptation affixed to it 
IS " Oirr Lady of the Rock," I may well assume the other sense 
from the severities practised there. Note to 2d Edition. 

+ It is a well-known fact that in the year 1809 the assassina- 
tions in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not con- 



I And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
I Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo ! 
! Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell. 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a HeU. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering— 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law secures 

not life.f 

XXII. 
On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
Yet ruin'd splendor still is lingering there. 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
There thou too,Yathek! England's wealthiest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
W^hen wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath 

done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure 

plan , 
Beneath yon mountain's ever-beauteous brow: 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide : 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Yain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide ! 

XXIY. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened ! + 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll. 
Where blazon'd glare names known to chivalry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll. 

Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his 
soul. 

XXY. 
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume. 
And Policy regain'd what arms had lost : 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 

Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast ! 



fined by the Portuguese to their countrymen, but that Eng- 
lishmen were daily butchered ; and so far from redress being 
obtained, we Avere requested not to interfere if we perceived 
any compatriot defending himself against his allies. I wiis 
once stopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the 
evening, when the streets were not more empty than they 
generally are at that hour, opposite to an open shop, and in 
a carriage with a friend : had we not fortunately been armed, 
I have not the least doubt that we should have "adorned a 
tale" instead of telling one. The crime of assassination is 
not confined to Portugal ; in Sicily and Malta we are knocked 
on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicil- 
ian or Maltese is ever punished ! 

$ The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the 
Marchese Marialva. 

6 



CANTO I. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S FILGRIMAGE. xxvi.-xxxvi. 



XXYI. 

And ever since that martial SN-nod met, 
Britannia sickens, Ciiitra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, for 

sliame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
By foes in fight overthrown, yet victors here. 
Where Scorn her finger points through many a 

coming year ? 

XXYII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn 'd to moralize, 
For Meditation fix"d at times on liim ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth, misspent in maddest wiiim ; 
But as he gazed on truth his aching eyes grew dim. 

XXYIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits. 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bov\4. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuag-e, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ; ^ 
And church and court did mingle their array. 
And mass and revel were alternate seen ; 
Lordlings and f reres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen. 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 

And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish 
guilt. 

XXX. 
O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freebom race). 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 

place. 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase. 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair. 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace. 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air. 

And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 



* Direct references to the historical notes of the Appendix 
will be made hereafter throughout the volume by smaU, 
bold-faced figures, thus (1). 

+As I found the Portug-uese, so I have characterized them. 
That the}' are since improved, at least in courage, is evident. 
The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies 
of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders: he has, perhaps, 
changed the character of a nation, reconciled rival super- 
stitions, and baffled an enemy who never retreated before 
his predecessors.— 1812. 

* Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain, Pelagius 
preserved his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias, 
and the descendants of his followers, after some centuries, 
completed their struggle by the conquest of Granada. "" Al- 

6 



Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain 's realms appear whereon her shepherds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right weU the trader 

knows— 
oSTow must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes. 

And all must shield their all, or share Subjection's 
woes. 

XXXII. 
Where Lusitania and her Sister meet. 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations oreet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide *? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall ? — 
Ke barrier w^all, ne river deep and wide, 
I\ e horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. 

Else like the rocks that part Hispania's land from 
Gaul : 

XXXIII. 
But these between a silver streamlet glides. 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look. 
That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 

'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.f 

XXXIY. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient rouiidelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor drest : 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the 

strong ; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts op- 
press 'd. 

XXXY. 
Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land 1 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
When Cava's traitor sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic 

gore ? X 
Yv^'here are tliose bloody banners which of yore 
^Yaved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale. 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
lied gleam 'd the cross, and waned the crescent 
pale, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' 
wail. 

XXXYI. 
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
All ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest fate ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 



most all the Spanish historians, as well as the voice of tradi- 
tion, ascribe tiie invasion of the Moors to the forcible viola- 
tion by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the Moors Caba 
or Cava. She was the daughter of Count Julian, one of the 
Gothic monarch's principal lieutenants, who, when the crime 
was perpeti-ated, was engaged in the defence of Ceula against 
the Moors. In his indignation at the ingratitude of his sov- 
ereign and the dishonor ox his daughter. Count Julian forgot 
the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, forming an alli- 
ance with Musa, then the Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he 
countenanced the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens 
and Africans, commanded by the celebrated Tarik; the 
issue of which was the defeat and death of Roderick, and 
the occupation of almost the whole peninsula by the Moors," 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. xxxvii.-xlviii. 



Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
See how the Mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Yolume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great ? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
"When Flattery sleeps with thee, and Plistory does 
thee wrong ? 

XXXYII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
^ox shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies. 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar : 
In every peal she calls— "Awake ! arise ! " 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her v*^ar-song was heard on Andalusia 's shore ? 

XXXYIII. 
Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note ? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heatli ? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote, 
^^Tor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?— the fires of death, 
The bale-fires, flash on high : — from rock to rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ? 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Ked Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the 
shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun. 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands. 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet. 

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most 
sweet. 

XL. 
By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their 

lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey ! 
AH join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
Tlie Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away. 

And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
Tliat fights for all, but ever fights in vain. 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.i 

XLII. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honor'd fools ! 
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
Yain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 



With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone? 

XLIII. 

Oh, Albuera ! glorious field of grief ! 

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'd his steed. 

Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 

A scene where mingling foes should boast and 

bleed ! 
Peace to the perish 'd ! may the warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 

And shine in worthless lays the theme of transient 
song.* 

XLIY. 
Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame: 
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay. 
Though thousands fail to deck some single name. 
In sooth 't were sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's 

good. 
And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud. 

Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path pursued. 

XLY. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish'd-for prey ! 
Soon, soon^hall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish 'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive. 
And Y irtue vanquish aU, and Murder cease to thrive. 

XLYI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom. 
The feast, the song, the revel, here abounds ; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 

wounds ; 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck,t 

sounds ; 
Here Folly still his votaries inthralls. 
And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight 

rounds ; 
Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
Still to the last kind Yice clings to the tott 'ring walls. 

XLYII. 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar. 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate. 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be 
happy yet ! 

XLYIII, 
How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
Of love, romance, devotion, is his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Yiva el Rey ! " J 

This stanza is not in the original MS. It was written at * " Viva el Bey Fernando ! "—-Long- live King Ferdinand !— 
Newstead, in August, 1811, shortly after the battle of Albuera. i is the chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They 
t A kind of fiddle Avith only two strings, played on hy a j are chiefly in dispraise ot the old king Charles, the queea, 
bow, said to have been brought by the Moors into Spain. | and the Prince of Peace, I have heard many of them : some 

7 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xlix.-lviii. 



And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed 

boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate 

joy. 

XLIX. 
On yon long, level plain, at distance crown 'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorisli turrets rest. 
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 

ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd 

vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host. 
Here the bold peasant storm 'd the dragon's nest; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were won and 

lost. 

L. 
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue, 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to 

greet : * 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true ! 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue. 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloak. 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's 

smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain howitzer, the broken road. 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd. 
The station 'd bands, the never-vacant watch. 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd. 
The holster 'd steed beneath the shed of thatch. 
The ball-piled pyramid,! the ever-blazing match, 

LII. 
Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod, 
A little moment deigneth to delay : 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their 

way; 
The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning-day, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings un- 

furl'd. 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades 

hurl'd ! 

LIII. 

And must they fall, the young, the proud, the 

brave, 
To swell one bloated Chief's unwholesome reign ? 
No step between submission and a grave, 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 



of the airs are beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe 
de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born at Bad- 
ajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the 
ranks of the Spanish guards, till his person attracted the 
queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of Alcudia, &c., 1 
&c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute 
the ruin of their country. 

* The red cockade, with " Fernando VII." in the centre. 

+ All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal '■ 

form in which shot and shells are piled. The Sierra Morena , 

was fortified in every defile through which I passed in my 

way to Seville. i 

8 



Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain ? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's 



heart of steel ^ 



LIV. 



Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay 'net J9r, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake 

to tread. 

LV. 
Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd hert)lack eye that mocks her coal-black 

veil. 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower. 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power. 
Her fairy form, with more than female grace. 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face. 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful 

chase. 

LVI. 
Her lover sinks— she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
Her chief is slain— she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee— she checks their base career ; 
The foe retires— she heads the sallying host : 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is 

lost ? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand before a batter 'd wall ? J 

LVII. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love : 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
'T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate : 

Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance as 
great. 

LVIII. 
The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phcebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would seek? 

How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, 
and weak ! 



$ Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by 
her valor elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. 
When the author was at Seville she walked daily on the 
Prado, decorated with medals and orders by command of the 
Junta. The exploits of Augustina, the famous heroine of 
both the sieges of Saragoza, are recorded at length in South- 
ey's History of the Peninsular War. At the time when she 
first attracted notice by mounting a battery where her lover 
had fallen, and working a gun in his room, she was in her 
twenty-second year, exceedingly pretty, and in a soft fem- 
inine style of beauty. 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



LIX.-LXX. 



LIX. 

Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
Match me, ye harems of the land ! where now * 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters— deign to 

know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 

LX. 

Oh, thou Parnassus ! f whom I now survey, 
Xot in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
I^ot in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring sno w-olad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty I 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 

Though from thy heights no more one Muse will 
wave her wing. 

LXI. 
Oft have I dream 'd of Thee ! whose glorious name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 't is alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 

In silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have been. 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow 'd scene, 
AYhich others rave of, though they know it not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot. 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave. 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon mielodious wave. 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter.— Ev'n amidst my strain 

I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear; 

And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant. 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 

LXIY. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece 

was young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her 

glades. 

* This stanza was written in Turkey, 

+ These stanzas were written in Castri (Delphos), at the 
foot of Parnassus, now called Xianvpa (Liakura), Dec. 1809. 

X Seville was the Hispalis of the Romans. 

§ This was written at Thebes, and consequently in the best 
situation for asking- and answering- such a question ; not as 
the birthplace of Pindar, but as the capital of Boeotia, where 
the first riddle was propounded and solved. 

II Lord Byron alludes to a ridiculous custom which for- 



LXV. 

Pair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength , her wealth, her site of ancient days; J 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah. Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous w^ays ! 
W^hile boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 

LXYI. 

When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time ! 
Tlie Queen who conquers all must yield to thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as w^arm a clime ; 
And Yenus, constant to her native sea. 
To nought else constant, hither deign "d to flee. 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of Avliite; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth ske 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, forever blazing bright. 

LXYII. 

Prom morn till night, from night till startled Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revePs laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new. 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 

LXYIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest : 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
Hark ! heard you not the forest-monarch's roar ? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
Of m.an and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to 

mourn. 

LXIX. 
The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
London ! right well thou kno w'st the day of prayer : 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan. 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
Thy coach of hackney, wdiisky, one-horse chair, 
And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl ; 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair; 
Till the tired jade the wdieel forgets to hurl. 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian 

churl. 

LXX. 
Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon 'd fair, 
Others along the safer turnpike fiy ; 
Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? I 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy liand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids are 

sworn. 
And consecrate the oath || with draught, and dance 

till morn. 



raerly prevailed at the public-houses in Highgate, of admin- 
istering a burlesque oath to all travellers of the middling 
rank who stopped there. The party was sworn on a pair of 
horns, fastened, "" never to kiss the maid when he could the 
mistress ; never to eat brown bread when he could get 
white; never to drink small beer when he could get 
strong," with many other injunctions of the like kind.— 
to all which was added the sa^'lng clause, " unless you like 
it best." 



CANTO I. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, lxxl-lxxxiit. 



LXXI. 

All have their fooleries— not alike are tliine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint-adorers count the rosarj- : 
Much is the Yirgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ^veen the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 

Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion 
share. 

LXXII. 
The lists are oped, the spacious area clear 'd, 
Thousands on tliousands piled are seated round; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
Kone through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 

As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad 
archery. 

LXXIII. 
Hush'd is the din of tongues— on gallant steeds, 
AYith milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised 

lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bendmg to the lists advance ; 
Eich are their scarfs, their chargers featly ])rance : 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils 
repay. 

LXXIY. 
In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array 'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb 'd Matadore 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tre?id, is traversed- o'er. 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thw'art liis speed : 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, no more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed— 

Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls. 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, v/ith sounding foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to 

suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 

LXXYI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away. 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the 'spear : 
Kow is thy time to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear ; 
He flies, he w^heels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bello wings 
speak his woes. 

LXXYII. 

Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Xor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Yain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gaUant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
10 



Another, hideous sight ! unseam 'd appears, 
His gory chest miveils life's panting source; 
Though death-struck, stiU his feeble fi*ame he 
rears ; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he 
bears. 

LXXYIII. 
Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last. 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clmging darts, and lances brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray: 
And now^ the Matadores around him play. 
Shake the red cloak and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thundering 

way— 
Yain rage! the mantle qidts the conjmge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye— 'tis past — he sinks upon the 
sand ! 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
Sheathed in his form tlie deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts— disdaining to decline : 
Slowiy he falls, amidst triumpliant cries. 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high 
The corse is piled— sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
Four steeds tliat spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet the 

foe, 
Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow^ 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm 

stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
His wither'd sentinel. Duenna sage ! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts. 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage. 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
Y*^ho late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage). 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green. 

While on the gay dance shone jSTight's lover-loving 
Queen ? 

LXXXII. 
Oh ! many a tim.e and oft had Harold loved. 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
But iiow^ his wayward bosom v/as unmoved. 
For not j^et had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn 'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
± nil from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 

Some bitter o'er the flow^ers its bubbling venom 
flings. 

LXXXIII. 
Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Tliough now it moved him as it moves the wise: 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Yice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 

Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting 
doom. 



CANTO I. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. lxxxiv.-lxxxv. 



Lxxxiy. 

still he beheld, nor mingled witli the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the 

song ; 
But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay. 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier 



day. 



TO INEZ. 
1. 



Kay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas! I cannot smile again: 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouidst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

2. 
And dost thou ask what secret w^oe 

I bear, corroding joy and youth? 
And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 

3. 

It is not love, it is not hate, 
Nor low Ambition's honors lost, 

That bids me loathe my present state. 
And fly from all I prized the most : 

4. 

It is that v/eariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see: 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 
Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



* In place of this song-, which was written at Athens, Jan- 
uary 35, 1810, and which contains, as Moore says, "some 
of the dreariest touches of sadness that ever Byron's pen 
let fall," we find in the first di-aught of the canto the fol- 
lowing- :— 

1. 



Oh, never talk again to me 

Of northern climes and British ladies: 
It has not been your lot to see, 

Like me, the lovely Girl of Cadiz. 
Although her eye be not of blue, 

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses, 
How far its ovt^n expressive hue 

The languid azure eye surpasses ! 



Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole 

Tlie fire that through those silken lashes 
In darkest glances seems to roll, 

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes; 
And as along her bosom steal 

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses, 
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, 

And curl'd to give her neck caresses. 



Our English maids are long to woo, 

And frigid even in possession; 
And if their charms be fair to view, 

Their lips are slow at Love's confession. 
But, born beneath a brighter sun, 

For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is ; 
And who, when fondly, fairly won, 

Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz? 

4. 
The Spanish maid is no coquette, 
Nor joys to see a lover tremble, 



mui 

uica 
mm 
mm 



5. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore ; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 



What Exile from himself can flee? 

To zones though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life— the demon Thought. 

7. 
Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 

And taste of all that I forsake; 
Oh! may they still of transport dream, 

And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 

9. 

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask- 
In pity 'from the search forbear: 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
Man's heart, and view the Hell that 's there.* 

LXXXY. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
When all were changing thou alone wert true, 
First to be free, and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude. 

And if she love, or if she hate, 

Alike she knows not to dissemble. 
Her heart can ne'er be bought or sold — 

Howe'er it beats, it beats sincerely ; 
And though it will not bend to gold, 

'Twill love you long and love you dearly. 



5. 
The Spanish girl that meets your love 

Ne'er taunts you with a mock denial, 
For every thought is bent to prove 

Her passion in the hour of trial. 
When thronging foemen menace Spain, 

She dares the deed and shares the danger; 
And should her lover press the plain, 

She hurls the spear, her love's avenger. 

6. 

And when, beneath the evening star, 

She mingles in the gay Bolero, 
Or sings, to her attuned guitar, 

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero, 
Or counts her beads, with fairy hand, 

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper, 
Or joins devotion's choral band. 

To chant the sweet and haliow'd vesper, — 

- 7. 
In each her charms the heart must move 

Of all who venture to behold her; 
Then let not maids less fair reprove 

Because her bosom is not colder. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam, 

AVhere many a soft and melting maid is, 
But none abroad, and few at home, 

May match the dark-eyed Girl of Cadiz. 
11 



CANTO ri. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye, 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud : * 
Here all were noble, save Nobility! 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chiv- 
aliy ! 

LXXXYI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 

They fight for freedom who were never free, 

A kingless people for a nerveless state ; 

Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee. 

True to the veriest slaves of Treachery : 

Fond of a land which gave them nought but 

life. 
Pride points the path that leads to Liberty ; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, ''War even to the knife I ' • f 

LXXXYII. 

Ye who w^ould more of Spain and Spaniards 

know. 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Yengeance urged on foreign foe 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to' secret knife. 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
So may he guard the sister and the wife. 
So may he make each curst oppressor bleed. 
So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed I 

LXXXYIII. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain ; 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain. 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw ; 
Let their bleach 'd bones, and blood's unbleaching 

stain. 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done : 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees ; 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd : 
Strange retribution ! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd. 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unre- 
strain'd. 

XC. 

Not all the blood at Talavera shed. 

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 

Not Albuera lavish of the dead. 

Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight? 



* Alluding- to the conduct and death of Solano, the gov- 
ernor of Cadiz, in May, 1309. 

+ " War to the knife "—Palafox's answer to the French 
general at the siege of Saragoza. 

* The Honorable John Wingfield, of the Guards, who died 
of a fever at Coimbra (May 14, 1811). I had known him ten 
years, the better half of his life, and the happiest part of 
mine. In the short space of one month I have lost /ier who 
gave me being, and most of those who had made that being 
tolerable. To me the lines of Young- are no fiction :— 

"Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? 

Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain. 

And thrice ere thrice yon moon had fili'd her horn." 

I should have ventured a verse to the memory of the late 

Charles Skinner Matthews, Fellow of Downing College, Cam- 

12 



When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ? 
How many a doubtful day shall sink in nigiit 
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the 
soil! 

XCI. 
And thou, my friend I J— since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : 
But thus unlaurell'd to descend in vain. 
By all forgotten save the lonely breast. 
And mix un bleeding with the boasted slain, 
While Glory crov.ns^ so many a meaner crest ! 

What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? 

XCIT. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem 'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nouglit was left so dear ! 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost. 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier. 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose. 
And mourn 'd and mourner lie united in repose. 

XCIII. 
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
Ye who of him may further seek to know 
Shall find some tidings in a future page. 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much ? stern Critic ! say not so : 
Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, wliere he was doom'd to go : 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands 
were quell'd. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

I. 

Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom ! here thy temple was. 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,^ 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That tlioughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts 
bestow. 



bridge, were he not too much above all praise of mine. His 
powers of mind shown in the attainment of greater honors, 
against the ablest candidates, than those of any gTaduate on 
record at Cambridge, have suflBciently established his fame 
on the spot where it was acquired; while his softer qualities 
live in tlie recollection of friends who loved him too well to 
envy his superiority. Matthews, the idol of Lord Byron at 
college, was drowned, while bathing in the Cam, on the 2d 
of August. 

§ Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a 
magazine during the Venetian siege.— On the highest part 
of Lj'cabettiis, as Chandler was infoi'med by an'eye-witness, 
the Venetians, in 1687. placed four mortars and six pieces of 
cannon, when they battered the Acropolis. One of the 
bombs was fatal to some of the sculpture on the west front 
of the Parthenon. 



CANTO II. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



II.-X. 



II. 

Ancient of days ! august Athena ! * where, 
Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
Gone — glimmering through the dream of things 

that were : 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
They won, and pass'd away : is this the whole ? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering 
tower, 

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of 
power. 

III. 
Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here I 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
Look on this spot— a nation's sepulchre ! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield— religions take their turn : 
'T was Jove's — 't is Mahomet's— and other creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
Yainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 

Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built 
on reeds. 

lY. 
Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- 
Is 't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go. 
Thou know'st not, reck'st not, to what region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
Kegard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 

That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 

V. 

Or burst the vanish'd Hero's lofty mound ; 
Par on the solitary shore he sleeps : f 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
ISTor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-gods appear 'd, as records tell. 
Kemove yon skull from out the scatter'd heaps : 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell ? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter 'd 
cell! 

VI. 
Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 



* We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the 
ruins of cities, once the capitals of empires, arc beheld : the 
reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to require 
recapitulation. But never did the littleness of man, and the 
vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt, and of 
valor to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than 
in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what 
she now is. This theatre of contention between mighty fac- 
tions, of the struggles of orators, the exaltation and deposition 
of tyrants, the triumphs and punishments of generals, is now 
become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, 
between the bickering agents of certain British nobility and 
gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the ruins 
of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such inhabit- 
ants. The Turks have the plea of conquest for their tj^ranny, 
and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of war, inci- 
dental to the bravest; but how are the mighty fallen, when 
two painters contest the privilege of plundering the Parthe- 
non, and triumph in turn, according to the tenor of each 
succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, 
and Xerxes burn Athens; but it remained for the palti-y 
antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render her con- 
temptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before 
its destruction in part, by fire during the Venetian siege, had 
been a temple, a church, and a mosque. In each point of 
view it is an object of regard : it changed its worshippers ; 
but still it was a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion ; 
its violation is a triple sacrifice. But— 



Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole. 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd control : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ. 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 

YII. 

Well didst thou speak, Atliena's wisest son!— 
'-'• All that we know is, notliing can be known.',' 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot 

shun ? 
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Pate proclaimeth best ; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest. 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome rest. 

YIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable sliore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors light ! 
To hear each voice we f ear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 

The Bactriaii, Samian sage, and all who taught the 
right ! X 

IX. 
There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead 
When busy Memory flashes on my brain ? 
AVell— I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
If aught of young Remembrance then remain. 
Be as it may Futurity's behest. 

For me 't were bliss enough to know thy spirit blest ! 

X. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne— \ 
Mightiest of many such ! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labor'd to deface. 



" Man, proud man, 
Brest in a little brief authority. 
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
As make the angels weep." 

+ It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their 
dead ; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. 
Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease ; and 
he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games near his 
tomb, or festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, 
as Achilles, Brasidas, &c., and at last even Antinous, whose 
death was as heroic as his life was infamous. 

% In the original MS., for this magnificent stanza we find 
what follows :— 

"Frown not upon me, churlish Priest! that I 
Look not for life, where life may never be ; 
X am no sneerer at thy phantasj^ ; 
Thovi pitiest me,— alas ! I envy thee. 
Thou bold discoverer in an unknown sea, 
Of happy isles and happier tenants there ; 
I ask thee not to prove a Sadducee; 
Still dream of Paradise, thou know'st not where, 
But lov'st too well to bid thine erring brother share." 

§ The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen col- 
umns, entirelj^ of marble, yet survive; originally there were 
one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are by 
many supposed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 
13 



CANTO II. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XI.-XXI. 



Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 

On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee 

Tlie latest relic of her ancient reign ; 

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, wlio was he? 

Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 

England ! I joy no cliild he was of thine : 

Thy freeborn men should spare what once was 

free; 
Yet they could violate each saddening shrine. 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 

To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 

spared : ^ 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard. 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
Her sons, too v.^eak the sacred shiine to guard. 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains,* 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Despot's 

chains. 

XIII. 
What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears. 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to 

stand. 

xiy. 

Where was thine ^gis, Pallas ! that appall 'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way r f 
Where Peleus' son ? v^^hom Hell in vain inthrall'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
Idly he wander 'd on the Stygian shore, 

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to sliield be- 
fore. 

XY. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
iN'or feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re- 
moved 
By British hands, which it had best behoved 
To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 

And snatch 'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
abhorr'd ! 

XYI. 

But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 



* I cannot resist availing- myself of the permission of my 
friend Dr. Clarke, whose name requires no comment with 
the public, but whose sanction will add tenfold weight to my 
testimony, to insert the following extract from a very obliging 
letter of his to me, as a note to the above lines :— " When the 
last of the metopes was taken from the Parthenon, and in 
moving of it a great part of the superstructure, with one of 
the triglyphs, was thrown down by the workmen whom Lord 
Elgin employed, the Disdar, who beheld the mischief done 
to the building, took his pipe from his mouth, dropped a 
14 



Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
No loved one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave. 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 

XYII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight ; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right. 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight. 
The dullest sailer wearing bravely now. 
So gayly curl the waves before each dashing prow. 

XYIII. 

And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy, J 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din. 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle 

glides ; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by. 
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
I And well the docile crew that skillful urchin guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain. 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all— not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their strength 
• to nerve. 

XX. 

Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas. 

The flapping sail haul'd dowm to halt for logs like 
these ! 

XXI. 
The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe: 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
A circle there of merry listeners stand. 
Or to some well-known measure featly move. 

Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to 
rove. 



tear, and in a supplicating tone of voice said to Lusieri, 
TeAos ! I was present." The Disdar alluded to was the father 
of the present Disdar. 

+ According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened 
Alaric from the Acropolis ; but others relate that the Gothic 
king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer. See 
Chandler. 

% To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck dar- 
ing action. 



CANTO II. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. xxn.-xxxiv. 



XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore; 
Europe and Afric on eacli other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : ■ 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning 

phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant shadows frown, 

From mountain cliff to coast descending sombre 
down. 

XXIII. 
'T is night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, thougli love is at an end: 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal. 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and Joy? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 

Ah, happy years ! once more who would not be a boy? 

xxiy. 

Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side. 
To gaze on I)ian's wave-reflected sphere. 
The soul forgets her schemes of hope and pride. 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the iioinage of a tear; 
A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 

XXY. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slov/ly trace the forest's shady scene. 
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell. 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen. 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 
This is not solitude ; 't is but to hold 

Converse with i^Tature's charms, and view her stores 
unroll'd. 

XXYI. 
But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men. 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen. 
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! 
JsTone that, with kindred consciousness endued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less. 
Of all that flatter'd, foUow'd, sought, and sued; 

This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude ! 

^ XXYII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite. 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen,* 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er weaves so blue, skies so serene. 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 



* One of Lord Byron's chief delights was, as he himself 
states in one of bis journals, after bathing in some retired 
spot, to seat himself on a high rock above the sea, and there 
remain for hours, gazing upon the sky and the waters. 



Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack, 
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn— lo, land ! and all is well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, f 
The sister tenants of the middle deep; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles. 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
Por him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
Here, too, his boy essay 'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 

While tlius of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly 
sigh'd. 

XXX. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
But trust not this : too easy youth, beware ! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou mayst find a nev/ Calj^pso there. 
Sweet Plorence ! could another ever share 
This wayv^^ard, loveless heart, it would be thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 

ISTor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a thought 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 

Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was 
o'er. 

XXXII. 
Fair Florence % found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe. 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their 

law; 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsm.en claims : 
And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames. 

Which, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely 
anger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
NoAV mask'd in silence or withheld by pride. 
Was not unskillful in the spoiler's art. 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide; 
Xor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside. 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 

XXXIY. 

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 

+ Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 

% For an account of this accomplished but eccentric lady, 
whose acquaintance the poet foi-med at Malta, see Miscella- 
neous Poems, September, 1809, "■ To Florence," page 428. 
15 



CANTO II. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xxxv.-xlvi. 



Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes : 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes : 

Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns 
thy hopes. 

XXXY. 
'T is an old lesson ; Time approves it true. 
And tliose who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion I these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease. 

Not to be cured when love itself forgets to please. 

XXXYI. 

Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair witlial as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 

XXXYII. 

Dear Nature is tlie kindest mother still. 
Though always changing in her aspect mild ; 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Hernever-wean'cl, tliough not her favor 'd child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish 'd dares pollute her path : 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though i have mark'd her when none other hath. 
And sought her more and more, and loved her best 

in wrath. 

XXXYIII. 
Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose. 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baflfled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise : 
Land of Albania ! 3 let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
Tlie cross descends, thy minarets arise. 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen. 
Through many a cypress grove within each city's 

ken. 

XXXIX. 
Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ; * 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre. 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children may 

aspire. 

XL. 
'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar; f 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar;! 

* Ithaca. 

•f- Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the 
Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. 

X Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The 
battle of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable, but less 
known, was foug-ht in the Gulf of Patras. Here the author 
of Don Quixote lost his left hand. 

§ It is said, that, on the day previous to the battle of 
Actium, Antony had thirteen kings at his levee.—" To-day" 
16 



Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight. 

But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at mar- 
tial wight. 

XLI. 
But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch 'd the billows' melancholy flow. 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 

More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid 
front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns: and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak. 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along themx break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer ; 
Here roams tlie wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the closing 
year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone. 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown. 
Which all admire, but many dread to view: 
Plis breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were 

few; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was ncAv; 
_ This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 

back keen w 

mer's heat. 

XLIY. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is here. 
Though sadly scoff 'd at by the circumcised. 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition ! ho wsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized. 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate thy 
dross ? 

XLY. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, Avhere once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing ! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king ^ 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring.: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! H 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering; 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human Avoes! 
God ! was thy globe ordain 'd for such to win and 
lose ? 

XLYL 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's A^ales, 



(Nov. 13), "I saw the remains of the town of Actium, near 
which Antony lost the world, in a small bay, where two 
frigates could hardly manG?u\a-e : a broken wall is the sole 
remnant."— Biy7'0?i to his Mother. 

II Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some 
distance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome 
sur^■ives in a few fragments. These ruins are large masses 
of brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by interstices of 
mortar as large as the bricks themselves, and equally durable. 



CANTO II. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xlvii.-lv. 



Cliilde Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
Though classic ground and consecrated most, 

To match some spots that lurk within this lowering 
coast. 

XLYII. 
He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,* 
And left the primal city of the land. 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief ,t whose dread command 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold ; 
Yet here and there some daring mountain band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 

Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to gold.J 

XLYIII. 

Monastic Zitza ! I from thy shady brow, 
Thou small but favor'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er v/e gaze, around, above, below. 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please 

the soul. 

XLIX. 
Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill. 
Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity. 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer,|| nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he fiee 
Trom hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to 

see. 

L. 
Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Presh is tlie green beneath those aged trees ; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast. 
Prom heaven itself he may inhale the breeze ; 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay. 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the eve 

away. 

LI. 
Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre ,T| 



* According- to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina : but Pou- 
queville is always out. 

+ The celebrated All Pacha. " The name of the Pacha is Ali, 
and he is considered a man of the finest abilities : he governs 
the whole of Albania (the ancient Illyricum), Epirus, and 
part of Macedonia."— Byro?i to his Mother. 

i Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle 
of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for eighteen 
years ; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this con- 
test there were several acts performed not unworthy of the 
better days of Greece. 

§ The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey 
from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the Pachalick. In 
the valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and, 
not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The situation is 
perhaps the finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvin- 
achi and parts of Acarnania and ^tolia may contest the 
palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna 
and Port Raphti, are very inferior ; as also every scene in 
2 



Chimsera's alps extend from left to right : 

Beneath a living valley seems to stir ; 

Plocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the moun- 
tain fir 

Nodding above ; behold black Acheron I ** 

Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 

Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek 
for none. 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot : 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock. 
The little sheplierd in his white capote ft 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock. 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived 
shock. 

LIII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount and oracle divine V 
What valley echo'd the response of Jove ? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's sh.rine ? 
All, all forgotten— and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink be-/ 
neath the stroke ! 

LIY. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on'as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yclad in grassy dye: 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie. 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
And woods along tlie banks are waving high. 
Whose shadows in tlie glassy waters dance. 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn 
trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,tt 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; |^ 
The shades of wonted night were gathering yet. 
When, down tlie steep banks winding warily, 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing 

nigh. 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthen- 
ing glen. II II 

Ionia, or the Troad : I am almost inclined to add the approach 
to Constantinople : but, fi'om the different features of the 
last, a comparison can hardly be made. 

II The Greek monks are so called. 

1 The Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic*. 

** Now called Kalamas. 

•H- Albanese cloak. 

it Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

§§ The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it ; 
and, immediately above Tepaleen, was to the eye as wide as- 
the Thames at Westminster ; at least in the opinion of the 
author and his fellow-traveller. In the summer it must be- 
much narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the- 
Levant; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamandern 
nor Cayster, approached it in breadth or beauty. 

nil "Ali Pacha, hearing that an Englishman of rank was in 
his dominions, left orders in Yanina, with the commandant, 
to provide a house, and supply me with every kind of neces- 
sary gratis. I rode out on the \izier's horses, and saw the 
palaces of himself and grandsons." —Byron's Letters^ 
17 



CANTO II. 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, lvi.-lxviii. 



LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide overarching gate 
Siirvey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaimil liis high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court. 
Slaves, eunuclis, soldiers, guests, and sautons wait; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort : 
Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 

LYII. 

Richly caparison 'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn 'd the corridor; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing door, 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array. 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced the 
close of day. 

LYIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-eml3roider'd garments, fair to see; 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on. 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
And swarthy Xubia's mutilated son ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak. 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops. 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found' 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
Half -whispering there the Greek is heard to prate ; 
Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound. 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 

■" There is no god but God !— to prayer— lo ! God is 
great ! " 

LX. 
Just at this season Kamazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did maintain ; 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
^ow all was bustle, and the menial train 
ipj^epared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made iii vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling din. 

As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard : apart. 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart. 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
For, not «wnhappy in her master's love, 
And joyfulin a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest car^s;! alll other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears. 
Who never ^uiits the breast, no meaner passion 
sluires. 

T^II. 

In i-ftai^ble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living Avater ik'om the centre rose. 



* The fate of Ali was pFecisely such as the poet antici- 
pated- For a circumstantial account of his assassination, 
in February, 1822, see W.alsh's Journey. Kis head was sent 



Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling. 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face. 
The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with 

disgrace. 

LXIII. 
It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth ; 
Love conquers age — so Haflz hath ave'rr'd. 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth— 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth. 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth ; 
Blood follov/s blood, and, through their mortal 

span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood 

began. ^ 

T.XIY. 
'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The Pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet ; 
But Peace abhorreth artilicial joys. 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both 

destroys. 

LXY. 
Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back ? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
Tlieir native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
Their wrath how deadly 1 but their friendship 

sure. 
When Gratitude or Yalor bids them bleed. 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 

LXYI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower 
Thronging to war in splendor and success; 
And after vie w\l them, when, within their power, 
Himself awhile the victim of disti-ess ; 
That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
But these did shelter him beneatli their roof. 
When less barbarians w^ould have cheer'd liim 

less. 
And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof — f 
In aught that tries the heart how few withstand 

the proof ! 

LXYII. 
It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore. 
When all around was desolate and dark ; 
To land was perilous, to sojourn more; 
Yet for awhile the mariners forbore. 
Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
At length they ventured forth, though doubting 

sore 
That those who loathe alike the Frank and Tuik 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 

LXYIII. 

Yain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome 

hand. 
Led them o'er rocks and past th.e dangerous 

swamp, 

to Constantinople, and exhibited at the gates of the se- 
raglio. 
+ Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 



CANTO II. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. lxix.-lxxiii. 



Kinder than polish 'd slaves, though not so bland, 
And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments 

damp, 
And fiird the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful 

lamp, 
And spread their fare ; though homely, all they 

had : 
Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp : 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the 

bad. 

LXIX. 
It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain land. 
Combined marauders half-way barr Vl egress. 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
And from his further bank ^tolia's wolds espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How bro^m the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Xodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come whispering lightly from the west. 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence 
glean. 

LXXI. 



shore the night-fires brightly 
fast,* 



On the smooth 

blazed. 
The feast w^as done, the red wine circling 
And he that unawares had* there j^gazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past. 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikart his sabre from him cast. 
And bounding hand in liand, man link'd to man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the kirtled 

clan. 

LXXTI. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood. 
And view'd, but not displeased, tlie revelry, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, liowever rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee; 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam 'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flasliing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream 'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half 
scream 'd: — 4 

1. 
Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! X thy 'larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, lUyrian, and dark Suiiote! § 



Oh I who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 

* The Albanian Musselmans do not abstain from wine, and, 
indeed, very few of the others. 

+ Pahkar, shortened when addressed to a single person, 
from HaAtKapi, a general name for a soldier amongst the 
Greeks and Albanese who speak Romaic ; it means, properly, 
"a lad." 

* Drummer. 

§ These stanzas are partly taken from different Albanese 



To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream from the 
rock. 

3. 
Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ^ 
Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the chase ; 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

5. 

Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves. 
And teacli tlie pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 



I ask not the pleasures that riches supply. 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy ; 
Shall win the j^oung bride -with lier long flowing 

hair. 
And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 

7. 
I love the fair face of the maid in her youth. 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe ; 
Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned 

lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 



Remember the moment wiien Previsa fell,!| 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' yell ; 
The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we spared. 

9. 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pasliaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 

Let the yellow-hair 'd^ Giaours** view his horse- 
tail ft with dread; 

When his Delhis %% come dashing in blood o'er tljc 
banks. 

How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 

11. 

Selictar! l\ unsheathe then our chief's scimitar: 
Tambourgi ! thy 'larum. gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 5, 6 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
And long-accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilbme did await. 



song-s, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposi- 
tion of the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 

II It was taken by storm from the French. 

H Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. 

** Infidel. 

+t The insignia of a Pacha. ^ 

$* Horsemen, answering to bur forlorn hope. 

§g Sword-bearer. 

19 



CANTO n. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, lxxiv.-lxxxv. 



The liopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
111 bleak Tliermopylse's se])ulchral strait— 
Oh! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 

Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the 
tomb ? 

LXXIY. 
Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow * 
Thou safst with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
But every carle can lord it o'er thy land; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain. 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand ; 

From birth till death enslaved; in word, in deed, 
unmann'd. 

LXXY. 
In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye. 
Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 

Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's mournful 
page. 

LXXYI. 
Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
Who w'ouid be free themselves must strike the 

blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be wrought? 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low. 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same; 

Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Keceive the fiery Frank, her former guest; f 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's t tomb of all its pious spoil. 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil. 

But slave succeed to slave through years of endless 
toil. 

LXXVIII. 
Yet mark their mirth— ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer : 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share. 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 

And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than thine. 
Oh, Stamboul ! I once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas I her woes will still pervade niy strain !) 



* Phyle, wMeh commands a beautiful view of Athens, has 
still considerable remains. It was seized by Thrasybulus, 
previous to the expulsion of the Thirty. 

+ When taken, by the Latins, and retained for several years. 

% Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the 
"Wahabees, a sect j-early increasing-. 

§ Of Constantinople, Lord Bj'ron says;— "I have seen the 
ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi; I have traversed 
20 



Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
]S5"or oft I 've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
As wooYl the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased lier tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a plccisant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
'T Avas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 

Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they 
lave. 

LXXXI. 
Glanced many a light caique along the foam. 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or, gently prest, return 'd the pressure still: 
Oh, Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 

, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 

These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years 
of ill ! 

LXXXII. 
But, midst the throng in merry masquerade. 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half betray 'd ? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud. 

And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
Not such as ])rate of war, but skulk in peace. 
The bondsman's peace, w^ho sighs for all he lost, 
Yet witii smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle*, not the sword : 
Ah, Greece! they love thee least wdio owe thee 

most — 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 

LXXXIY. 

When riseth Lacedemon's hardihood, 
Wlien Thebes Epaminoudas rears again. 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men. 
Then mayst thou be restored ; but not till tlien. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An liour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendor renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and 
Fate ? 

LXXXY. 
And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, || 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now: 
Tliy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow. 



great part of Turkey, and many other parts of Europe, and 
some of Asia; but I never beheld a work of nature or art 
which jaelded an impression like the prospect on each side 
from the Seven Towers to the end of the Golden Horn." 

I! On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the 
snow never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the intense 
heat of the summer; but I never saw it lie on the plains, 
even iu winter. 



CANTO II. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. lxxxvi.-xciv. 



Comminglmo;' slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; * 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff ,t and gleams along the wave ; 
Save o'er some warrior's half -forgotten grave, 
Wliere the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
\Vlule strangers only not regardless pass, 

Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh 
"Alas!" 

LXXXVIT. 
Yet are thy skies as blue, tliy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields. 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled. 
And still his honey'd wealth Hymettus yields ; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air ; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds. 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare; 

Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 

LXXXYIII. 

Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground : 
No eartli of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around. 
And all the 'Muse's tales seem truly told. 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
Tlie scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and w^old 
Defies the power which crush'd tliy temples gone : 

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Mara- 
thon. 

LXXXIX. 
The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord ; 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's victim liorde 
Pirst bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word ; % 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 

The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career. 

XC. 

Tlie flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 



* Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug 
that constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern 
name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the 
quarries, still remains, and will till the end of time. 

t In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, 
there is no scene more interesting- than Cape Colonna. To 
the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaust- 
ible source of observation and design ; to the philosopher, 
the supposed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not 
be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck with the 
beauty of the prospect over "Isles that crown the ^gean 
deep ; " but for an Englishman Colonna has yet an additional 
interest as the actual spot of Falconer's Shipwreck. Pallas 
and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and 
Campbell :— 

" Here in the dead of night, by Lonna's steep. 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great dis- 
tance. In two journeys which I made, and one voyage, to 
Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was less 
striking than the approach from the isles. In our second 
land excursion we had a narrow escape from a party of 
Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told 
afterwards by one of their prisoners, subsequently ransomed. 



Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 

Death in the front. Destruction in the rear ! 

Such was the scene— what now remaineth here ? 

What Sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 

Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 

Tlie rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns 
around. 

XCI. 

Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 

Sliall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 

Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast. 

Hail the bright clime of battle and of song; 

Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 

Pill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 

Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 

Which sages venerate and bards adore. 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 

XCII. 

The parted bosom clings to w^onted home, 
If aught that 's kindred cheer the welcome hearth; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam. 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth : 
But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide. 
And scarce regret the region of his birth. 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains wliere Greek and Persian 
died. 

xciri. 

Let such approach this consecrated land. 
And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics— let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
Not for such purpose were these altars placed: 
Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd ! 

XCIY. 

For thee^who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, 
Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
And none are left to please when none are left to 
love. 



that they were deterred from attacking us by the appear- 
ance of my two Albanians; conjecturing very sagaciously, 
but falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts 
at hand, they remained stationary, and thus saved our party, 
which was too small to have opposed any effectual resistance. 
Colonna is no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there 
" The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." 

(See Hodgson's Lady Jane Grey, &c.) 
But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for her- 
self. I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior Ger- 
man artist ; and hope to renew my acquaintance with this 
and many other Levantine scenes by the arrival of his per- 
formances. 

% " Siste Viator— heroa calcas ! " was the epitaph on the 
famous Count Merci ; — what then must be our feelings when 
standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who 
fell on Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been 
opened by Fauvel : few or no relics, as vases, &c., were found 
bj'^ the excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me 
for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine 
hundred pounds ! Alas !— " Expende — quot Ubrcbs in duce 
summo— invenies ! "— was the dust of Miltiades worth no 
more ? It could scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 
21 



CANTO III. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. 



T.-VIII. 



XCV. 

Thou too art gone, tliou loved and lovely one I 
"Whom youth and j^outh's affections bound to me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Noi- shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
AVliat is my being y thou hast ceased to be I 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home 
AVho mourns o'er hours which we no more shall 

see— 
Would they had never been, or were to come ! 

AVould he had ne'er retm'u'd to find fresh cause to 
roam I 

XCVI. 
Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved I 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thougiits now better far removed ! 
J>ut Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death I thou 

hast ; 
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
Xe'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast. 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 

Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 

XCVII. 

Then must I plunge again into the crowd. 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laugliter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the liollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak : 
Still o'er tlie features, wliich perforce they cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique ? 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the WTithing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 

XCYIII. 

What is the worst of Avoes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow% 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy 'd: 
Roll on, vain days I full reckless may ye flow. 
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy 'd. 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy 'd. 



f^;|^ 



CANTO THE THIRD, 

" Afin que cette application vous format de penser a autre chose : 
il n"y a en verite de reniede que celui-la et le temps." — Leitre du 
Roi de Prusse a D'Alemhert, Sept. 7, 1776. 



I. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 
Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
And then we parted,— not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
Tiie winds lift up tlieir voices : I depart. 
Whither I know not : * but the hour's gone bv, 
"When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or slad 



mnie eve. 



II. 



Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a vSteed 



That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
Though thestrain'd mast should quiver as a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
Still must I on; for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath 
prevail. 

III. 
In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun. 
And bear it with me. as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
Tl'.e furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears. 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 

Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower ap- 
pears. 

lY. 
Since my young days of passion— joy, or pain, 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a struig, 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling; 
So that it wTan me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness— so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me— it shall seem 

To me, though to none else, a not uugratef ul theme. 

Y. 

He who, groA^m aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not 3'ears, piercing the depths of life. 
So that no wonder waits him : nor below 
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Out to his heart again with the keen i^nife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : lie can tell 
AVhy thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
With airy images, and shapes wiiich dwell 

Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted 
cell. 

YI. 
'T is to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that vre endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I ? Xothing- : but not so art thou, 
Soul of my thought I with whom I traverse earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 

And feeling still Avith thee in my crush'd feelings' 
dearth. 

YII. 
Yet must I think less wildly:— I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrouglit, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life Avere poison *d. 'T is too late ! 
Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
In strength to bear AAdiat time can not abate, 

And feed on bitter fruits \A'ithout accusing Fate. 

YIII. 

Something too much of this : — but now 't is past, 
And the spell closes Avith its silent seal. 
Long-absent Harold reappears at last ; 
He of the breast Avhich fain no more wonld feel, 
AVrung with the Avounds AA'hich kill not, but ne'er 

heal; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as^ in age : years steal 



* Lord Byron quitted England, for the second and last i and Robert Rush ton. the "yeoman " and ''pajre " of canto i.; 
time, on the 25th of April, 1816, attended by AViiliam Fletcher • his physician, Dr. Poiidori ; and a Swiss valet. 
22 



CANTO III. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



IX.-XXI. 



Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
Tiie dregs were wormwood; but he filFd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
AVhich gaird for ever, fettering though unseen. 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with 

pain, 
Which pined altliough it spoke not, and grew 

keen. 
Entering with every step he took through many a 

scene. 

X. 
Secure in guarded coldness, lie had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind. 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly llx'd 
And sheathed with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Kature's 

hand. 

XI. 
But who caTi view the ripen 'd rose, nor seek 
To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old '? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds un- 
fold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 

prime. 

XII. 
But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 

queird 
In youth by his own thoughts; still uncompell'd. 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
Proud though in desolation ; Avhich could find 



XIII. 
Where rose the mountains, there to him were 

friends ; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home; 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
For Nature's pages glass 'd by sunbeams on the 

lake. 

XIY. 
Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars. 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born 

jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, 
He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light. 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to 

its brink. 



XV. 

But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Kestless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till tlie blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 

XYI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With naught of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
Ttiat all was over on this side the tomb. 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume. 
Which, though 't were wild,— as on tlie plunder'd 

wreck 
Wlien mariners would madly meet their doom 
AVith draughts intemperate on tlie sinking deck, — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check. 

xyii. 

stop !— for thy tread is on an Empire's dnst ! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As tlie ground was before, thus let it be;— 
How- that red rain hath made the harvest grow! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory? 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls. 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power'which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In '' pride of place " here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations tiirough ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain; 

He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken 
chain. 

XIX. 
Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the. bit 
And foam in fetters ;— but is Earth more free ? 
Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
Tlie patcli'd-up idol of enlighten 'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 

And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye 
praise ! 

XX. 
If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow 'd with hot tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears. 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions ; all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 

Such as Harmodius* drew on Athens' tyrant lord. 

XXI. 

There w^as a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 



* See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogitan. 
The best English translation is in Bland's Antholog-y, by Mr.^ 
(afterwards Lord Chief Justice) Denman,— 

" With myrtle my sword will I wreathe," &c. 
23 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. xxir.-xxx. 



Her Beaiity and her Chivalry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 

A thousand hearts beat liappily ; and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage-bell ; * 

But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising 
knell ! 

XXII. 
Did ye not hear it ?— ^o ; 't w^as but the "wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure 

meet 
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet— 
But hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 

Arm ! arm ! it is— it is— the cannon's opening roar ! 

XXIII. 

"Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
That sound the first amidst the festival. 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too w^ell 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,t 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 

XXIY. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess 
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could 
rise ! 

XXY. 
And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
Tlie mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star : 
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, 

Or wiiispering, with white lips—" The foe ! they 
come ! they come ! " 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering " 

rose ! 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 

* On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball 
was given at Brussels. 

+ The father of the Duke of Brunswick, who fell at Quatre 
Bras, received his death- wound at Jena. 

$ Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the " gentle 
Lochiel" of the '* forty-five." 

§ The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the 
forest of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and im- 
mortal in Shakespeare's "As You Like It." It is also cele- 
brated in Tacitus, as being the spot of successful defence 
by the Germans against the Roman encroachments. I have 
ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler associa- 
tions than those of mere slaughter. 

B My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed Intel- 
ligent and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was 
not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third, 
cut down, or shivered in the battle), which stand a few yards 
from each other at a pathway's side. Beneath these he died 
and was buried. The body has since been removed to Eng- 
24 



Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 

foes :— 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills. 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instills 
The stirring memory of a thousand years. 
And Evan's, Donald's % fame rings in each clans- 
man's ears ! 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes^ waves above them her green 

leaves, 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe 
And burning with high hope, shaU moulder cold 

and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, wjiich when rent 
The earth is cover 'd thick w'ith other clay. 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
Kider and horse,— friend, foe,— in one red burial 
blent! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine : 
Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some WTong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower 'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest lov.er'd, 
They reach 'd no nobler breast than thine, young 
gallant Howard ! 

XXX. 

There have been tears and breaking hearts for 

thee. 
And mine were nothing had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree. 
Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Came forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not 

bring. II 



land. A small hollow for the present marks Avhere it lay, but 
will probably soon be effaced: the plough has been upon it, 
and the grain is. After pointing out the different spots where 
Picton and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, 
" Here Major Howard lay: I was near him when wounded." 
I told him my relationship, and he seemed then still more 
anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. 
The place is one of the most marked in the field, from the 
peculiarity of the two trees above mentioned. I went on 
horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollec- 
tion of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked 
out for the scene of some great action, though this may be 
mere imagination: I have viewed with attention those of 
Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon : 
and the field around Mont St. Jean and Hougoumont appears 
to want little but a better cause, and that undefinable but 
impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around a 
celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or all of these, 
except, perhaps, the last mentioned. 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, xxxi.-xlii. 



XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to tliousands, of whom each 

And one as all a ghastly gap did make 

In his own kind and kindred, wliom to teach 

Forgetf ulness were mercy for their sake ; 

The Archangel's trump, not Glory's, must awake 

Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound 

of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smiling, 

mourn : 
The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
The roof -tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthrall ; 
The day drags through, though storms keep out 
the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 

XXXIII. 
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks ; 
And thus the heart will do which not forsakes. 
Living in shatter'd guise ; and still, and cold. 
And bloodless, with'its sleepless sorrow aches, 
Yet withers on till all without is old. 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 

XXXIV. 

There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit. 
Like to the apples * on the Dead Sea's shore, 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life,— say , would he name 
threescore? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number 'd out the years of man : 
They are enough; and if thy tale be ivue^ 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting 

span. 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and say— 
'' Here, where the sword united nations drew. 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of' men, 

Whose spirit, antithetically mixt. 

One moment of the mightiest, and again 

On little objects with like firmness fixt; 

Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt. 

Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 

For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 

* The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes 
were said to be fair without, and, within, ashes. Vide Tacitus, 
Histor., lib. v. 7. 

+ The great error of Napoleon, " If we have writ our annals 
true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of 
all community of feeling- for or with them : perhaps more 
offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more 



Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 

And shake again the Avorld, the Thunderer of the 
scene ! 

XXXVII. 
Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou Avert 
A god inito thyself ; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 

Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst 
assert. 

XXXVIII. 
Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Battling with nations, flying from the tield ; 
]^ow making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild. 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 

j^or learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest 
star. 

XXXIX. 
Yet well thy soul hath brook 'd the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy. 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
When the wliole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watcli and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 

smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite child. 

He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
Ambition steel 'd thee on too far to sliow 
That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow. 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow : 
'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been. made to stand or fall alone. 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which paved 

thy throne, 
T]}e%v admiration thy best weapons slione; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.f 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell. 

And there liath been thy bane ; there is a fire 

And motion of the soul which will not dwell 

In its own narrow^ being, but aspire 

Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 

trembling- and suspicious tjo^nny. Such were his speeches 
to public assemblies as well as individuals ; and the single ex- 
pression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris 
after the Russian winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his 
hands over a fire, "This lb pleasanter than Moscow," would 
probably alienate more favor from his cause than the de- 
struction and reverses which led to the remark. 
25 



CAXTO III. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XLIII.-LV 



Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
By tlieir contagion; Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
AVhich stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
xVnd are themselves the fools to those they fool 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what sthigs 
Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine 
or rule : 

XLiy. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow^ and supineness, and so die; 
Even as a flame unfed, whicli runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a svvord laid by, 
Y/hich eats into itself, and rusts ingioriously. 

XLY. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
ISIust look down on the liate of those below. 
Though high above tlie sun of glory glow. 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Hound him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those summits 

led. 

XL VI. 
Away with these ! true Wisdom's w^orld wall be 
Within its own creation, or in tliine. 
Maternal Nature! for wlio teems like thee. 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, 

vine. 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 

dwells. 

XLYII. 
And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind. 
Worn, but unstoopiug to the baser crowd. 
Ail tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
Tiiere was a day when they were young and proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust ere 

now. 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future 

blow. 

XLVIII. 
Beneatli these battlements, within those walls, 
Fower dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
Each robber cliief upheld his armed halls. 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
Y/iiat want these outlaws* conquerors should 

have 
But History's purchased page to call them great ? 
A wider si)ace, an ornamented grave ? 
Their liopes were not less warm, their souls were 

full as brave. 



* " What wants that knave that a king should have? " was 
King- James's question on meeting- Johnny Armstrong- and 
his followers in full accoutrements. See the ballad. 
20 



XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields. 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died! 
And Love, w'hich lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
Througli all the mail of iron hearts would glide; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
xVnd many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
Saw the discolored Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 

But Thou, exulting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endure for 

ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Xor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict,— tlien to see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to mp, 
Even now what w^ants thy stream ?— that it should 

Lethe be. 

LI. 
A thousand battles have assaiFd thy banks. 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 

ranks ; 
Tlieir very graves are gone, and what are tliey? 
Thy tide wasli'd down the blood of yesterday. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing liglit the sunny ray : 
But o'er the blacken 'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves v/ould vainly roll, all sweeping as they 

seem. 

LIL 
Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile dear: 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness whicli had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient 

trace. 

LIII. 
Xor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we v^ould coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the lieart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, ar.d sweet trust, 
In one fond breast, to which his own would meit. 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 

LIY. 

And he had learn 'd to love, — I know^ not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy. 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued. 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man^ it little boots to know; 
But thus it was; and tliough in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow. 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to 
glow. 

LY. 
Aud there w^as one soft breast, as hath been said. 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed. 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise. 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, aud cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



LV.-LX. 



But this was firm, and from a foreign sliore 
Well to that heart might his these absent greetings 



pour 



1. 



The castled crag of Drachenfels * 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear tlie vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom 'd trees, 
And fields wliich x)romise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these. 
Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me. 

2. 

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 

And hands which offer early flowers. 

Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 

Above, the frequent feudal towers 

Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, 

And many a rock which steeply lowers. 

And noble arch in proud decay, 

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 

I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be. 
But 5^et reject tliem not as such; 
For I have cherish 'd them as dear. 
Because they yet may meet thine eye. 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And offer'd from my heart to thine ! 

4. 

The river nobly foams and flows, 

The charm of this enchanted ground, 

And all its thousand turns disclose 

Some fresher beauty varying round : 

The haughtiest breast its wish miglit bound 

Through life to dwell delighted here ; 

Nor could on earth a spot be found 

To nature and to me so dear. 

Could thy dear eyes in following mine 

Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine I 



* The castle of Drachenfels stands on the hig-hest summit 
of "the Seven Mountains," ovei* the Rhine banks; it is in 
ruins, and connected with some sing-ular traditions. It is 
the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite 
side of the river. On this bank, nearly facing it, are the 
remains of another, called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross 
commemorative of the murder of a chief by his brother. 
The number of castles and cities along the course of the 
Rhine on both sides is very great, and their situations re- 
markably beautiful.— These verses were written on the banks 
of the Rhine, in May. The original pencilling is before us. 
It is needless to observe that they were addressed to his | 
sister. 

t The monument of the young and lamented General Mar- 
ceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen, on the last day 
of the fourth year of the French republic) still remains as 
described. The inscriptions on his monument are rather 
too long, and not required : his name was enough ; France 
adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. His 
funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from 
both armies. In the same grave General Hoche is interred, 
a gallant man also in every sense of the woi-d ; but though 
he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the 
good fortune to die there : his death was attended by sus- 
picions of poison. A separate monument (not over his body. 



LYI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid. 
Our enemy's— but let not tliat forbid 
Honor to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's 

lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom. 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to re- 
sume. 

LVII. 
Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
His mourners were two liosts, his friends and foes ; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him 
wept.f 

LYIII. 
Here Ehrenbreitstein,J with her shatter 'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her lieiglit 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
A tower of victory ! from whence the flight 
Of baflled foes was watch 'd along the plain : 
But Peace destroy 'd v/hat War could never bliglit. 
And laid tliose proud roofs))are to Summer's rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in 
vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
The stranger fain would linger on his way! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation th.us might stray; 
And could tlie ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
AVild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like thine ; 

The mind is color'd by thy every hue ; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! § 



which is buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Ander- 
nach, opposite to which one of his most memorable exploits 
was performed in throwing a bridge to an island on the 
Rhine. The shape and style are different from those of Mar- 
ceau's, and the inscription more simple and pleasing :— "The 
Army of the Sambre and Meuse to its Commander-in-Chief 
Hoche." This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
among the first of France's earlier generals, before Buona- 
parte monopolized her triumphs. He was the destined com- 
mander of the invading army of Ireland. 

% Ehrenbreitstein, i. e., " the broad stone of honor," one of 
the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and blown 
up by the French at the truce of Leoben. It had been, and 
could only be, reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to 
the former, aided by surprise. After haAang seen the fortifi- 
cations of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by 
comparison; but the situation is commanding. General 
Marceau besieged it in vain for some time ; and I slept in a 
room where I was shown a window at which he is said to 
have been standing observing the progress of the siege by 
moonlight, when a ball struck immediately below it. 

§ On taking Hockheim, the Austrians, in one part of the 

engagement, got to the brow of the hill, whence they had 

their first view of the Rhine. They instantly halted— not a 

gun was fired— not a voice heard ; but they stood gazing on 

27 



CANTO HI. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



LXI.-LXX. 



'T is with the thankful glance of parting praise, 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine ; 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days, 

Lxr. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
Tiie forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
xV race of faces happy as the scene. 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near 
them fall. 

LXII. 
But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Mature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche— the thunderbolt of snow ! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appalls, 
Gather around these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain 
man below. 

LXIII. 
But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field! where man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer'd on that plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain. 
Themselves their monument ;— the Stygian coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each wan- 
dering ghost.* 

LXIY. 
While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
Tliey were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band. 
All unbouglit cliampions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entaii'd Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic 
clause. 

LXY. 
By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief -worn aspect of old days ; 
'T is the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
And looks as with the wild-bewilder'd gaze 
Of one to stone converted by amaze, 

the river with those feeling-s which the events of the last fif- 
teen j^ears at once called up. Prince Schwartzenberg rode 
up to know the cause of this sudden stop ; then they gave 
three cheei-s, rushed after the enemy, and drove them into 
the water. 

* The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones dimin- 
ished to a small number by the Burgundian leg-ion in the 
ser\^ce of France ; who anxiously effaced this record of their 
ancestors' less successful invasions. A few still remain, not- 
withstanding the paias taken by the Burgundians for ages 
(all who passed that way removing a bone to their own 
country), and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss pos- 
tilions, who carried them off to sell for knife-handles ; a pur- 
pose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of 
years had rendered them in great request. Of these relics I 
ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter 
of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the 
next passer by might have perverted them to worse uses than 
the careful preservation which I intend for them. 

+ Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Hel- 
vetia, where Avenches now stands. 

28 



Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
Wljen the coeval pride of human hands, 
Leveil'd Aventicum,t hath strew'd her subject 

lands. 

LXYI. 
And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name I — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted— gave 
Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers 'would 

crave 
Tlie life she lived in; but the judge was just, 
And then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust. 
And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one 

dust.J 

LXYII. 
But these are deeds which should not pass away. 
And names that must not wither, though the 

earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and 

birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow.g 
ImperishaMy pure beyond all things below. 

LXYIII. 
Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
A7ith a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old. 

Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their 
fold. 

LXIX. 
To flj^ from, need not be to hate, mankind: 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 

'Midst a contentious world, striving where none are 
strong. 

LXX. 
There, in a moment, we may plange our years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 



% Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon 
after a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to death 
as a traitor by Aulus Csecina. Her epitaph was discovered 
many years ago ; — it is thus : — " Julia Alpinula : Hie jaceo. 
Infelicis patris infelix proles. Deae Aventiae Sacerdos. Exo- 
rare patris necem non potui ; Male mori in f atis ille erat. 
Vixi annos xxnr."— I know of no human composition so 
affecting as this, nor a history of deeper interest. These are 
the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to 
which we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the 
wretched and glittering detail of a confused mass of con- 
quests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time 
to a false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs at 
length with all the nausea consequent on such intoxica- 
tion. 

§ This is written in the eye of IMont Blanc (June 3, 1816), 
which even at this distance dazzles mine.— (July 20.) I this 
day observed for some time the distant reflection of Mont 
Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I 
was crossing in my boat; the distance of these mountains 
from their mirror is sixty miles. 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, lxxi.-lxxxi. 



Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
And color things to come with hues of Nigiit ; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite ; 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er 
shall be. 

LXXI. 
Is it not better, then, to be alone. 
And love Earth onl}^ for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,^ 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Whicli feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 

Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or 
bear ? 

LXXII. 
I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
Pligh mountains are a feeling, but the lium 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
IS'othing to loatlie in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when tlie soul can flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving i)lain 

Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to sorrow I was cast. 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion; which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our 
being cling. 

Lxxiy. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what it hates in tliis degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform. 
And dust is as it should be, shall 1 not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
Tlie bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each si)ot V 
Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal 
lot ? . 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below. 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare 
not glow ? 

Lxxyi. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 

* The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of 
tint which I have never seen equalled in water, salt or fresh, 
except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 

t This refers to Rousseau's account in his " Confessions " of 
his passion for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. 
Lambert), and his long walk every morning-, for the sake of 
the single kiss which was the common salutation of Frfench 



Those who find contemplation in the urn. 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for awhile— a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest. 
The wliich to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwlielming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretcJied; yet he 

knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzlhig as they pass'd 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelhigly and 

fast. 

LXXVIII. 
His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Tims, and enamor'd, were in him the same. 
But his w^as not the love of living dame. 
Nor of the dead wiio rise upon our dreams, 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distempered though it 

seems. 

LXXIX. 
This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested lier with all that 's wild and sweet ; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kissf 
Which every morn his fever'd lip w^ould greet. 
From hers, who but with friendship his would 

meet ; 
But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

breast 
FlasliVl the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat ; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 
Than vulgar minds may be with all tliey seek 

possest. 

LXXX. 
His life Avas one long war with self -sought foes. 
Or friends by him self -banished ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and 

blind. 
But he was f renzied,— Avheref ore, who may know ? 
Since cause might be which skill could never 

find; 
But he was frensied by disease or woe 
To that worst hitch of all, which wears a reasoning 

show. 

LXXXI. 
For then he was inspired, and from him came, 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore. 
Those oracles which set tlie world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more: 
Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ? 
Broken and trembling to tlie yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows o'er- 

grown fears V 



acquaintance. Rousseau's description of his feelings on this 
occasion maj^ be considered as the most passionate, yet not 
impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled 
into words ; which, after all, must be felt, from their very 
force, to be inadequate to the delineation : a painting can 
give no suflBcient idea of the ocean. 

29 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRL3IAGE. lxxxii.-xciv. 



LXXXIT. 

They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
The' wreck of old opinions— things which i^rew, 
Breathed from the birth of time : the veil tlie}^ 

rent, 
And what behind it laj^ all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and ren(!W 
Dunsieons and thrones, which the same hour 

refilPd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self-wiird. 

LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it 

felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; Pity ceased to melt. 
With her once natural charities. But they, 
Wlio in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
Tliey were not eagles, nourisli'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their 

prey ? 

Lxxxiy. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been vanciuish'd. 

bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Eix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years ; none need despiiir : 
It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive— in one w^e shall be slower. 

Lxxxy. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake. 
With the wild w^orld I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, w^ith its stillness, to forsake 
Eai-th's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 

That I with stern delights should e'er have been so 
moved. 

LXXXYI. 
It is the hush of night, and all between 
Tiiy margin and the mountains, dusk, j^et clear, 
Mellow 'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen. 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt lieiglits appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar. 

Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more; 

LXXXYII. 

He is an evening reveller, wdio makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating wdiisper on the hill. 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instill, 
Yf eeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

LXXXYIII. 

Ye stars ! which are the poetr}^ of heaven ! 
If in your bright leaves w^e would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 't is to be forgiven. 
That in our aspirations to be great. 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
30 



And claim a. kindred with you ; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named them- 
selves a star. 

LXXXIX. 
All heaven and earth are still— though not in 

sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow v^iien feeling most ; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
All heaven and earth are still: From tlie high 

host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain coast, 
All is concentred in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

XC. 
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
A truth, w^hich through our being then doth melt, 
And purifies from self : it is a tone, 
The soul" and source of music, which makes 

knoAVii 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm. 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone. 
Binding all things with beauty ; — 't would disarm 

The spectre Death, had he substantial povver to 
harm. 

XCI. 
Xot vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, ? and thus take 
A fit and unv>^aird temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek. 
With iS^ature's realms of worship, earth and air, 

Xor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy pray'r ! 

XGII. 

The sky is changed! — and such a change! Oil 

night. 
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong. 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is tlie light 
Of a dark eye in w^oman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! ]Srot from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud. 
Back to the joyous Alps, wdio call to her aloud ! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night :— Most glorious night 
Thou w^ert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far deligiit, — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee I 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea. 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth. 
As if tliey did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 

XCIY. 
How^ where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

betw^een 
Heights which appear as lovers who have parted 
In hate, wliose mining depths so intervene. 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted ; 
Though in their souls, wdiich thus each other 

thwarted. 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then de- 
parted: — 



CANTO III. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



xcy.-cviT, 



Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters,— war within themselves to 

wage. 

XCY. 
I^ow, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his 

way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en liis stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play. 
And fling their thunder-bolts from hand to liand. 
Flashing and cast around : of all the band. 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 

fork'd 
His lightnings,— as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd. 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein 

lurk'd, 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
AVith niglit, and clouds, and thunder, and a soul 
To make tliese felt and feeling, v/ell may be 
Tilings that have made me watchful: the far roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless,— if I rest. 
But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal ? 
Are ye like those within the human breast V 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 

XCYII. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throv/ 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 

weak. 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and j^et breatlie — into one word. 
And that one word were Lightning, I would 

speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard. 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a 

sword. 

XCVIII. 
The morn is up again, the dewy morn. 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn. 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we may resume 
The marcli of our existence ; and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens ! sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep Love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate 

thought ; 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks. 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, 

then mocks. 

C. 

Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod,— 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on these summits solely nor alone 
In the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown. 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate 
hour. 8 



CI. 

All things are here of him ; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roai 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, Avith trunks all hoar. 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where it 
stood, 
Offering to liim, and his, a populous solitude. 

CII. 

A populous solitude of bees and birds. 
And fairy-form'd and many-color 'd things, 
Who worship him with notes more sweet than 

words, 
And innocently open their glad wings. 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs. 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud vdiich brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend,' 
jNIingiing, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore. 
And make his heart a spirit; lie who knows 
Tiiat tender mystery, will love the more ; 
For this is Love's recess, where vain mien's woes. 
And the world's waste, have driven him far frora 

tliose. 
For 't is his nature to advance or die ; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

ciy. 

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot. 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness : 'tis lone. 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound. 
And seiise, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rlione 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd 

a throne. 

CY. 
Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath 'd a name ; * 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous 

roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : ] 
Tiiey were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and 

tlie flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
On man and man's research could deign do more 

than smile. 

CYI. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind. 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind, 
Blew wdiere it listed, laying all things prone, — 
Xow to overthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 

CYIL 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, , 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 



Voltaire and Gibbon, 
31 



CANTO III. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, cvni.-cxviii. 



Ill meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
The lord of iron}',— that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from 

fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 

CYIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 

If merited, the penalty is paid ; 

It is not ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 

The hour must come when such things shall be 

made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow,— in the dust. 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decayed ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'T vdll be to be forgiven, or suffer wliat is just. 

CIX, 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, Avhich from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the w^hite Alps tend. 
And I must pierce them, and survey whatever 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air. 

ex. 

Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee, 

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 

Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee, 

To the last halo of the chiefs and sages 

Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 

Thou wert the throne and grave of empires; 

still 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there lier fill. 

Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial 
hill. 

CXI. 
Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind ausi)ices : — to feel 

■ We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be,— and to steel 
Tlie heart against itself; and to conceal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,— 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 

Is a stern task of soul : — Xo matter,— it is tauglit. 

CXII. 

And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
INIy breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth,— but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
I stood and stand alone,— remembered or forgot. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me ; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 

* " If it be thus. 

For Banquo's issue have I jiUd my miud."— i)facibef/j. 

32 



To its idolatries a patient knee, — 

Xor coin'd my cheek to smile, — nor cried aloud 

In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 

They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 

Among them, but not of tliem ; in a shroud 

Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and 

still could, 
Had I not hied* my mind, which thus itself 

subdued. 

CXIY. 
I liave not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair foes ; I do believe. 
Though 1 have found tliem not, that there may 

be 
Words which are things,— hopes which will not 

deceive. 
And virtues which jire merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing ; I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs tliat some sincerely grieve; t 
That two, or one, are almost what tliey seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 

CXY. 

My daughter ! with thy name this song begun ; 
My daughter! with thy name thus much shall 

end; 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not,— but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend : 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst beliold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend. 
And reach into thy heart,— when mine is cold, — 
A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 

CXYI. 

To aid thy mind's development,— to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys,— to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth,— to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee. 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 

CXYII. 

Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, — 't were the 

same, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; tliough to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life 

retain. 

CXYIII. 
The child of love, though born in bitterness. 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more tempered, and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft sucli blessing upon thee. 
As, with a sigh, I deem tliou might'st have been to 

me ! 



+ It is said by Rochefoucauld, that " there is always some- 
thing- in the misfortunes of men's best friends not di^leas- 
ing to them." 



CA]!^TO IV. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Visto ho Toscana, Lombardia, Romagna, 

Quel Monte che divide, e- quel che serra 
Italia, 8 un mare e 1' altro, che la bagna. 

Ariosto, Satire iii. 

TO JOHN HOBEOUSE, ESQ., A.M., F.R.S., &c. 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 
My dear Hobhouse. 

AFTER an interval of eight years between the compo- 
sition of the first and last cantos of Childe Harold, 
the conchision of the poem is about to be submitted to the 
public. In parting witli so old a friend, it is not extraor- 
dinary that I should recur to one still older and better, — 
to one who has beheld the birth and death of the other, 
a,nd to whom I am far more indebted for the social ad- 
vantages of an enlightened friendship, than — though not 
ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, for any 
public favor reflected through the poem on the poet, — to 
one, whom I have known long and accompanied far, whom 
I have found wakeful over my sickness and kind in my 
sorrow, glad in my prosperity and firm in my adversity, 
true in counsel and trusty in peril, — to a friend often tried 
and never found wanting ; — to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth ; and in dedi- 
cating to you, in its complete or at least concluded state, 
a poetical work which is the longest, the most thoughtful 
and comprehensive of my compositions, I wish to do 
honor to myself by the record of many years' intimacy 
with a man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of 
honor. It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive 
flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been per- 
mitted to the voice of friendship ; and it is not for you, 
nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not 
elsewhere, or lately, been so much accustomed to the en- 
counter of good-will as to withstand the shock firmly,- 
that I thus attempt to commemorate your good qualities, 
or rather the advantages which I have derived from their 
exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, 
the anniversary of the most unfortunate day of my past 
existence,* but which cannot poison my future while I 
retain the resource of your friendship, and of my own 
faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollec- 
tion for both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my 
attempt to thank you for an indefatigable regard, such as 
' few men have experienced, and no one could experience 
without thinking better of his species and of himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various 
periods, the^ countries of chivalry, history, and fable — 
Spain, Greece, Asia j\Iinor, and Italy ; and what Athens 
and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, Venice 
and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or 
the pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to 
last ; and perhaps it may be a pardonable vanity which 
induces me to reflect with complacency on a composition 
which in some degree connects me with the spot where it 
was produced, and the objects it would fain describe ; and 

* His marriage. 
3 



however unworthy it may be deemed of those magical 
and memorable abodes, however short it may fall of our 
dista,nt conceptions and immediate impressions, yet as a 
mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling for 
what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in 
the production, and I part with it with a kind of regret, 
which I hardly suspected that events could have left me 
for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will 
be found less of the pilgrim than in any of the preceding, 
and that little slightly, if at all, separated from the author 
speaking in his own person. The fact is, that I had 
become weary of drawing a line which every one seemed 
determined not to perceive : like the Chinese in Gold- 
smith's "Citizen of the World," whom nobody would 
believe to be a Chinese, it vs^as in vain that I asserted, 
and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the 
author and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve 
this difference, and disappointment at finding it unavail- 
ing, so far crushed my e Sorts in the composition, that I 
determined to abandon it altogether — and have done so. 
The opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that 
subject are now a matter of indiflerence ; the work is to 
depend on itself, and not on the writer ; and the author 
who has no resources in his own mind beyond the reputa- 
tion, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his 
literary efibrts, deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course «f the following canto it was my inten- 
tion, either in the text or in the notes, to have touched 
upon the present state of Italian literature, and perhaps 
of manners. But the text, within the limits I proposed, 
I soon found hardly suflftcient for the labyrinth of external 
objects, and the consequent reflections ; and for the whole 
of the notes, excepting a few of the shortest, I am in- 
debted to yourself, and these were necessarily limited to 
the elucidation of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert 
upon the literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar ; 
and requires an attention and impartiality which would 
induce us — though perhaps no inattentive observers, nor 
ignorant of the language or customs of the people amongst 
whom we have recently abode — to distrust, or at least 
defer our judgment, and more narrowly examine our in- 
formation. The state of literary, as well as political 
party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, that for a 
stranger to steer impartially between them is next to 
impossible. It may be enough then, at least for my pur- 
pose, to quote from their own beautiful language — "Mi 
pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta la lingua la 
piii nobile ed insieme la pi^ dolce, tutte tutte le vie di- 
verse si possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri 
e di Monti non ha perduto 1' antico valore, in tutte essa 
dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has great names still — 
Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Mo- 
relli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, 
Aglietti, and Vacca, will secure to the present generation 
an honorable place in most of the departments of Art, 
Science, and Belles Lettres ; and in some the very highest 
— Europe — the World — has but one Canova. 

It has been someAvhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta 

uomo nasce piii robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra 

terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti che vi si commettono 

i ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to the la;tter 

j part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth 

of which may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that 

the Italians are in no respect more ferocious than their 

neighbors, that man must be Avilfully blind, or ignorantly 

33 



CAXTO IV 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGEI3IAGE. 



i.-x. 



heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary capacity 
of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their 
capabilities, the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity 
of their conceptions, the tire of their genius, their sense 
of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of repeated 
revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of 
ages, their still unquenched '" longing after immortality,"' 
— the immortality of independence. And when we our- 
selves, in riding round the walls of Kome, heard the 
simple lament of the laborers' chorus, "Eoma! Roma! 
Koma r Roma non e piu come era prima," it was difficult 
not to contrast this melai)choly dirge with the bacchanal 
roar of the songs of exultation still yelled from the Lon- 
don taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, and the 
betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, 
by men whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a 
work Avorthy of the better days of our history. For 

me, — 

" Non movero mai cord a 

Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda." 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, 
it were useless for Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes 
ascertained that England has acquired something more 
than a permanent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; 
it is enough for tliem to look at home. For what they 
have done abroad, and especially in the South, " Verily 
they will have their reward," at no very distant period. 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable 
return to that country whose real welfare can be dearer 
to none than to yourself, I dedicate to you this poem in 
its completed state ; and repeat once more how truly I am 
ever, Your obliged // ^y 

And afiectionate friend, /C\^y^ y-yon / 




I. 

I STOOD in Tenice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; ^ 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the wing'd Lion's marble piles. 

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred 
isles ! 

II. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
And such she was; her daughters had their 

dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 

Mouarchs partook, and deem'd tlieir dignity in- 
creased. 

III. 
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,i<> 
And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear : 
Those days are gone— but Beauty still is here. 
States fall, arts fade— but Xature doth not die, 
^N'or yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity. 

The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
34 



But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch ! though all were o'er, 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

V. 

The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brigliter ray 
And more beloved existence : that which Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied. 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
Watering the heart whose early flowers have died. 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page. 
And, may be. that wliich grows beneath mine eye : 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairj^-land ; in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky. 
And the strange constellations which the Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skillful to diffuse: 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such,— but let them go, — 
They came like truth , and disappear'd like dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
I could replace tliem if I would ; still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go— for waking Reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound. 
And other voices speak, and other siglits surround. 

VIII. 

I 've taught me other tongues — and in strange eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise : 
K'or is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
Y"et was I born where men are proud to be, — 
Xot without cause : and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine. 
My spirit shall resume it if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
With my land's language : if too fond and far 

• These aspirations in their scope incline,— 
If my fame should be as my fortunes are. 

Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 

X. 

^My name from out the temple where the dead 
Are honor'd by the nations — let it be— 
And light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me— 
'' Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."* 



* The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedaemo- 
nian ereneral, to the strangers who praised the memory of 
her son. 



CANTO IV. CHILBE HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. 



xi.-xxir. 



Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
I planted,— they have torn me,— and I bleed : 

I should have known what fruit would spring from 
such a seed. 

XI. 
Tlie spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
ISTeglected garment of her widowhood ! 
St. Mark yet sees liis lion where he stood * 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither 'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in tlie hour 

When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 

XII. 

Tlie Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns— t 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
Tlie sunshine for a while, and downward go 
Like lauwine loosen 'd from the mountain's belt ; 
Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! % 

Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering 
foe. 

XIII. 
Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
But is not Doria's menace colne to pass ? § 
Are they not bridled f — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose ! 
Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun 
Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 

"From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 

XIV. 

In youth she was all glory,— a new Tyre ; 
Her very by-word sprung from victory. 
The "Planter of the Lion," || which through.fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
And iSurope's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, ye 
Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight ! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. 

XV. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd— the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust ; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust. 
Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls. 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
Too oft remind her who and what inthralls, ^^ 
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice's lovely 
w^alls. 

XVI. 
When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war, 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,1[ 
Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
See ! as they chantthe tragic hymn, the car 
Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
Fall from his hands— his idle scimitar 



*, +, $, § See Appendix, Notes, Nos. 11, 12, 13, 14. 

II That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the repub- 
lic, which is the origin of the word Pantaloon— Piantaleone, 
Pantaloon, Pantaloon. 

1 The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 



Starts from its belt— he rends Ills captive's chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his 
strains. 

XVII. 
Thus, Venice ! if no stronger claim were thine, 
Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
Tliy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen sliould not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy Avatery wall. 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 
Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
Rising like Avater-columns from the sea. 
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's 

art,** 
Had stamp 'd her image in me, and even so. 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past— and of 

The present there is still for eye and thought, 

And meditation chasten 'd down, enough ; 

And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 

And of the happiest moments which were Vv^rought 

Within the web of miy existence, some 

From thee, fair Venice ! have their colors caught : 

There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 

N^or Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and 
dumb. 

XX. 
But from their nature will the tannen grow ft 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Ptooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and 

mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
Of bleak, gray granite into life it came. 

And grew a giant tree ;— the mind may grow the 
same. 

XXI. 
Existence may be borne, and the deep root 
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load. 
And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow 'd 
In vain should such example be ; if they, 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood. 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 

May temper it to bear,— it is but for a day. 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer : and, in each event. 
Ends :— Some,with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came— with like intent. 
And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and 
bent, 

** Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho ; the Ghost- 
Seer, or Armenian ; the Merchant of Venice, Othello. 

■H- Tannen is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar to 
the Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where 
scarcely soil sufficient for its nourishment can be found. 
On these spots it grows to a greater height than any other 
mountain tree. 

35 



CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, xxiii.-xxxiv. 



Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good, or crime. 
According as their souls were form'd to sink or 

climb. 

XXIII. 
But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 
And slight withal may be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight Avhich it would fling 
Aside for ever ; it may be a sound— 
A tone of music— summer's eve — or spring — 
A -flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 

wound, 
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly 

bound ; 

xxiy. 

And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
But feel the shock renew 'd, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves behind. 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd. 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — 
anew. 

The mourn 'd, the loved, the lost— too many ! — ^yet 
how few ! 

XXY. 
But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command. 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand. 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free. 

The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth and sea, 

XXYI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of Rome 
And even since, and now, fair Italy ! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other clinies' fertility ; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 

With an immaculate charni which can not be de- 
faced. 

XXVII. 
The moon is up, and yet it is not night- 
Sunset divides the sky with her— a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains ; Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be,— 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,— 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
AVhile on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 

Floats through the azure air— an island of the 
blest ! * 

XXYIII. 
A single star is at her side, and reigns 
AVith her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Eoird o'er tlie peak of the far Rhsetian hill. 
As Day and Xight contending were, until 
Nature reclaimed her order :— gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instill 



* The above description may seem fantastical or exagg-er- 
ated to those who have never seen an Oriental or an Italian 
sky, yet it is but a literal and hardly sufficient delineation of 
an Aug-ust evening- (the 18th), as contemplated in one of 
many rides along the banks of the Brenta, near La Mira. 
36 



The odorous purple of a new-born rose. 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within 
it glows, 

XXIX. 
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star. 
Their magical variety diffuse : 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away. 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is 
gray. 

XXX. 
There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes. 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's namei^'*''^ 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; i6, 17 
The mountain village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years ; and 't is their 

pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 

- To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant witli his strain 

Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 
And sought a refuge from their hopes decay 'd 
In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
Which shows a distant prospect far away 
Of busy cities, now in vain display'd. 
For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday, 

XXXIII. 

Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers. 
And shining in the brawling brook, wherc-by, 
Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
With a calm languor, which, though to the eye 
Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
If from society we learn to live, 
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; 
It liath no flatterers ; vanity can give 

No hollow aid ; alone— man with his God must 
strive : 

XXXIY. 
Or, it may. be, with demons, who impair f 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek their 

prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 

The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 



+ The struggle is to the full as likely to be with demons as 
with our better thoughts. Satan chose the wilderness for 
the temptation of our Saviour: and our unsullied John 
Locke preferred the presence of a child to complete soli- 
tude. 



CANTO IV. CHILDE HAROLD'S FILGEIMAGE. xxxv.-xlvi. 



XXXY. 

Ferrara ! in thy wide and ^rass-sjrown streets, 
Whose symmetr}^ was not for solitude, 
There seems as 't were a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within tliy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn 
before. 

XXXYI. 

And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
W^here he had plunged it. Glory without end 
Scattered the clouds away— and on that name attend 

XXXYII. 

The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion— in tlie sink 
Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
From thee ! if in another station born. 

Scarce fit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to 
mourn : 

XXXYIII. 
Tfiou ! form'd to eat, and be despised, and die. 
Even as the beasts that perisli, save that thou 
Hadst a more splendid trough, and wider sty : 
He I with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 
W^hich emanated then, and dazzles now. 
In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire. 
And Boileau, wliose rash envy could allow T-S 
No strain which shamed his "country's creaking 
lyre. 

That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in wire ! 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 't was his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 
Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
The tide of generations shall roll on. 
And not the whole combined and countless throng 
Compose a mind like tliine ? though all in one 
Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those. 

Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine. 

The Bards of Hell and Chivalry : first rose 

The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 

Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 

The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 

A new creation with his magic line. 



*, t, * See Appendix, Notes, Nos. 19, 20, 21. 

§ Tbe two stanzas xlii. and xliii. are, with the exception of 
a line or two, a translation of the famous sonnet of Filieaja; 
" Italia, Italia, O tu cui feo la sorte ! " 

II The celebrated letter of Servius Sulpicius to Cicero, on 
the death of his daughter, describes as it then was, and now 
is, a path which I often traced in Greece, both by sea and 
land, in different journeys and voyages. " On my return 
from Asia, as I was sailing from ^gina towards Megara, I 



And, like the Ariosto of the N'orth, 
Sang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly 
worth. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto 's bust* 
The iron crown of laurel's mim.ick'd leaves ; 
ISTor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel- wreath wiiich Glory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, f 
And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
Know, that the lightning sanctifies belowj 
W^hate'er it strikes ; yon head is doubly sacred now. 

XLII. 

Italia ! oh, Italia ! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sv/eet brow is sorrow plough 'd by shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame, 
Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, wlio press 

To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy 
distress ; 

XLIII. 
Then might'st thou more appall ; or, less desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired. 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horde 
Of many-nation 'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 

Yictor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or 
foe.^ 

XLIY. 
Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him || 
The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
("ame Megara before me, and behind 
^gina lay, Piraeus on the right. 
And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 

In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 

XLY. 
For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site. 
Which only make more mourn'd and more en- 
dear 'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light. 
And the crush 'd relics of their vanish 'd might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears , drawn from s uch pilgrimage. 

XLYI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 

His country's ruin added to the mass 

Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 

And I in desolation : all that was 

Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 



began to contemplate the prospect of the countries around 
me : ^gina was behind, Megara before me ; Pii-aeus on the 
right, Corinth on the left: all which towns, once famous 
and flourishing, now lie overturned and buried in their 
ruins. Upon this sight, I could not but think presently 
within myself, Alas! how do we poor mortals fret and vex 
ourselves if any of our friends happen to die or be killed, 
whose life is yet so short, when the carcasses of so many 
noble cities lie here exposed before me in one view."— See 
Middleton's Cicero, vol. ii., p. 371. 
37 



CANTO lY. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, xlvit.-lviii. 



Rome — Rome im.perial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and bhickness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form,^ 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are 

warm. 

XLYII. 
Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to 

side; - 
Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue* to be forgiven. 

XLYIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white vralls, 
Wliere the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, slie reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem 'd to anew morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills ^^ 

The air around with beauty ; we inhale 

The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instills 

Part of its immortality ; the veil 

Of heaven is half undravvu ; within the pale 

We stand, and in that form and face behold 

What Mmd can make, when Nature's self would 

fail; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate flash which sucli a soul could 

mould : 

L. 
We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart f 
Reels with its fullness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain 'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away !— there need no words, nor terms precise. 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart. 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan 

Shepherd's prize. 

LI. 
Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or. 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish "d Lord of War ? 
And gazing in thy face as toward a star. 
Laid on thy lap, his ej'es to thee upturn, 
Feedhig on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are 
AVith lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from 

an urn ? 

LII. 
Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love. 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve. 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 

* It is Poggio who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon 
ruined Rome, breaks forth in the exclamation, " Ut nunc 
omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gigantei cadaveris 
corrupti atque undique exesi." 



+ In 1817, Lord Byron visited 
Rome. "I remained," he says, 
38 



Florence, on his way to 
"but a day: however, I 



Of earth recoils upon us ;— let it go ! 
We can recall such visions, and create, 
Eroni what has been, or might be, things which 
grow 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 

LIII. 

I leave to learned fingers and wise hands. 

The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 

How well his connoisseurship understands 

The graceful bend and the voluptuous swell : 

Let these describe the undescribable : 

I would not their vile breath should crisp the 

stream 
Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

LIY. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts liet 
Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
Even in itself an immortality, 
Tiiough there were notliiug save the past, and this, 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his,§ 
The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
Here Machiaveiii's earth return'd to whence it rose, [j 

LY. 

These are four minds, wdiich, like the elements, 

Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 

Time, which hath wrong'd thee with ten thousand 

rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny. 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — thy decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
W^hich gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 

LYI. 

But where repose the all Etruscan three- 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they. 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
Their bones, distinguish 'd from our common clay 
In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 

LYII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar,1[ 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore :** 
Thy factions, in their W'Orse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown ft 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not 
thine own. 

LYIII. 
Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath 'd %% 
His dust,— and lies it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 



went to the two galleries, from which one returns drunk 
with beauty." 

*, §, II See Appendix, Notes, Nos. 23, 24, 25.—" The church of 
Santa Croce contains much illustrious nothing. The tombs 
of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, Galileo, and Alfieri make it 
the Westminster Abbev of Italy." 

% **, ++, U See Appendix, Notes, Nos. 26, 27, 28, and 29. 



cAi^To IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LIX.-LXXI. 



The poetry of speech ? ISTo ;— even his tomb 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
Ko more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for whom I 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more. 
Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire ! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile ;— Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 

While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead, and 
weeps. 

LX. 
What is her pyramid of precious stones ? so 
Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead. 
W^hose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 

Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely 
head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine. 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields. 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, jQt it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it 

wields 

LXII. 
Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at liome ; 
For there tlie Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host betvreen the mountains and the shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions scatter'd 

o'er, 

LXIII. 
Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
And such the storm of battle on this day. 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! ^i 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; * 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations 

meet! 

LXIY. 
The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
The Ocean round, but liad no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel; Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
AVhich reigns when mountains tremble, and the 

birds 
Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing 

herds 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath 

no words. 



* An earthquake which shook all Italy occurred during the 
battle, and was unfelt by any of the combatants. 



LXY. 

Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 

Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 

Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 

Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 

Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath 

. ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye wiiere the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turned the unvN^lling waters 
red. 

LXYI. 
But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost 

rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-wiiite steer 
Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
Surely that stream was unprof aned by slaughters — 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's yomigest 
daughters ! 

LXYII. 
And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill. 
Its memory of thee;*^beneath it sweeps 
Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
AVlio dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its bub- 
bling tales. 

LXYIII. 
Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 't is his ; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of vreary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism,— 't is to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters !— from the headlong height 
Yelino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
Tlie hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture ; while the svreat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thencQ again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, whicli round. 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain. 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
The gulf ! and how the giant element 
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
Crusliing the cliffs, which, downward worn and 

rent 
W^ith his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful 

vent 

LXXI. 
To the broad column which rolls on, and shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
39 



CANTO IV. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, lxxii.-lxxix. 



With many Avindings, through the vale :— Look 

back ! ^ 
Lo ! where it comes like an eternitj'. 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 

Charming the eye with dread,— a matchless cata- 
ract,* 

LXXII. 
Horribly beautiful I but on tlie verge. 
From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge,! 
Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, un\\orn 
Its stead}- dyes, while all around is torn 
Bv the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant luies with all their beams nnshorn : 
Resembling, -mid the torture of the scene. 

Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIII. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
Tlie infant Alps, which — had i not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pine 
Sits on moi-e sliaggy summits, and where roart 
The thundering iauwine — might be wurshipp'd 

more ; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen tlie hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 

LXXIY. 

Th' Acrocerannian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles tly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 't were for fame, 
Lor still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I 've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
Atlios, Olympus, iEtna. Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity. 
All, save the lone Soracte"s height, displayed 
Not now in snow, which asks the IjTic Koman's aid 

LXXY. * 

For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he. who will, his recollections rake, 
And quote in classic raptures, and avv'ake 
The hills with Latian echoes; I abhorr'd 
Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 



* T saw the Cascata del Marmore of Terni twice, at differ- 
ent periods; once from the summit of the precipice, and 
aM'ain from the valley below. The lower \iew is far to be 
preferred, if the traveller has time for one only ; but in any 
point of view, either from above or below, it is worth all the 
cascades and torrents of Switzerland put together : the Stau- 
bach, Keichenbach, Pisse Vache, fall of Arpenaz, &c. are rills 
in comparative appearance. Of the fall of Schaffhausen I 
cannot speak, noc yet having seen it. 

+ Of the time, place, and qualities of this kind of iris, the 
reader will see a short account in a note to Manfred. The 
fall looks so much like "the hell of watei-s," that Addison 
thought the descent alluded to bj' the gulf in which Alecto 
plunged into the infernal regions. It is singular enough, 
that two of the finest cascades in Europe should be artificial 
—this of the Velino, and the one at Tivoli. The ti-aveller is 
strongly recommended to trace the Veimo, at least as high 
as the little lake, called Pie" cU Lup. The Keatine territory 
was the Italian Tempe (Cicer. Epist. ad Attic, xv. lib. iv.), 
and the ancient naturalists (Plin. Hist. Xat. lib. ii. cup. L\-ii.), 
amongst other beautiful varieties, remarked the daily rain- 
bows of the lake Velinus. A scholar of great name has de- 
voted a treatise to this district alone. See Aid. Manut. do 
Reatina Urbe Agroque, ap. Sallengre, Thesaur. tom. i. p. 773. 

t In the greater part of Switzerland, the avalanches are 
known hy the name of Iauwine. 

§ These staniuis maj- probablj' remind the reader of Ensign 

Xortherton's remarks: " D— n Homo," «S:c. ; but the reasons 

for our dislike are not exactly the same. I wish to express, 

that we become tired of the task before we can comprehend 

40 



The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by 
word i 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 

LXXYI. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn VI 
My sickening memory; and, though Time hath 

taught 
]S[y mind to meditate what then it leam'd, 
Yet such the fix VI inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
Tliat, with the freshness wearing out before 
]SIy mind could relish what it might have sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot noAv restore 
Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor. 

LXXYII. 

Then farewell, Horace ! whom I hated so, 
X^ot for thy faults, but mine : it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow. 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse : 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
X or livelier Satirist the conscience pierce. 
Awakening without wounding the touchVl heart, 
Yet fare thee well— upon Soracte-s ridge we part. 

LXXYIII. 

Oh, Piome ! my comitry ! city of the soul ! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
In their sliut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sulferance V Come and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
"Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Xiobe of nations ! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn v.'ithin her wither'd hands. 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow. 
Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress. 



the beauty ; that we learn by rote before we can get by heart : 
' that the freshness is worn awa}', and the future pleasure and 
I advantage deadened and destroyed, by the didactic antici- 
pation, at an age when we can neither feel nor understand 
I the power of compositions Avhich it requires an acquaintance 
: with life, as well as Latin and Greek, to relish, or to reason 
upon. For the same reason, we never can be aware of the 
fullness of some of the finest passages of Shakspeare ("■ To be 
or not to be," for instance), from the habit of having them 
hammered into us at eigbt Aears old, as an exercise, not of 
mind, but of memorj- : so that when we are old enough to 
enjoy them, the taste is gone, and the appetite palled. In 
some parts of the continent, young persons are taught from 
more common authors, and do not read the best classics till 
their maturity. I certainly do not speak on this point from 
any pique or avei'sion towards the place of my education. I 
was not a slow, though an idle boy; and I believe no one 
could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have alwaj'S 
been, and with reason ;— a part of the time passed there was 
the happiest of my life ; and my preceptor, the Rev. Dr. 
Joseph Drury, was the best and worthiest friend I ever pos- 
sessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, 
though too late when I have erred.— and whose counsels I 
have but followed when I have done well or wiselj*. If ever 
this imperfect record of my feelings toward him should 
reach his ej-es, let it remind him of one who never thinks of 
him but with gratitude and veneration— of one who vv'ould 
more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, hy more 
closel}- folloAving his injunctions, he could reflect any honor 
upon his instructor. 



CA>^TO lY 



CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. lxxx.-xcii. 



LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, ^ar. Flood, and 

Fire. 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill "d city's pride ; 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
Where the car climb'd the Capitol : far and wide 
Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : 
Chaos of ruins I who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a kmar light. 
And say, '• here was, or is,"' where all is doublv 

night ? 

LXXXI. 
The double night of ages, and of her, 
Xight's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and 

wrap 
All round us : we but feel our way to err : 
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
Stumbling o'er recollections ; now we clap 
Our hands, and cry •■ Eureka I '' it is clear — 
"When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 

LXXXII. 

Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas I 
Tlie trebly hundred triumphs I ^ and the day 
"When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away! 
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay. 
And Livy's pictured page I — ^Ijut these shall be 
Her resurrection : all beside — decay. 
Alas. f(n' Earth, for never shall we see 

Tnat brightness in her eye she bore when Eome was 
free ! 

LXXXIII. 
Oh tliou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel. 
Triumphant Sylla I Thou, vrho didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou woaldst pause to feel 
The wrath of thy own ^Tongs, or reap the due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia: — thou, who with thy frown 
Annihilated senates — Boman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 

With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 

LXXXIY. 

The dictatorial wreath. — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which made 
Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 

, By aught than Romans Rome should thus be laid ? 
She who was named Eternal, and aiTay'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with lier haughty shadow, and display'd, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd. 

Her rushing wings — Oh! slie who was Almighty 
haird! 

LXXXY. 
Sylla was first of victors : but our own 
The sagest of usurpers. Cromwell : he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages I but beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny : 
His day of double victory and death 

Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his 
breath. 

LXXXYI. 
The third of the same moon whose former course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the selfsame day 



* Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. 
+ On the 3d of September Cromwell g-ained the victory of 
Dunbar: a year afterwards he obtained "his crowning 



Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 

And laid him with the earth's preceding clay.f 
And show'dnot Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous way. 
Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb y 

Were they but so in man's, how different were his 
doom I 

LXXXYII. 
And thou, dread statue I yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty, 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying digTiity, 
An offering to thiue altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Xemesis I did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 

Y^ictors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 

LXXXYIII. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 
Rome 32, 33 

She-wolf I whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
^\ here, as a monument of antique art, 
Thou standest :— Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild 

teat, 
Scorch 'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart. 
And thy limbs black with lightning— dost thou 

yet 
Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge 

forget ? 

LXXXIX. 
Thou dost :— but all thy foster-babe^ are dead— 
The men of iron : and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd. 
And fought and conquer'd, and the same course 

steer'd. 
At apish distance : but as yet none have, 
Xor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish "d by himself, to his own slaves a 

slave— 

XC. 
The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, follo^^ing him of old 
With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould. 3* 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet — and now himself he beam'd, 

XCI. 

And came— and saw— and conquer'd ! But the 

man 
Who would have tamed his eagles do\^ii to flee. 
Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van. 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory. 
With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
With but one weakest weakness— vanity. 
Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd— 
At what? can he avouch— or answer what he 
claim 'd y 

XCII. 
And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few vears 



mercy " of "Worcester ; and a few years after, on the same 
day. which he had ever esteemed the most fortunate for him, 
died. 

41 



CAXTO IV. 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XCIII.-CV. 



Had fix"d Inin with the Csesars in his fate. 
On whom we tread : For Oils the conqueror rears 
The arch of triumph I and for this the tears 
And hlood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
An universal dehige, which appears 
AVitliout an ark for wretched ujan's abode. 
And ebbs but to retiow I — Renew thy rainbow, God I 

XCIII. 

^Vhat from this barren beirig do we reap ? 
Onr senses narrow, and our reason frail. 
Life short, and truth a gem whicli loves the deep, 
And all things weigh "d in custom's falsest scale: 
Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and meii grow pale 
liCSt their own judgments should" become too 

bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have 

too much light. 

XCIV. 
And thus they plod in sluggish misery. 
Rotting from^sire to son. and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
"War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Tlieir fellows fall before, like leaves of the same 

tree. 

XCT. 
I speak not of men's creeds -tliey rest between 
Man and his Maker — ^Ijut of tilings allow'd, 
AverrM, and known. — and daily, hoiu'ly seen — 
The yoke that is upon ns doubly bowYl, 
And the intent of tyranny avow"d, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, v.'ho are gro\^'n 
The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
And shook them from their slumbers on the 

throne : 
Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 

XCYI. 

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquered be. 
And Freedom find no champion and no child 
Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
Or must such minds be nourisird in the wild. 
Deep in the unpruned forest, "midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
On infant AVasliington V Has Earth no more 

Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such 
shore ? 

XCYII. 
But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime. 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause in every age and clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen. 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall. 
And the base pageant last upon the scene. 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 

Which nips life's tree, and doom's man's worst— 
his second fall. 

XCYIII. 
Yet, Freedom I yet thy banner, torn, but flying. 
Streams like the^lmnder-storm against the wind; 
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying. 
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth. 
But the sap lasts,— and still the seed we find 
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the Xorth : 

So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth. 
42 



XCIX. 

There is a stern round tower of other days,* 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's batfled strength delays, 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy gro^^^l, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time overthrown : — 
"\rhat was this tower of strength ? witliin its cave 

What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid ?— A woman's 
grave. 

C. 
But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
Y'orthy a king's, or more — a Roman's bed ? 
What race of "cliiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir ? 
How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she 

not 
So honor VI— and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 

Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 

CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or they 

Who love the lords of others ? such have been 

Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 

Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 

Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 

Profuse of joy— or 'gaiust it did she war 

Inveterate in virtue '? Did she lean 

To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 

Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affec- 
tions are. 

CII. 
Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives its favorites — early death : yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume, "^ 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead. 

Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like red. 

cm. 

Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
Charms, kindred, children— with the silver gray 
On her long tresses, which might yet recall. 
It may be, still a something of the day 
AVhen they were braided, and her proud array 
And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
By Rome— But whither would Conjecture stray ? 
Thus much alone we know— Meteila died. 

The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or 
pride I 

CIY. 
I know not why— but standing thus by thee 
It seems as if i had thine inmate kno^A'n, 
Thou Tomb I and other days come back on me 
With recollected music, tliough the tone 
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I liad bodied forth the heated mind 

Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves 
behind ; 

CY. 
And from the planks, far shattered o'er the rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar • 
AVhich rushes on the solitary shore 



* Alluding to the tomb of Cecilia Meteila, called Capo di 
Bove. 



1 



CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



CYI.-CXVII. 



Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where sliould I steer ? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what 

is here. 

CYI. 
Then let the winds howl on I their h.armony 
Shall henceforth he my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' natfive site, 
Answering each other on the Palatine, 
AVitli their large eyes, all glistening gra,y and 

bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number 

mine. 

CYII. 
C>T)ress and ivy. weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap"d 
On what were chambers, arch crushed, column 

strown 
In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescoes 

steep 'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd. 
Deeming it midnight : — Temples, batlis. or halls ? 
Pronounce who can : for all that Learning reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are 

walls— 
Behold the Imperial Mount ! 't is thus the mighty 

falls. 

CYIII. 
There is the moral of all human tales ; 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and tlien Glory — when that fails. 
Wealth, vice, corruption, — barbarism at last. 
And History, with ail her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page.— 'tis better written here 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass "d 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask— Away with 

words I draw near, 

CIX. 

Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled. 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in tlie van 
Till the"^ sun's rays with added flame v.ere fill'd ! 
Where are its golden roofs V where those who dared 
to build ? 

ex. 

TuU}^ was not so eloquent as thou. 
Thou nameless column with the buried base I 
What are the laurels of the Csesar's brow ? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's y Xo— "t is that of Time : 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 
To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 
sublime,* 

CXI. 
Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome. 
And looking to the stars : tliej' had contain'd 

*The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter: that 
of Aurelius by St. Paul. "Trajan was 2>?'orerb(aZZy the best 
of the Roman princes (Euti'op. 1, ^iii. c. 5) ; and it would be 
easier to find a sovereign uniting- exactly the opposite charac- 
teristics, than one possessed of all the happy qualities ascribed 
to this emperor. He abstained equally from unfair exac- 
tions and unjust punishments; he had rather be loved as a 



A spirit which \^ath these would find a home, 

The last of those who o'er the whole earth reign 'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd. 
But yielded back his conquests : he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstain'd 
With household blood and v\-ine. serenely wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 

CXII. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the liigh place ' 
Where Rome embraced her heroes y where the 

steep 
Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence tiie Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
Their spoils liere ? Yes : and in yon field below, 
A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — 
The Forum, where the immortal accents glow. 

And still tlie eloquent air breathes— burns vritli 
Cicero ! 

CXIII. 
The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd. 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail 'd 
Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 

Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 

CXIY. 

Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of sluiiiie — 
The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
Rienzi I last of Romans 1 1 Wliile the tree 
Of freedom's wither 'd trunk puts forth a leaf. 
Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
The forum's champion, and the people's chief — 
Her new-born X uma thou— with reign, alas I too 

brief. 

CXY. 
Egeria I sweet creation of some heart 33 
Yvliich found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast ; wljate'er thou art 
Or v\'ert, — a young Aurora of the air. 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
Or. it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more thcin common votary there 
Too much adoring : whatsoe'er thy birth. 
Thou wert a beautiftil thoitght, and softly bodied 

forth. 

CXYI. 
Tlie mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years un- 

wrinkled. 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works : nor must "the delicate waters sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
The rill runs o'er, and round fern, flowers, and ivy 

creep. 

CXYII. 
Fantastically tangled : the green hills 
Are clothed with earlv blossoms, through the grass 



man than honored as a sovereign : he was affable to his 
people, respectful to the senate, and universally beloved by 
both ; he inspired none Avith dread but the enemies of his 
countrj',"— iiic.t. Rom. 1. Ixiii. c. 6, 7. 

+ The name and exploits of Rienzi must be familiar to the 
reader of Gibbon. 

43 



CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, cxviii.-cxxix. 



The quick-ej^ed lizard rustles, and the bills 
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class. 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
Tlie sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd by its 
skies. 

cxYiir. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far' footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, w'hat befell ? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
Of an enamor'd Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love— the earliest oracle ! 

CXIX. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying. 
Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
And Love, wliich dies as it was born, in sighing. 
Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed w^hich 
cloys ? 

cxx. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; wiience arise 
But w^eeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poisons ; such the plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our w^ants. 

CXXI. 

Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art— 
An unseen seraph, w^e believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martjTS are the broken heart, — 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy. 
And to a thought such shape and image given. 
As haunts the unquench'd soul— parch 'd — wearied 
—wrung— and riven. 

CXXII. 

Of its own beauty is the mind diseased. 
And fevers into false creation : — where. 
Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath 

seized ? 
In him alone. Can Mature show so fair ? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreached Paradise of our despair, 
Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen. 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 

again ? 

CXXIII. 

Who loves, raves— 'tis youth's frenzy— but the 

cure 
Is bitterer still, as charm by charm unwinds 
Which robed our idols, and w^e see too sure 
Kor worth nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on. 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
44 



The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most 
undone. 

CXXIY. 

We wither from our youth, w^e gasp away- 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon— unslaked the 

thirst. 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay. 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
But all too late,— so we are doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 't is the same. 
Each idle — and all ill— and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name. 
And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the 

flame. 

CXXY. 
Few — none— find what they love or could have 

loved. 
Though accident, blind contact, and the strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies— but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod. 
Whose touch turns Hope to dust,— the dust we all 

have trod. 

CXXVI. 

Our life is a false nature — 't is not in 

The harmony of things,— this hard decree, 

This uneradicable taint of sin, 

This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 

Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 

The skies wdiich rain their plagues on men like 

dew — 
Disease, death, bondage— all the woes we see, 
And worse, the woes we see not — which throb 

through 
The immedicable soul, wdth heart-aches ever new. 

CXXYII. 

Yet let us ponder boldly— 't is a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought— our last and only place 
Of refuge ; this, at least, shall still be mine : 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured— cabin'd, cribb'd, con- 
fined, 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind. 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch 
the blind. 

CXXYIII. 
Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line. 
Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine 
As 't were its natural torches, for divine 
Should be the light wiiich streams here, to illume 
Tills long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 

CXXIX. 

Hues winch have words, and speak to ye of 

heaven. 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument. 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and wdiere he hath leant 
Plis hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement. 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and w^ait till ages are its dower. 



CANTO IV. CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. cxxx.-cxlii. 



cxxx. 

Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the rain, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love,— sole philosopher, 
For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
"Which never loses though it doth defer— 
Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 

My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a 
gift: 

CXXXT. 
Amidst this wreck, w^iere thou hast made a 

shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate. 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine. 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate : — 
If tliou hast ever seen me too elate. 
Hear me not ; but if calmly I haA^e borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 

This iron in my soul in vain — shall tkeg not mourn y 

CXXXII. 

And thou, who never yet of human A\Tong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! ^6 
Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss. 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution— just. 
Had it but been from hands less near— in this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust I 

Dost thou not hear my heart V — Awake I thou shalt, 
and must. 

CXXXIII. 
It is not that I may not have incurred 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and, had it been conferral 
With a just weapon, it liad flovv'd inibound ; 
But now my blood shall rtot sink in tlie ground ; 
To thee I do devote it — tliou shalt take 
The vengeance which shall yet be sought and 

found. 
Which if I have not taken for the sake 

But let that pass— I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 

CXXXIY. 

And if my voice break forth, 't is not that now 
1 shrink from what is suffered : let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow. 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my w^ords disperse, 
Though I be ashes ; a far iiour shall WTeak 
The deep prophetic fullness of this verse. 

And pile on human heads the mountain of my 
curse ! 

CXXXV. 
That curse shall be Forgiveness.— Have I not— 
Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it. Heaven !— 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
Have I not suffered things to be forgiven ? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted. Life's life lied 

away? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 

As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

CXXXYI. 

From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
And subtler venom of the reptile crew. 



The Janus glance of whose significant ej^e. 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 

cxxxyii. 

But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire. 
And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
But there is tliat witliin me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
Like the remember'd tune of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

cxxxyiii. 

The seal is set.— Now welcome, thou dread power : 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
W^alk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
That we become a part of what has been. 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. . 

CXXXIX. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran. 
In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause. 
As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
And wlierefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but be- 
cause 
Sucli were the bloody Circus' genial lavrs. 
And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms— on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops ebbing slow 
From tlie red gash, fall heavy, one by one. 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him— he is gone. 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the 
wretch who won. 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize. 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay. 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
Tliere Avas their Dacian mother — he, their sire. 
Butcher 'd to make a Roman holiday — '^'^ 
All this rush'd with his blood— Shall he expire 
And unavenged ?— Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your 
ire! 

CXLII. 

But here, where Murder breathed her bloody 

steam ; 
And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways. 
And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain stream 
Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 
Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, ^s 
My voice sounds much— and fall the stars' faint 

rays 
On the arena void— seats crush'd— walls bow'd— 
And galleries where my steps seem echoes strangely 

loud. 

45 



CAXTo lY. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, cxltil-oliv. 



CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what xiiin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'cl ; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass. 
And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plundered, or but clear 'd ? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
Tv^lien the colossal fabric's form is near'd: 
It will not bear the briohtness of the day, 
Yf hich streams too much on all years, man, have 

reft awav. 

CXLIY. 
But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
Y^hen the stars twinkle through the loops of time. 
And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
Like laurels on tlie bald first Csesar's liead ; ^ 
Ylien the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
Tlien in this magic circle raise the dead : 
Heroes have trod this spot— 't is on their dust ye 

tread. 

CXLV. 
" Y^hile stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand,t 
Y'hen falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
And when Rome falls— the Y^orld." From our 

own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
On their foundations, and unaltered all : 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The Y'orld, the same wide den — of thieves, or what 

ye will. 

CXLYI. 
Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime— 
Slirine of all saints and tem.ple of all gods. 
From Jove to Jesus— spared and blest by time ; 
Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man 

plods 
His way through thorns to ashes— glorious dome! 
Shalt thou not last ? Time's scythe and tyrants' 

rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantlieon !— pride of Rome ! 

CXLY^II. 
Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture : to those 
Y^ho worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on honor'd forms, whose busts around 
them close. J 

CXLYIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light I 
Y''hat do I gaze on ? Xothing : Look again ! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 



* Suetonius informs us that Julius Caesar was particularly 
gratified by that decree of the senate which enabled him to 
wear a wreath of laurel on all occasions. He Avas anxious, 
not to show that he was the conqueror of the world, but to 
hide that he was bald. A stranger in Rome would hardly 
have guessed at the motive, nor should we without the help 
of the historian. 

+ This is quoted in the " Decline and Fall of the Roman 
Empire," as a yjroof that the Coliseum was entire when seen 
by the Anglo-Saxon pilgrims at the end of the seventh, or 
the beginning of the eighth, century. 
46 



An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing-mother,^ in whose vein 
The blood is nectar :— but what doth she there, 
With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and 

bare? 

CXLIX. 
Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
Y^here on the heart and /ro)9/ the heart we took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife. 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
She sees her little bud put fortli its leaves — 
Y^liat may the fruit be yet ? I know not— Cain was 

Eve's. 

CL. 
But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birtli. Xo ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the lire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great XTature's Xile, whose deep stream rises 

higher 
Tlian Egypt's river :— from that gentle side 
Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm 

holds no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 
Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
Y^iiere sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nurse ! 
Xo drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing its"source 
Y^ith life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,|| 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles. 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Y^liose traveU'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth. 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 

To view the huge design which sprung from such a 
birth ! 

CLIII. 
But lo ! the dome— the vast and wondrous dome, 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyena and the jackal in their shade ; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey 'd 

Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray 'd ; 

CLIY. 
But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone— with nothing like to thee — 



% The Pantheon has been made a receptable for the busts 
of modern great, or, at least, distinguished men. The flood 
of light which once fell through the large orb above on the 
whole circle of divinities, now shines on a numerous assem- 
blage of mortals, some one or two of Avhom have been almost 
deified by the veneration of their countrymen. 

§ This and the next three stanzas allude to the story of the 
Roman daughter, Avhich is recalled to the traveller by the 
site, or pretended site, of that adventure, now shown at the 
church of St. Nicholas in Carcere. 

II The castle of St. Angelo. 



CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. clv.-clxvii. 



Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
Since Zion's desolation, when that he 
Forsook his former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, "in his honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect y Majesty, 
Power, Glory. Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 

CLY. 

Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not : 
And why ? it is not lessened ; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot,' 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality : and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 

CLYI. 

Thou movest— but increasing with the advance. 
Like climbing some great Alp, whicli still doth 

rise. 
Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
Tastness which grows — Init grows to harmonize — 
All musical in its immensities ; 
Kich marbles— richer painting— shrines where 

flan:!e 
The lamps of gold— and haughty dome which vies 
In air with Earth's chief structures, though their I 
frame j 

Sits on the firm-set ground— and this the clouds must 
claim. 

CLYII. 
Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
And as the ocean many bays will make 
That ask the eye— so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hatli got by heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In miglity graduations, part by part. 
The glory which at once upon thee did not dart, 

CLYIII. 
Xot by its fault — ^but thine : Our outward sense 
Is buf of gradual grasi^ — and as it is 
Tliat what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression : even so this 
Outshining and o'erwlielming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and, greatest of the great, 
Defies at first our nature's littleness, 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

CLIX. 

Then pause, and be enlightened : there is more 
In such a sur^-ey than the sating gaze 
Of vronder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
Wiiat former time, nor skill, nor thought could 

plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 

Its gollen sands, and learn what great concep- 
- tions can. 

CLX. 
Or. turning to the Yatican, go see 
Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
A father's love and mortal's agony 
"With an immortal's patience blending : — Yain 
The struggle : vain, against the coiling strain. 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp. 
The old man's clench : the long envenonrd chain 
Eivets the living links, — the enormous asp 

Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 



CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow. 
The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
The Sun in human limbs array "d, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph m the fight ; 
The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
With an immortal's vengeance : in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form— a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden "d in that vision— are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless 'd 
The mind with in its most unearthly mood. 
When each conception was a heavenly guest — 
A ray of immortality— and stood 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god ! 

CLXIII. 
And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
The fire whicli we endure, it was repaid 
By him to whom the energy was given 
Whicli this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory— which, if made 
By human hands^ is not of human thought ; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with vrhich 
't was wrought. 

CLXIY. 
But where is he, the Pilgrina of my song. 
The being who upheld it through the past ? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing : — if lie was 
Alight but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
Yv'ith forms which live and suffer— let that pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 

CLXY. 
Which gathers shadovr, substance, life, and all 
That we inherit, in its mortal shroud. 
And spreads the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms ; and 

the cloud 
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melanchply halo scarce allow'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness : rays 
Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the 

gaze, 

CLXYI. 
And send us prying into the abyss. 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its TATetched essence i and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought 1 can we be made the same : 
It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat 

was gore. 

CLXYII. 
Hark I forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long low distant murmur of dread sound. 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound ; 
Througli storm and darkness yawns the rending 

ground, 

47 



CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, clxviil-clxxviii. 



The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief 
Seems royal still, though with her head dis- 
crown "d. 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast fields no 
relief. 

CLXYIII. 
Scion of cliiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ? 
Could not tlie grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
In the sad midnight, while thy lieart stiU bled, 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy. 
Death hush'd that pang forever : with thee fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fiird the imperial isles so full it seem'd to 
clov. 

CLXIX. 
Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored I 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee. 
And Freedom's lieart, grown heavy, cease to 

hoard 
Her many griefs for OxE ? for she had pour'd 
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou. too. lonely lord, 
And desolate consort— vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year ! the father of the dead ! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
Thy bridal-s fruit is ashes : in the dust 
The fair-hair"d Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
Tiie love of millions ! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her ! and. though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and bless'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, wliose promise seem VI 
Like stars to shepherds' eyes :— 't was but a meteor 

beam-d. 

CLXXI. 
Woe unto us. not her : * for she sleeps well : 
The tickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung 
Xations have arm'd in madness, the strange fatef 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath 

flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposmg scale, which crushes soon or 

late,— 

CLXXII. 
These might have been her destiny; but no, 
Our hearts deny it : and so young, "so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear ! 
From thy Sire's to his himi blest subject's breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
The land which loved thee so that none could love 

thee best. 



* "The death of the Princess Chariotte has been a shock 
even here (Venice), and must have been an earthquake at 
home. The fate of this poor girl is melancholy in every 
respect ; dying at twenty or so, in childbed— of a boy too. a 
present princess and future queen, and just as she began to 
be happy, and to enjoy herself, and the hopes which she in- 
spired. I feel sorry in every respect."— Byro/i Letters. 

+ Mary died on the scaffold : Elizabeth of a broken heart; 
Charles v. a hermit; Louis XIV. a bankrupt in means and 
glory: Cromwell of anxiety : and, "the greatest is behind," 
Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns a long but 
superfluous list might be added of names equally illustrious 
and unhappy. 

48 



CLXXIII. 

Lo, Xemi ! % navell'd in the woody hills 
So far, that the uprooting wind which teai-s 
The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies. 'reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as clierish'd hate, its surface Avears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can sliake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 

CLxxiy. 

And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ;— and afar 
Tlie Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
Tlie Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
"xVrms and the Man," whose reascending star 
Rose o"er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Eorae ;— and where yon bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight. 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's 
delight, i 

CLxxy. 

But I forget.— ^ly Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
And he and I must part.— so let it be. — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea : 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me. 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 

Those waves, we follow "d on till the dark Euxine 
roll'd 

CLXXYI. 
Upon the blue Symplegades : long years, — 
Long, though not very many, — since have done 
Their work on both ; some suffering and some 

tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; 
We have had our reward — and it is here. — 
That vnt can yet feel gladden "d by the sun. 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 

As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 

CLXXYII. 

Oh ! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister. 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her I 
Ye elements!— in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted— Can ye not 
Accord ine such a being V Do I eiT 
In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
Though vvith them to converse can rarelv be our 
^lot. 

CLXXYIII. 
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods. 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sek, and music in its roar : 
I love not Man the less, but Xature more, 



t The Aillage of Xemi was near the Arician retreat of 
Egeria, and. from the shades which embosomed the temple 
of Diana, has preserved to this day its distinctive appellation 
of Tlie Grove. Xemi is but an evening's ride from the com- 
fortable inn of Albano. 

§ The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beauty, and from the convent on the highest point, which 
has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the pros- 
pect embraces all the objects alluded to in this stanza; the 
J^fediterranean ; the whole scene of the latter half of the 
^neid. and the coast from beyond the mouth of the Tiber 
to the headland of Circaeum and the Cape of Terracina.— See 
Appendix, Note 39. 



I 



^ 



■^ 



^^2 



» 3 r B 

it. 2. a> ■->■ 

3 TO _h '* 

OQ :3- » ^ 



c -1- — -J 



D !» 

in .- 

I 
> 

o 

r 
o 

1 



3 = 




CANTO IV. CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, clxxix.-clxxxvi. 



From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle v/ith the Universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean— roll ! 
TeiL thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
Man marks the earth with ruin— his control 
Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and un- 
known. 

CLXXX. 
His steps are not upon thy paths,— thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him,— thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he 

wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay. 
And dashest him again to earth :— there let him 
lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals. 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake. 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome,Carthage,what are they ?* 
Thy waters wash 'd them power while they were 

free. 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou ; — 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play— 



* When Lord Byron wrote this stanza, he had, no doubt, 
the following- passage in Boswell's Johnson floating on his 
mind :— " Dining one day with General Paoli, and talking of 
his projected journey to Italy,—' A man,' said Johnson, 'who 
has not been in Italy is always conscious of an inferiority, 
from his not having seen what it is expected a man should 
see. [See Appendix, Note 40.] The grand object of all 



Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow- 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 

CLXXXIII. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. 
Calm or convulsed— in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark - heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sub- 
lime — 
The image of Eternity— the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 

Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 

CLXXXIV. 
And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wanton 'd with thy breakers— they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror— 't was a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. 

CLXXXY. 

My task is done— my song hath ceased— my theme 
Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit 
My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ,— 
Would it were worthier ! butl am not now 
That which I have been— and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me— and the glow 

Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and 
low. 

CLXXXYI. 
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been — 
A sound which makes us linger ;— yet — farewell ! 
Ye I who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain. 

If such there were — with you^ the moral of his 
strain ! 



travelling is to see the shores of the Mediterranean. On 
those shores were the four great empires of the world : the 
Assyrian, the Persian, the Grecian, and the Roman. All our 
religion, almost all our law, almost all our arts, almost all 
that sets us above savages, has come to us from the shores of 
the Mediterranean.' The general observed that ' The Medi- 
terranean ' would be a noble subject for a poem." 




Photograph of an Ancient Coin of Trajan, Bbowing the Emperor's Effigy and his Temple and Column ; Rome. 

His sovereign virtues— still we Trajan's name adore.— Page 43, stanza cxt. 

4 49 



THE GIAOUE: 

% ^rn^mt\\\ of a lurltish laic. 



" One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our Avoes— 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
For which joy hath no balm— and affliction no sting." 

MOOilE. 



TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ., 



AS A SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OP ADJIIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, 
RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 



BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 



London, May, 1813. 



AD VEBTISEMENT, 




THE tale which these disjointed fragments present, 
is founded upon circumstances now less common in 
the East than formerly ; either because the ladies are 
more circumspect than in the " olden time," or because 
the Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. 

The story, when entire, contained the adventures of a 
female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussulman man- 
ner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young 
Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were 



possessed by the Republic of Venice, and soon after the 
Ai-nauts were beaten back from the Morea, which they 
had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian 
invasion. 

The desertion of the Mainotes, on being refused tlie 
plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enter- 
prise, and to the desolation of the Morea, during which 
the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled even 
in the annals of the faithful.* 



25he (Siaoun 

No breath of air to break the wave 
That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tombf which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
First greets the homeward-veering skill, 
High o'er the land he saved in vain; 
When shall such hero live again ? 



Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 
There, mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave: 



* An event in which Lord BjTon was personally concerned 
undoubtedly supplied the gTOundwork of this tale; but for 
the story, so circumstantially put forth, of his having- him- 
self been the lover of this female slave, there is uo founda- 
tion. 

50 



And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odors there! 
For there— the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the Nightingale, J 
The maid for whom his melody. 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: 
His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows. 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by Nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven; 
And grateful yields that smiling sky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share, 



+ A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some 
supposed the sepulchre of Themistocles. 

X The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well- 
known Persian fable. If I mistake not, the " Eulbui of a 
thousand tales" is one of his appellations. 



THE GIAOUR, 



And many a grotto, meant for rest, 

That holds the pirate for a guest ; 

Whose bark in sheltering cove below 

Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 

Till the gay mariner's guitar"^ 

Is heard, and seen the evening star; 

Then stealing with the muffled oar. 

Far shaded by the rocky sliore, 

Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 

And turn to groans his roundelay. 

Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, 

As if for gods, a dv\'elling-place, 

And every charm and grace hath mix'd 

Witliin the paradise she fix'd, 

There man, enamor'd of distress, 

Should mar it into wilderness, 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour ; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land. 

But springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him— but to spare! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside, 

Tliere passion riots in her pride. 

And lust and rapine Vvildly reign 

To darken o'er tlie fair domahi. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd, 

And, flx'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell; 

So soft the scene, so form'd for joy. 

So curst the tyrants that destroy : 

He v\iio hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere the first day of death is fled. 
The first dark clay of notliingness. 
The last of danger and distress 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines wiiere" beauty lingers), 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that 's there. 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And— but for that sad shrouded eye. 
That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now. 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy f 
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The (Toom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these, and these alone. 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous liour. 
He still migiit doubt the tyrant's power ; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
The first, last look by death reveal'd!:}: 
Such is the aspect of this shore; 
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start, for soul is wanting there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, - 
That parts not quite with parting breath : 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expression's last receding ray, 
A gilded halo hovering round decay. 
The farewell beam of Feeling pass'd away! 



*^he g-uitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor 
by nig-ht; with a steady fair wind, and during- a calm, it is 
accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. 

+ "Ay, but to die and go we know not where, 
To lie in cold obstruction."— 

Measure for Measure, act iii., sc. 1. 

1 1 trust that few of my readers have ever had an oppor- 
tunity of witnessing what is here attempted in description ; 
but: those who have will probably retain a painful remem- 
brance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few ex- 



Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
Wiiich gleams, but warms no more its cherish 'd 
earth ! 

Clime of the unforgotten brave! 
Whose land from plain to mountain cave 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! 
Sln-ine of the mighty! can it be. 
That this is all remains of thee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 

Say, is not this Thermopylaj? 
These waters blue that round you lave. 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce wliat sea, what sliore is this ? 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
These scenes, their story not unknoT\Ti, 
Arise, and make again your own ; 
Snatcli from tiie ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires ; 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
Tliat Tyranny shall quake to hear. 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame : 
For Freedom's battle once begun. 
Bequeath 'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won. 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page ! 
Attest it many a deatldess age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though tlie general doom 
Hath swept tiie column from tlieir tomb, 
A mightier monument command. 
The mountains of their native land ! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's ej'e 
The graves of tliose that cannot die! 
'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace. 
Each step from splendor to disgrace; 
Enough— no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes ! Self-abasement paved tlie way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 

What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 

No legend of thine olden time. 
No theme on which the Muse might soar 
High as thine own in days of yore, 

Wlien man was worthy of thy clime. 
Tlie hearts vrithin thy valleys bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave. 
Slaves— nay, tlie bondsmen of a slave, § 

And callous, save to crime ; 
Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where legist above the brutes ; 
Without even savage virtue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 
Still to the neighboring ports they waft 
Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
In this the subtle Greek is found. 
For this, and this alone, renown 'd. 
In vain might Liberty invoke 
The spirit to its bondage broke, 
Or raise the neck that courts the yoke : 



ceptions, the features of the dead, a few hours, and but for a 
few hours, after "the spirit is not there." It is to be re- 
marked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the 
expression is always that of languor, whatever the natural 
energy of the sufferer's character : but in death from a stab 
the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, 
and the mind its bias, to the last. 

§ Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the 
slave and guardian of the women), who appoints the Way- 
wode. A pander and eunucii— these are not polite, yet true 
appellations— now governs the governor of Athens ! 
51 



THE GIAOUR. 



No more her sorrows I bewail, 
Yet this will be a mournful tale, 
And they who listen may believe, 
Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 



Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
The shadows of the rocks advancing 
Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
Of island pirate or Mainote; 
And fearful for his light caique, 
He shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
Though worn and weary with his toil, 
And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
Till Port Leone's safer shore 
Receives him by the lovely light 
That best becomes an Eastern night. 

* * -x- * * * 

Who thundering comes on blackest steed,* 
With slacken 'd bit and hoof of speed ? 
Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
The cavern'd echoes wake around 
In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
The foam tliat streaks the courser's side 
Seems gather'd from the ocean tide : 
Though weary Avaves are sunk to rest, 
There 's none within his rider's breast ; 
And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
'T is calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 
I know thee not, I loathe thy race. 
But in thy lineaments I trace 
What time sliall strengthen, not efface ; 
Though young and pale, that sallow front 
Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 
Though bent on earth thine evil eye. 
As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
Right well I view and deem thee one 
Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 

On — on he hasten 'd, and he drew 
My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
Though like a demon of the night 
He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
His aspect and his air impress 'd 
A troubled memory on my breast. 
And long upon my startled ear 
Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
He spurs his steed; he nears the steep. 
That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep; 
He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
The rock relieves him from mine eye; 
Tor well I ween unwelcome he 
Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee; 
And not a star but shines too bright 
On him \\\\o takes such timeless flight. 
He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 
One glance he snatch 'd, as if his last, 
A moment check'd his wiieeling steed, 
A moment breathed him from his speed, 
A moment on his stirrup stood — 
Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
The crescent glimmers on the hill. 
The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still : 

* The reciter of the tale is a Turkish fisherman, who has 
been employed during the day in the gulf of ^gina, and in 
the evening, apprehensive of the Mainote pirates who infest 
the coast of Attica, lands with his boat on the harbor of 
Port Leone, the ancient Piraeus. He becomes the eye-witness 
of nearly all the incidents in the story, and in one of them is 
a principal agent. 

+ "Tophaike," musket.— The Bairam is announced by the 
cannon at sunset; the illumination of the mosques, and the 
firing of aU kinds of small arms, loaded with hall, proclaim it 
during the night. 

52 



Though too remote for sound to wake 
In echoes of the far tophaike,t 
The flashes of each joyous peal 
Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
To-night, set Rhamazani's sun ; 
To-night, the Bairam feast 's begun ; 
To-night — but who and what art thou, 
Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
And wliat are these to thine or thee, 
That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 

He stood — some dread w^as on his face, 
Soon Hatred settled in its place: 
It rose not with the reddening flush 
Of transient Anger's hasty blush. 
But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
Whose ghastly wdiiteness aids its gloom. 
His brow was bent, liis eye was glazed; 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised. 
And sternly shook his hand on high. 
As doubting to return or fly; 
Impatient of his flight delay 'd. 
Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blade ; 
That sound had burst his waking dream. 
As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
Away, away, for life he rides : 
Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreedj 
Springs to the touch his startled steed; 
The rock is doubled, and the sliore 
Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
The crag is won, no more is seen 
His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
'Tw^as but a moment that he stood, 
Then sped as if by death pursued: 
But in that instant o'er his soul 
AV inters of Memory seem'd to roll. 
And gather in that drop of time 
A life of pain, an age of crime. 
O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years : 
AVhat felt he then, at once opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast ? 
That pause, which ponder'd o'er liis fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
Though in Time's record nearly nought. 
It was Eternity to Thought ! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb: 
He came, he went, like the simoom,^ 
That harbinger of fate and gloom. 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead! 



% Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is 
darted from horeeback with great force and precision. It is 
a favorite exercise of the Mussulmans ; but I know not if it 
can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art 
are the Black Eunuchs of Constantinople. I think, next to 
these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful that came 
within my observation. 

§ The blast of the desert, fatal to everything living, and 
often alluded to in eastern poetry. 



THE GIAOUR. 



The steed is vanish 'd from the stall; 
No serf is seen in, Hassan's haD ; 
The lonely spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The bat builds in his Haram bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The owl usurps the beacon-tower: 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
Witli baffled thirst, and famine, grim; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are 

spread. 
'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
And chase the sultriness of day. 
As springing high the silver dew 
In whirls fantastically flew. 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
'Twas sweet when cloudless stars were bright, 
To view the wave of watery light. 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
Around the verge of that cascade •, 
And oft upon his motlier's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song; 
And softer seem'd each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with its own. 
But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
Along the brink at twilight's close: 
The stream that fill'd that font is fled— 
The blood that warm'd his heart is shed ! 
And here no more shall human voice 
Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
That quench 'd in silence, all is still, 
But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill : 
Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 
No hand shall close its clasp again. 
On desert sands 't were joy to scan 
The rudest steps of fellow man. 
So here the very voice of Grief 
Might wake an Echo like relief — 
At least 'twould say, ''All are not gone; 
There 'lingers Life, though but in one" — 
For many a gilded chamber's there. 
Which solitude might wtU forbear ; 
Within that dome as yet Decay 
Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 
But gloom is gather 'd o'er the gate. 
Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 
Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 
For bounty cheers not his delay; 
Nor there will weary stranger halt 
To bless the sacred "bread and salt."* 
Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
Pass heedless and unheeded by, 
For Comtesy and Pity died 
AVith Hassan on the mountain side ; 
His roof, that refuge unto men. 
Is Desolation's hungry den. 
The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labor. 
Since his turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre If 



* To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your 
host, insures the safety of the guest ; even though an enemy, 
his person from that moment is sacred. 

■f- 1 need hardly observe, that Charity and Hospitality are 
the first duties enjoined by Mahomet ; and to say truth, very 
generally practised by his disciples. The first praise that 
can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegj-ric on his bounty ; the 
next, on his valor. 

* The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, 
in a metal scabbard, generally of silver; and, among the 
wealthier, gilt, or of gold. 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; % 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Emir by his garb of green : § 
"Ho! who art thou?"— "This low salamU 
Replies of Moslem faith I am."— 
" The burthen ye so gently bear 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

"Thou speakest sooth; thy skiff unmoor, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay, leave the sail still f url'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter'd by. 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channell'd waters dark and deep. 
Rest from your task— so — bravely done. 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet 't is the longest voyage, 1 trow. 
That one of— * ^ * * 



Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I w^atch'd it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
That checker 'd o'er the living stream 
I gazed, till vanishing from view. 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep. 
Known but to Genii of the deep. 
Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 



As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen 1[ of eastern spring. 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near. 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour. 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child. 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears. 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If w^on,to equal ills betray 'd. 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice : 
V The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
CHath lost its charm by being caught, 
For every touch that woo'd its stay 
Hath brush 'd its brightest hues away. 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest V 



§ Green is the privileged color of the prophet's numerous 
pretended descendants ; with them, as here, faith (the family 
inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of good 
works : they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. 

II " Salam aleikoum ! aleikoum salam ! " peace be with you ; 
be with you peace — the salutation reserved for the faithful :— 
to a Christian, " Urlarula," a good journey ; or " Saban hire- 
sem, saban serula; " good morn, good even ; and sometimes, 
" May your end be happy; '' are the usual salutes. 

f The blue-winged butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare 
and beautiful of the species. 

53 



THE GIAOUR. 



Can this with faded pinion soar 

From rose to tulip as before ? 

Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 

Find joy within her broken bower ? 

No: gayer insects fluttering by 

]S[e'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 

And lovelier tilings have mercy shown 

To every failing but their own, 

And every woe a tear can claim 

Except an erring sister's shame. 

At -K- ^ * -X- * 

The ]SIind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows, 
The flames around their captive close, ^;:^ 

Till inly searched by thousand throes, j^ 

And maddening in her ire. 
One sad and sole relief slie knows, •: 

The sting slie nourish'd for her foes, / 

Whose venom never yet was vain, o 

Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, ^ 

And darts into her desperate brain: -4 

So do the dark in soul expire, T 

Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; * ^' 

So writhes the mind Eemorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven. 
Darkness above, despair beneath. 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

*- i«- * -X- * •?«• 

Black Hassan from the Har?tm flies, 
Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour eniploys, 
Yet sliares lie not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly, 
^Vben Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell? 
That tale can only Hassan tell: 
Strange rumors in our city say 
L^])on that eve she fled away 
When Rhamazan'sf last suii was set, 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim'd the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
'Twas then she went as to the bath. 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in v\Tath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage 
In likeness of a Georgian page. 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaour. 
Sr*mewhat of this had Hassan deem'd; 
But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave: 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 



* Alluding- to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so placed 
for experiment by g-enlle philosophers. Some maintain that 
the position of the sting, when turned towards the head, is 
merely a convulsive movement , but others have actually 
broug-ht in the verdict " Felo de se." The scorpions are 
surely interested in a speedy decision of the question; as if 
once fairly established as insect Catos, thej^ will probably be 
allowed to live as long as they think proper, without being 
martyred for the sake of an hj-pothesis. 

+ The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. 

i Phingari, the moon. 

§ The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Giamschid, the 
embellisher of Istakhar; from its splendor, named Scheb- 
gorag, "the torch of night ; " also " the cup of the sun," &c. 
la the first edition, "Giamschid" was written a,'s a word of 
three syllables; so D'Herbelot has it: but T am told Richard- 
son reduces it to a dissj'Uable, and writes " Jamshid." I have 
left in the text the orthography of the one with the pronun- 
ciation of the other. 

II Al-Sirat, the bridge of breadth, narrower than the thread 
of a famished spider, and sharper than the edge of a sword, 
54 



Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Wiio did not watch their charge too well; 
But others say, that on that night. 
By pale Phingari'st trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone, to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

■X- ^ * ^ * * 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well ; 
As large, as languishingly dark, 
But Soul beam'cl forth in every spark 
Tliat darted from beneath the lid. 
Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.^ 
Yea, Soul^ and should our prophet say 
That form was nought but breathing clay, 
By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
Though ou Al-Sirat's || arch I stood, 
Which totters o'er the fiery flood. 
With Paradise within my view. 
And all his Houris^j beckoning through. 
Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
And keepliiat portion of his creed. 
Which saitli that woman is but dust, 
A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? ^* 
On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
That through her eye the Immortal shone; 
On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
The j^oung pomegranate's ft blossoms strew 
Their bloom in blushes ever new; 
Her hair in hyacinthine 1% flow. 
When left to roll its folds below, 
As 'midst her handmaids in the hall 
She stood superior to them all. 
Hath swept tlie marble where her feet 
Gleam 'd whiter than the momitain sleet 
Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
So moved on earth Circassians daughter, 
The loveliest bird of Franguestan I {.I 
As rears her crest the ruflied Swan, 

And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck:— 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it m^eant to praise. 
Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
Her heart as tender to her mate; 
Her mate— stern Hassan, who was he ? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 
* ^ * ^ * -j^ 



over which the Mussulmans must sltatc into Paradise, to 
which it is the only entrance ; but this is not the worst, the 
river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, 
the unskillful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a 
" facilis descensus Averni," not very pleasing in prospect to 
the next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards for 
the Jews and Christians. 

T The virgins of Paradise, called from their large black 
eyes, Hur al oyun. 

** A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third of Para- 
dise to well-behaved women ; but by far the greater number 
of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and exclude 
their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, 
they cannot discern "any fitness of things" in the souls 
of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded by the 
Houris. 

•ft An Oriental simile, which may, perhaps, though fairly 
stolen, be deemed " plus Arabe qu'en Ai*abie." 

U Hyacinthine, in Arabic " Sunbul ; " as common a thought 
in the eastern poets as it was among the Greeks. 

§§ "Franguestan," Circassia. 



THE GIAOUR. 



Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stained with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood. 
And few returned to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pasha wore. 
Which still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
'T is said he goes to woo a bride 
More true than her who left his side ; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower. 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 

* TV- * ^t -Sfr -X- 

The sun's last raj^s are on the hill. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer: 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seek 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
-Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap; 
Tlie rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile : 
Above, the m^ountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night. 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare. 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there: 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite clay, 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven; 
E;)r where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil'dV 



They reach the grove of pine at last : 
" Bismillah ! * now the peril 's past ; 
For yonder view the opening plain, 
And tliere we '11 prick our steeds amain :" 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
. Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
Swift from tlieir steeds the riders bound; 

But three shall never mount again : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 

The dying ask revenge in vain. 
With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 

Half shelter'd by tlie steed; 
Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
And there await the coming shock, 

JS^or tamely stand to bleed 

* Bismillah—" In the name of God ; " the commencement 
of all the chapters of the Koran but one, and of prayer and 
thanksg-iving. 

+ "Amaun," quarter, pardon. 



Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
Stern Hassan only from his horse 
Disdains to light, and keeps his course 
Till fiery flashes in the van 
Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
Have well secured the only way 
Could now avail the promised prey ; 
Then curl'd his very beard with ire. 
And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
" Though far and near the bullets hiss, 
I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
And now the foe their covert quit, 
And call his vassals to submit; 
But Hassan's frown and furious word 
Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
ISTor of his little band a man 
Resign 'd carbine or ataghan, 
ISTor raised the craven cry, Amaun ! f 
In fuller sight, more near and near, 
The lately ambush'd foes appear. 
And, issuing from the grove, advance 
Some who on battle-charger prance. 
Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
"'Tis he! 'tis he! I know him now; 
I know him by his pallid brow^ ; 
I know him by the evil eye % 
That aids his envious treachery; 
I know him by his jet-black barb : 
Though now array 'd in Arnaut garb, 
Apostate from his own vile faith, 
It shall not save him from the death: 
'T is he ! w^ell met in any hour, 
Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! " 

As rolls the river into ocean. 
In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 

As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
In azure column proudly gleaming. 
Beats back the current many a rood, 
In curling foam and mingling flood. 
While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
Roused by the blast of winter, rave ; 
Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
The lightnings of the waters flash 
In awful whiteness o'er the shore, 
That shines and shakes beneath the roar; 
Thus — as the stream and ocean greet. 
With waves that madden as they meet — 
Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
And fate, and fury, drive along. 
The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
And pealing wide or ringing near 
Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
The death-shot hissing from afar; 
The shock, the shout, the groan of war. 
Reverberate along that vale. 
More suited to the shepherd's tale: 
Though few the numbers — theirs the strife 
That neither spares nor speaks for life I 
Ah! fondly youthful hearts can press. 
To seize and share the fond caress; 
But Love itself could never pant 
For all that Beauty sighs to grant 
With half the fervor Hate bestows 
Upon the last embrace of foes, 
When grappling in the fight they fold 
Those arms that ne'er shall loose their hold: 
Friends meet to part; Love laughs at faith; 
True foes, once met, are join'd till death I 



$ The "evil eye," a common superstition in the Levant, 
and of which the imag-inary eTects are yet very singular on 
those who conceive themselves affected. 



55 



THE GIAOUR. 



With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
Yet strain "ci within the severed hand 
Which quivers round that faithless brand; 
His turban far behind him roll'd, 
And cleft in twain its firmest fold; 
His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
And crimson as those clouds of mom 
That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
The day shall have a stormy end ; 
A stain on every busli that bore 
A fragment of liis palampore.* 
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
Yet lowering on his enemy, 
As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
As dark as liis that bled below. — 



" Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
But his shall be a redder grave; 
Her spirit pointed well the steel 
Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
Was vain against the vengeful G-iaour : 
He caird on Alia— but the word 
Arose unheeded or unheard. 
Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
Be pass'd, and thine accorded tliere V 
I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
The traitor in his turn to seize; 
My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
And now I go— but go alone." 



The browsing camels' bells are tinkling ; 
His Mother lobk'd from her lattice high — f 

She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
The pasture green beneath her eye. 

She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
" 'Tis twilight— sure his train is nigh." 
She could not rest in the garden-bo v/er. 
But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
" Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
ISTor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
Why sends not the Bridegroom his promised 

gift V 
Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
Oh, false reproach ! yon Tartar now 
Has gain'd our nearest mountain's bit)w, 
And warily the steep descends, 
And now within the valley bends, 
And he bears the gift at his saddle-bow — 
How could I deem his courser slow ? 
Eight well my largess shall repay 
His welcome speed and weary way." 



* The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank. 

+ " The mother of Sisera looked out at a window, and cried 
through the lattice, "Why is his chariot so long in coining? 
why tarry the wheels of his chariot ? "—Judges, c. v. v. 28. 

$ The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the head- 
dress ; the shawl is wound round it, and forms the turban. 

§ The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate .the 
tombs of the Osmanlies, whether in the cemetery or the wil- 
derness. In the mountains you frequentlj' pass similar me- 
mentos : and on inquiry you are informed that they record 
some victim of rebellion, plunder, or revenge. 

n " Alia Hu ! " the concluding words of the muezzin's call 
to prayer from the highest gallery on the exterior of the 
minaret. On a still evening, when the muezzin has a fine 
voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and 
beautiful beyond aU the bells in Christendom. Valid, the 
son of Abdalmalek, was the first who erected a minaret or 
turret ; and this he placed on the grand mosque at Damascus, 
56 



The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
But scarce upheld his fainting weight : 
His swarthy visage spake distress, 
But this might be from weariness ; 
His garb Avith sanguine spots was dyed, 
But these might be from his courser's side; 
He drew the token from his vest- 
Angel of Death! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest! 
His calpac I rent— his caftan red— 
" Lady, a fearful bride thy son hath wed: 
Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
Peace to the brave! whose blood is spilt: 
Woe to the Giaour! for his the guilt." 
* * ^ * * " * -x- 

A turban? carved in coarsest stone, 
A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown. 
Whereon can now be scarcely read 
The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
A victim in that lonely dell. 
There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
As e'er at Mecca bent the knee; 
As ever scorn'd forbidden Avine, 
Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
In orisons resumed anew 
At solemn sound of "Alia Hu ! " |1 
Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
And stranger in his native land ; 
Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
And imavenged, at least in blood. 
But him the maids of Paradise 

Imi)atient to their halls invite. 
And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 

On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
They comie— their kerchiefs green they wave,1[ 
And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
3Vho falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
is worthiest an immortal bower. 



But thou, false Infidel! shall writhe 
Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe; 
And from its torment 'scape alone 
To wander round lost Eblis'"** throne; 
And fire unquench'd, unquenchable. 
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell; 
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
The tortures of that inward hell! 
But first, on earth as Vampire ft sent. 
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
Then ghastly haunt thy native place. 
And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
There from thy daughter, sister, wife. 
At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce 
]Must feed thy livid living corse : 
Thy victims ere they yet expire 
Shall know the demon for their sire, 



for the muezzin, or crier, to announce from it the hour of 
prayer. The practice is kept to this day. See D'Herbelot. 

1 The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks :— 
"I see— I see a dark-eyed girl of Paradise, and she waves a 
handkerchief, a kerchief of green; and cries aloud, 'Come, 
kiss me, for I love thee,' " &c. 

** Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. 

++ The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. 
Honest Tournefort tells a long story, which Mr. Southey, in 
the notes on Thalaba, quotes, about these "Vroucolochas," as 
he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha." I recol- 
lect a whole familj- being terrified by the scream of a child, 
which they imagined must proceed from such a visitation. 
The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find 
that " Broucolokas " is an old legitimate Hellenic appella^ 
tion— at least is so applied to Arsenius, who, according to the 
Greeks, was after his death animated bj' the Devil.— The 
moderns, however, use the word I mention. 



THE GIAOUR. 



As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
Thy flowers are withered on the stena. 
But one that for thy crime must fall. 
The youngest, most beloved of all, 
Shall bless thee with a fat her -s name- 
That w^ord shall WTap thy heart in flame ! 
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
And the last glassy glance must view 
Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue; 
Then with unhallow'd hand shall tear 
The tresses of her yellow hair, 
Of which in life a lock when shorn 
Affection's fondest pledge was worn, 
But now^ is borne aw^ay by thee, 
Memorial of thine agony! 
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip* 
Ttiy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
Then stalking to thy sullen grave. 
Go— and with Ghouls and Afrits rave ; 
Till these in horror shrink away 
From spectre more accursed than they! 
****** 

" How name ye yon lone Caloj^er? 

His features I have scann-d before 
In mine own land : 't is many a year, 

Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
I saw him urge as fleet a steed 
As ever served a horseman's need. 
But once I saw that face, yet then 
It w^as so mark'd with inw^ard pain, 
I could not pass it by again ; 
It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
As death were stamp'd upon his brow." 

*"T is twice three years at summer tide 

Since first among our freres he came ; 
And here it soothes him to abide 

For some dark deed he will not name. 
But never at our vesper prayer, 
Kor e'er before confession chair 
Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
Incense or anthem to the skies, 
But broods within his cell alone, 
His faith and race alike unknow^n. 
The sea from Paynim land he crost. 
And here ascended from the coast ; 
Yet seems he not of Othman race. 
But only Christian in his face : 
I 'd judge him some stray renegade, 
Kepentant of the change he made, 
Saye that he shuns our holy shrine. 
Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
Great largess to these walls he brought. 
And thus our abbot's favor bought; 
But were I prior, not a day 
Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
Or pent within our penance cell 
Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
Much in his visions mutters he 
Of maiden whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
On cliff he hath been know^n to stand. 
And rave as to some bloody hand 
Fresh sever'd from its parent limb. 
Invisible to all but him. 
Which beckons onward to his grave, 
And lures to leap into the wave." 



Dark and unearthly is the scowl 
That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 

* The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with 
blood, are the never-failing signs of a Vampire. The stories 



The flash of that dilating eye 

Reveals too much of times gone by ; 

Though varying, indistinct its hue, 

Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 

For in it lurks that nameless spell, 

Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 

A spirit yet unquell'd and high , 

That claims and keeps ascendency; 

And like the bird whose pinions quake, 

But cannot fly the gazing snake. 

Will others quail beneath his look, 

Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 

From him the half-affrighted Friar 

When met alone would fain retire, 

As if that eye and bitter smile 

Transferr'd to others fear and guile: 

Not oft to smile descendeth he, 

And wdien he doth, 'tis sad to see 

That he but m.ocks at Misery. 

How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 

Then fix once more as if for ever; 

As if his sorrow or disdain 

Forbade him e'er to smile again. 

Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 

From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 

But sadder still it were to trace 

What once were feelings in tliat face : 

Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 

But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 

And there are hues not always faded, 

Which speak a mind not all degraded 

Even by the crimes through which it waded : 

The common crowd but see the gloom 

Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 

The close observer can espy 

A noble soul, and lineage high : 

Alas! though both bestow'd in vain, 

"Which Grief could change, and Guilt could stain. 

It w^as no vulgar tenement 

To w4iich such lofty gifts were lent. 

And still with little less tlian dread 

On such the sight is riveted. 

The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 

Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
The tower by war or tempest bent. 
While yet may frown one battlement, 

Demands and daunts the stranger's eye; 
Each ivied arch, and pillar lone, 
Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 

"His floating robe around him folding, 
Slow sweeps he through the coiumn'd aisle; 

With dread beheld, Avith gloom beholding 
The rites that sanctify the pile. 

But when the anthem shakes the choir. 

And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 

By yonder lone and wavering torch 

His aspect glares within the porch ; 

There will he pause till all is done— 

And hear the prayer, but utter none. 

See— by the half-illumined w^all 

His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 

That pale brow wildly wTeathing round, v 

As if the Gorgon there had bound 

The sablest of the serpent-braid 

That o'er her fearful forehead stray 'd: 

For he declines the convent oath. 

And leaves those locks unh allow 'd growth. 

But wears our garb in all beside ; 

And, not from piety but pride, • 

Gives w^ealth to walls that never heard 

Of his one holy vow nor word. 

Lo!— mark ye, as the harmony 

Peals louder praises to the sky, 



told in Hungary and Greece of these foul feeders are singular, 
and some of them most incredibly attested. 
57 



THE GIAOUR. 



That livid cheek, that stony air 

Of mix'd defiance and despair I 

Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine! 

Else may we dread the wrath divine 

Made manifest by a\^'ful sign. 

If ever evil angel bore 

The form of mortal, such he wore : 

By all my hope of sins forgiven, 

Such looks are not of earth nor heaven ! " 

To love the softest hearts are prone. 

But such can ne'er be all his own ; 

Too timid in his woes to share. 

Too meek to meet, or brave despair; 

And sterner hearts alone may feel 

The wound that time can never heal. 

The rugged metal of the mine 

l>Iust burn before its surface sliine, 

But plunged within the furnace-flame, 

It bends and melts — though still the same; 

Then temper'd to thy want or will, 

'T will serve thee to defend or kill ; 

A breastplate for thine hour of need, 

Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 

But if a dagger's form it bear, 

Let those vf ho shape its edge, beware! 

Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 

Can turn and tame the sterner heart; 

From these its form and tone are ta'en, 

And what they make it, must remain, 

But break — before it bend again. 

* -X- -Jr * -Jfr -Jt 

If solitude succeed to grief, 
Release from pain is slight relief; 
The vacant bosom's wilderness , 
Might thank the pang that m.ade it less. 
We loathe what none are left to share : 
Even bliss — 't \\qyq woe alone to bear ; 
The heart once thus left desolate 
Must fly at last for ease— to hate. 
It is as if the dead could feel 
The icy worm around them steal. 
And shudder, as the reptiles creep 
To revel o'er their rotting sleep. 
Without the power to scare away 
The cold consumers of their clay! 
It is as if the desert bird,* 

Whose beak unlocks her bosom's stream 

To still her famish 'd nestlings' scream, 
Nor mourns a life to them transferr'd, 
Should rend her rash devoted breast, 
And find them flown her empty nest. 
The keenest pangs the wretched find 

Are rapture to the dreary void. 
The leafless desert of the mind. 

The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
Than ne'er to brave the billows more- 
Thrown, when the war of winds is o'er, 
A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
Unseen to drop by dull decay ;— 
Better to sink beneath the shock 
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock. 



" Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer ; 

To bid the sins of others cease. 
Thyself without a crime or care. 

Save transient ills that all must bear, 

* The pelican is, I believe, the bird so libelled, by the im- 
putation of feeding- her chickens with her blood. 

58 



Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 

And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 

Of passions fierce and uncontroird. 

Such as thy penitents unfold. 

Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 

Within thy pure and pitying breast. 

My days, though few, have pass'd below 

In much of joy, but more of woe; 

Yet still, in hours of love or strife, 

I 've 'scaped the weariness of life : 

Now leagued with friends, now girt by foes, 

I loathed the languor of repose. 

Now nothing left to love or hate. 

No more with hope or pride elate, 

I 'd rather be the thing that crawls 

Most obnoxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 

Than pass my dull unvarying days, 

Condemn 'd to meditate and gaze. 

Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 

For rest— but not to feel 'tis rest. 

Soon shall my fate that wish fulfill; 

And I shall sleep without the dream 
Of what I was, and would be still. 

Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
My memory now is but the tomb 
Of joys long dead; my hope, their doom: 
Though better to have died wdth those 
Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
My spirit slirunk not to sustain 
The searching throes of ceaseless pain; 
Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
Of ancient fool and modern knave: 
Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
And in the field it had been sweet, 
Had danger woo'd me on to move 
The slave of glory, not of love. 
I 've braved it — not for honor's boast ; 
I smile at laurels won or lost ; 
To such let others carve their way, 
For high renown, or hireling pay : 
But place again before my eyes 
Aught that I deem a worthy prize— 
The maid I love, the man I hate— 
And I w^ill hunt the steps of fate, 
To save or slay, as these require. 
Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 
Nor needst thou doubt this speech from one 
Who would but do— what he hath done. 
Death is but what the haughty brave. 
The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 
Then let Life ^o to him who gave : 
I have not -quail'd to danger's brow 
When high and happy— need I noiof 



" I loved her, Friar! nay, adored— 

But these are words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There 's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel aan never lose : 
'T was shed for her, who died for me. 

It warm'd tlie heart of one abhorr'd : 
Nay, start not— no— nor bend thy knee. 

Nor 'midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
AVas wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
AYell wielded in some hardy hands, 
And v/ounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven. 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
I loved her— love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to prey, 



\ 



THE GIAOUR. 



And if it dares enough, 't were hard 

If passion met not some reward — 

'No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 

Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 

I wish she had not loved again. 

She died— I dare not tell thee how; 

But look— 't is written on my brow! 

There read of Cain the curse and crime, 

In characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 

l^ot mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 

But true to me, I laid him low : 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; 

And I, alas! too late to save! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave, 

'T was some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly; but her fate 

Has made m.e — what thou well mayst hate. 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear 
Tlie death-shot peal'd of murder near. 

As filed the troop to vdiere they fell ! 
He died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; 
One cry to Maliomet foi- aid. 
One prayer to Alia all he made: 
He knew and crossed me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay. 
And watched his spirit ebb away: 
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I search'd, but vainly search 'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When Penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave. 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 



. "The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
i Their love can scarce deserve the name 
V But mine was like a lava flood 
x That boils in Etna's breast of flame. 
I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love and beauty's chain: 
If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
And all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love— that love was mine, 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but first I have possess'd, 
And come wliat may, I have been bless'd. 
Siiall I the doom I sought upbraid? 
ISTo— reft of all, yet undismay'd. 
But for the thought of Leila slain. 
Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
So would I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
Tor him who dies, but her who died : 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 



This breaking heart and throbbing head 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 

/^ That, seen, became a part of sight ; 

"^ And rose, where'er I turned mine eye, 

{ The Morning-star of Memory ! 

"Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven; ) 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given. 

To lift from earth our low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above. 
But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
A Ray of him who form'd the whole ; 
A Glory circling round the soul ! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
^ She was my life's unerring light : ^— 

That quench 'd, what beam shall break my night ? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
In phrensy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward biov/ ; 
"Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
Cares little into what abyss. 
Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 

To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
I read abliorrence on thy brow. 

And this too was I born to bear ! 
'T is true, that, like that bird of prey, 
With havoc have I mark'd my way: 
But this was taught me by the dove. 
To die— and know no second love. 
This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
The bird that sings, within the brake. 
The swan that swims upon the lake. 
One mate, and one alone, will lake. 
And let the fool still prone to range. 
And sneer on all who cannot change, 
Partake his jest Avith boasting boys ; 
I envy not his varied joys. 
But deem such feeble, heartless man 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Par, far beneath the shallow maid 
He left believing and betray'd. 
Such shame at least was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — my aU below. 
Earth holds no other like to thee. 
Or, if it doth , in vain for me : 
For worlds I dare not view the dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth. 
This bed of death— attest my truth ! 
1,'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish'd madness of my heart! 

" And she was lost— and yet I breathed, 

But not the breath of human life: 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 
And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorr'd all place. 
Shuddering I shrunk from ISTature's face, 
Where every hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
59 



THE GIAOUR. 



The rest thou dost already know, 

And all ray sins, and half my woe. 

]5ut talk no more of penitence ; 

Tlioii seest I soon shall part from hence : 

And if thy holy tale were true. 

The deed that 's done canst thou undo ? 

Think me not thankless — but this grief 

Looks not to priesthood for relief. 

My soul's estate in secret guess : 

But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 

When tliou canst bid my Leila live, 

Tlien will I sue thee to 'forgive ; 

Then plead my cause in tliat high place 

Where purchased masses proffer grace. 

Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 

From forest cave her shrieking young, 

And calm the lonely lioness: 

But soothe not — mock not ??i.|/ distress ! 

*' In earlier days, and calmer hours. 

When heart with heart delights to blend. 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — Ah ! have I now ? — a friend ! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
I would remind him of my end : 

Though souls absorb'd like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
'Tis strange— he prophesied my doom. 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn— I reck'd not what— the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sootli: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Through many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been. 
In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wratli would turn away, 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame. 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame ? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn ; 
And what than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier ? 
But bear this ring, his own of old. 
And tell him — what thou dost behold! 
/The wither 'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
/ The wrack by passion left behind, 
\ A shrivell'd scroll, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 

Vr * * -K- -Ti- * * 

" Tell me no more of fancy's gleam. 
No, father, no, 'twas not a dream; 
Alas I the dreamer lirst must sleep, 
I only watch 'd, and wish'd to weep; 
But could not, for my burning brow 
Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
I wish'd but for a single tear. 
As something welcome, new, and dear ; 
I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
Despair is stronger than my will. 

* " Symar," a shroud. 

+ The circumstance to which the above story relates was 
not very uncommon in Turkey. A few j-ears ago the -wife 
of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son's sup- 
posed infidelity; he asked with whom, and she had the bar- 
barity to give in a list of the twelve handsomest women in 
60 



Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer: 

I would not, if I might, be blest; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

'Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 

I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 

And shining in her white symar,* 

As through yon pale gray cloud the star 

Which now I gaze on, as on. her, 

AVho look'd and looks far lovelier; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 

To-morrow's night shall be more dark; 

And I, before its rays appear. 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

T wander, father ! for my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

I saw her, friar ! and I rose 

Forgetful of our former woes ; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart. 

And clasp lier to my desperate heart ; 

I clasp— what is it that I clasp? 

Xo breathing form within my grasp, 

No heart that beats reply to mine. 

Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 

And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 

Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 

I care not ; so my arms enfold 

The all they ever wish'd to hold. 

Alas! around a shadow prest, 

They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 

Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands, 

And beckons with beseeching hands ! 

With braided hair, and bright black eye- 

I knew 't was false — she could not die ! 

But he is dead ! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell ; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 

From earth ; why then art thou awake ? 

They told me wild waves roU'd above 

The face I view, the form I love ; 

They told me — 't was a hideous tale ! 

I 'd teU it, but my tongue would fail : 

If true, and from thine ocean cave 

Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave. 

Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 

This brow, that then will burn no more ; 

Or place them on my hopeless lieart : 

But, shape or shade 1 whate'er thou art. 

In mercy ne'er again depart ! 

Or farther with thee bear my soul 

Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
***** ^ 

" Such is my name, and such my tale. 

Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 
This glazing eye could never slied. 
Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
And, save the cross above my head. 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read. 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." f 

He passed— nor of his name and race 
Hath left a token or a trace. 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day: 
Tliis broken tale was all we knew 
Of her he loved, or him he slew. 



Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and drowned 
in the lake the same night! One of the guards who was 
present informed me that not one of the victims uttered a 
cry, or showed a symptom of terror at so sudden-a " wrench 
from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Phrosine, 
the fairest of this sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic 
and Amaout ditty. 



HMM 






^^§:^^^ 


i^^ 




rrt*„¥ 


M 






^B 


m 




% 



THE BEIDE OF ABYDOS 



" Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 
Burns. 



TO THE BIGHT HONORABLE LORD HOLLAND, 

"WITH EVEBY SENTIMENT OP EEGAED AND EESPECT, 

BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND SINCERE FRIEND 




CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 



Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? 
"Where the rage of the vultm-e, the love of the 

turtle, 
ISTow melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ! 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever 

shine : 
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with 

perfume, 
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul * in her bloom ; 
AVhere the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute: 
Where the tints of the earth and the lines of the 

sky, 
In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine. 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
'T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the 

Sun- 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have 

done ? t 
Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 

which they tell. 

II. 

Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 

* " Gill," the rose. 



Old Giaffir sate in his Divan: 

Deep thought was in his aged eye; 
And though the face of Mussulman 

Kot oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within well skill'd to hide 
All but unconquerable pride. 
His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
Did more than he was wont avow. 

III. 

"Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train dis- 
appear 'd— 

"Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
With Giaffir is none but his only son. 

And the I^ubian awaiting. the sire's award. 

" Haroun— when all the crowd that wait 

Are pass'd beyond the outer gate 

(Woe to the head whose eye beheld 

My child Znleika's face unveil'd!). 

Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 

Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 

Yet not to her repeat my thought 

By me alone be duty taught! " 

"Pacha! to hear is to obey." 
IST more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
" Still standing at the Pacha's feet: 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 

"Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide. 
Know— for the fault, if fault there be. 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 



+ " Souls made of fire, and children of the Sun, 
With whom revenge is virtue."— Young's Revenge. 
61 



CANTO I. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



IV.-YI. 



So lovelily the morninp: shone, 

That— fet the old and weary sleep — 
I conld not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To tliouijhts with which my heart beat liigh 
AVere irksome— for whate'er my mood. 
In sooth I love not solitude ; 
I on Znleika's sluniher broke. 
And, as thou knowest that for me 
Soon turns th.e ILiram's grating key. 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown. 
And made earth, main, and heaven our own! 
There lingered we, beguiled too long 
Witli Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song;* 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour f 
Beat thy Divan's appro^icliing hour. 
To thee', and to my duty true, 
Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew: 
But tliere Zuleika wanders yet— 
Xay, Father, rage not— nor forget 
Tliat none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who vratch the women's tower."' 



IV. 

''Son of a slave"— the Pacha said — 

*' From unbelieving mother bred, 

Vain were a father's hope to see 

Aught that beseems a man in thee. 

Thou, when thine arm sliould bend the bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed. 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed. 

Must pore where babbling waters flow. 

And watch unfolding roses blow. 

Would that yon orb. whose matin glow 

Thy listless eyes so mucli admire. 

Would lend thee something of his fire ! 

Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 

By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 

Xay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 

Before the dogs of Moscow fall. 

Xor strike one stroke for life and death 

Against the curs of Xazaretli I 

Go — let thy less than woman's hand 

Assume the distalf — not the brand. 

But, HarounI — to my daughter speed: 

And hark— of thine ovm head take heed— 

If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 

Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string! *' 



V. 

No sound from Selim's lip was heard. 

At least that met old Giaflir's ear. 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 

"Son of a slave!— reproach'd with fear! 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave! — and v:ho my sire ? '' 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career; 
And glances ev"n of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaflir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for Avithin his e^'e 



* Me.inoun and Leila, the Romoo and Juliet of the East. 
Sadi, the moral poet of Persia. 

+ Turkish drum, which sounds at sunrise, noon, and twi- 
light. 

t The Turks abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment 
a hundred-fold) even more than they hate the Christians. 

§ These twelve fine lines were added in the course of print- 
ing. 

ii This expression has met with objections. I will not refer 
to '• Him who hath not Music in his soul," but merely request 
62 



He read how much his wrath liad done ; 
He saw rebellion there begun : 

''Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
I mark thee- and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do. 
Bat if thy beard had manlier length. 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own, perchance.'' 



On Selim's eve he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him'glance for glance. 
And proudly to his sire's was raised. 

Till Giaftir's quaird and shrunk askance — 
And why— he felt, but durst not tell. 
'• ]\iuch I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will one day work me more annoy : 
I never loved liim from his birth. 
And— but his arm is little worth, 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid i?.\\Y). or antelope. 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life — 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
Xo— nor the blood so near my own. 
Tliat blood — he hath not heard — no more — 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab % to my sight. 
Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
But hark ! — I liear Zuleika's voice : 

Like Houris' hymn it meets mine ear: 
She is the offspring of my choice : 

Oh ! more than ev'n her motlier dear. 
With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
My Peri ! cA'er welcome here I 
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave 
To lips just cooPd in time to save — 

Such to my longing sight art thou; 
Xor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thy birth, and bless thee now." 

TI. 

Fair as the first that fell of womankind. 

Wlien on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
Whose image then was stamped upon her mind— 
"^ But once'beguiled— and ever more beguiling ; 
Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision 

To Sorrow's pliantom-peopled slumber given, 
Wiien lieart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 

xVnd paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 
Soft as the memory of buried love ; 
Pure, as the prayer which Clnldhood wafts above. 
Was she— the daughter of the rude old Cliief, 
Who met the maid with tears— but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay § 

To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray V 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delig-ht. 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart" confess 
The might— tlie majesty of Loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika— such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone— 
The light of love, the purity of grace. 
The niind, the Music i| breathing from her face, 



the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features of the 
woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful: and, if 
he then does not comprehend fully what is feebly expressed 
in the above line, I shall be sorrj- for us both. For an elo- 
quent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of 
this, perhaps of any ag-c. on the analog-y (and the immediate 
comparison excited by that analogy) between " painting- and 
music," see vol. iii., cap. 10, De l'Allemagxe. And is not 
this connection still stronger T>-ith the original than the copy ? 
with the coloring- of Nature than of Art? After all, this is 



CANTO I. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYBOS. 



VII.-X. 



The heart whose softness harmoiiized the whole, 
And oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His cliild caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against lier fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel; 
Affection chain 'd her to that heart ; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 

YII. 

" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 

How dear this very day must tell, 
When I forget my own distress, 

In losing what I love so well, 

To l)id thee with another dwell : 

Another! and a braver man 

Was never seen in battle's van. 
We Moslem reck not much of blood: 

But yet the line of Carasman* 
Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 

First of the bold Timariot bands 
That won and well can keep their lands. 
Enough that he who comes to woo 
Is kinsman of the Bey Ogiou: 
His years need scarce a thought employ: 
I would not have thee wed a boy. 
And thou shalt have a noble dower: 
And his and my united power 
Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
Which others tremble but to scan. 
And teach the messenger f what fate 
The bearer of such boon may wait. 
And now thou know'st thy father's v\411, 

All that thy sex hath need to know : 
'Twas mine to teach obedience still— 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 

VIII. 

In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was fill'd with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red. 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye. 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry; 



rather to be felt than described ; still I think there are some 
who will understand it, at least' they would have done had 
they beheld the countenance whose speaking- harmony sug-- 
gested the idea ; for this passage is not drawn from imagina- 
tion but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the 
earth, and looking- down upon the fragments, only beholds 
the reflection multiplied l—Bijron's Diary, Dec. 7, 1813. 

* Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglu, is the principal 
landowner in Turkey; he governs Magnesia: those who, by 
a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of service, 
are called Timariots : they serve as Spabis, according to the 
extent of territory, and bring- a certain number into the field, 
generally cavalry. 

+ When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single 
messenger, who is always the first bearer of the order for his 
death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, one 
after the other, on the same errand, by command of the re- 
fractory patient : if, on the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he 
bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and is bow- 
strung with great complacency. In 1810, several of these 
presents were exhibited in the niche of the Seraglio gate: 
among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a brave young 
man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resistance. 

t Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate 
a superfluous expenditure of voice, and they have no bells. 



So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 

Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 

Or if remember'd, mark'd it not; 

Thrice clapp'd his liands, and call'd his steed, t 

Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,! 
And mounting featly for the mead. 

With Maugrabee || and Mamaluke, 

His way amid his Delis took,l[ 
To witness many an active deed 
With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
The Kislar only and his Moors 
Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 

IX. 

His head was leant upon liis hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 

Mix in the game of raiiuic slaughter. 
Careering cleave the folded felt** 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-dartnig crowd, 
Nor heard their Ollahs ft wild and loud- 
He thought but of old Giatfir's daughter ! 

X. 

No v/ord from Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zuleika 's thought bespoke: 
Still gazed lie through the lattice grate, 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd. 
But little from his aspect learn 'd: 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess'd a gentler flame: 
But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak. 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must— but when essay ? 
" How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus w^e e'er before have met; 
Nor thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly through the room. 
And watch 'd his eye — it still was fix'd : 
Slie snatch'd the urn wherein w^as mix'd 
The Persian Atar-gul'sJt perfume. 
And sprinkled all its odors o'er 
The pictured roof ^^ and marble floor: 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address 'd, 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew. 



§" Chibouque," the Tui-kish pipe, of which the amber 
mouth-piece, and sometimes the ball which contains the leaf, 
is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the wealth- 
ier order. 

II "Maugrabee," Moorish mercenaries. 

t " Delis," bravos who form the forlorn hope of the caA^alry, 
and always begin the action. 

** A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the 
Turks, and few but Mussulman arms can cut through it at a 
single stroke : sometimes a tough turban is used for the same 
purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated 
and graceful. 

rt- "Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the "Leilies," as the Spanish 
poets call them, the sound is Ollah ; a cry of which the Turks, 
for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly during 
the jerreed, or in the chase, but mostly in battle. Tlieir ani- 
mation in the field, and gravity in the chamber, with their 
pipes and coniboloios, form an amusing contrast. 

tt "■ Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest. 

§§ The ceilings and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mus- 
sulman apartments are generally painted, in great houses, 
with one eternal and highly colored view of Constantinople, 
wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of per- 
spective ; below, arms, scin.itars, &c., are in general fancifully 
and not inelegantly disposed. 
t)3 



CANTO I. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



xi.-xin. 



As if that breast ^Ye^e marble too. 
"What, sullen yet? it must not be— 
Oh! gentle Selim, tliis from thee!" 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
" He loved tliem once ; may touch them yet, 

If offer'd by Zuleika's hand." 
Tlie childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before the rose was pluck 'd and wreathed; 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet : 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul * bears : 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He'll try for once a strain more glad. 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 

XI. 

*' What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay, then I am indeed unblest ; 
On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 

And know'st thou not who loves tliee best ? 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hat'st or fearest ? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest. 
Since words of mine, and songs must fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn: 
Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine. 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, — 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, — 
Without thy free consent, command. 
The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
Ah I were I sever'dfrom thy side. 
Where were fliy friend— and who my guide ? 
Years have not seen. Time shall not see 
The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
Even Azrael,t from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever • 

Our hearts to undivided dust!" 

XII. 

He lived— he breathed— he moved— he felt ; 
He raised the maid from where slie knelt ; 
His trance was gone — his keen ej^e shone 
AVith thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
With thoughts that burn— in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveal'd 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

Prom the black cloud that bound it. 
Plash 'd the soul of that eye 

Through tlie long lashes round it. 



* It has been much doubted whether the notes of this 
" Lover of the rose " are sad or merry ; and Mr. Fox' remarks 
on the subject have provoked some learned controversy as 
to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not 
venture a conjecture on the point, though a little inclined to 
the "errare mallem," &c., if Mr. Fox wan mistaken. 

+ " Azrael," the angel of death. 
64 



A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 

A lion roused by heedless hound, 

A tyrant waked to sudden strife 

By graze of ill-directed knife, 

Starts not to more convulsive life 

Than he, who heard that vow, display'd. 

And all, before repress'd, betray 'd: 

" IsTow thou art mine, for ever mine. 

With life to keep, and scarce with life resign ; 

Xow thou art mine,— that sacred oath. 

Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 

Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou done •; 

That vow hath saved more heads than one ; 

But blench not thou— thy simplest tress 

Claims more from me than tenderness ; 

I would not wrong the slenderest hair 

That clusters round thy forehead fair, 

Por all the treasures buried far 

Within the caves of Istakar.J 

This morning clouds upon me lower 'd, 

Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 

And Giaffir almost calPd me coward! 

Xow I have motive to be brave ; 

The son of his neglected slave, 

Nay, start not, 't was the term he gave, 

May show, though little apt to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, Indeed I— yet, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shall be; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

Prom Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselim's I control : 

Was he not bred in Egripo ? || 

A viler race let Israel show ; 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey; 

I've partisans for peril's day: 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 



XIII. 

" Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 

But now thou 'rt from thyself estranged. 
My love thou surely knew'st before. 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay. 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this— and this— no more than this; 
Por, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek, too, blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health. 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by. 
And lighten half thy poverty ; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, 
Por that I could not live to try; 



* The treasures of the Pre-Adamite Sultans. See D'Herbc- 
lot, article Makar. 

§ " Musselim," a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; 
a WajTvode is the third ; and then comes the Agas. 

II " Egripo," the Negropont. According to the proverb, the 
Turks of Egripo, the Jews of Salonica, and the Greeks of 
Athens, are the worst of their respective races. 



CAI^TO II. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



I.-IIL 



To these alone my thoughts aspire : 

More can I do ? or thou require ? 

But, Selim, thou must answer why 

We need so much of mystery? 

The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 

But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 

Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friends,' 

Beyond my weaker sense extends. 

I meant that Giaffir should have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee ; 
His wrath would not revoke my word : 

But surely he w^ould leave me free. 

Can this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be w^hat I have ever been ? 
^\^hat other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour? 

What other can she seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy? 
These cherish'd thoughts, with life begun. 

Say, wiiy must I no more avow^ ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth ; my pride, and tliine till now ? 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
Nor shall one waudering thought of mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine : 
Xo ! happier made by that decree, 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To w^ed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
Why wilt thou urge me to conceal ? . 
I know the Pacha's haughty mood 
To thee hath never boded good ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here ; 
Oh, Selim! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear. 
Ah! yonder see the Tchocadar,* 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ? " 

XIY. 

" Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 

Betake thee— Giaffir I can greet: 

And now with him I fain must prate 

Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 

There's fearful news from Danube's banks, 

Our Yizier nobly thins his ranks. 

For which the Giaour may give him thanks 1 

Our Sultan hath a shorter way 

Such costly triumph to repay. 

But, mark me, w^hen the twilight drum 
Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 

Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
Then softly from the Haram creep 
Where we may wander by the deep : 
Our garden-battlements are steep; 

Nor these will rash intruder climb 

To list our words, or stint our time; 

And if he doth, I want not steel 

Which some have felt, and more may feel. 



* "Tehocadar," one of the attendants who precedes a man 
of authority. 

+ The wrangling- about this epithet, " the broad Hellespont " 
or the "boundless Hellespont," whether it means one or the 
other, or what it means at all, has been beyond all possibility 
of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not 
foreseeing a speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused 
5 



Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before: 
Trust me, Zuleika--fear not me ! 
Thou know'st I hold a Haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like tliis — " 

"Delay not thou ; 
I keep the key— and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward. 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
I am not, love! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND, 



I. 

The winds are high on Helle's wave. 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high. 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home ; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
AYitli signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear; 
His eye but saw that light of love. 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long !" 
That tale is old, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

II. 

The winds are high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving- to the main; 
And Night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride; 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
All — save immortal dreams that could beguile 
The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle! 

III. 

Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 

These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
Tliese lim.bs that buoyant wave hath borne— 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn. 

To trace again those fields of yore. 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes. 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broad Hellespont " t still dashes, 
Be long my lot ! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee! 



myself with swimming across it in the mean time ; and prob- 
ably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the 
question as to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine " still 
continues much of it resting upon the taiismanic word 
i ttTretpo?: probably Homer had the same notion of distance 
j that a coquette has of time ; and Avhen he talks of boundless, 
I means half a mile; as the latter, by a like figure, when she 
i *ays eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. 
65 



CANTO II. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



IV.-TX. 



ly. 

The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 

Nor yet hatli risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme: 
Xo "warrior chides her peaceful beam, 

But conscious sheplierds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt tlie Dardan's arrow : 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Amnion's son ran proudly round,* 
By nations raised, by monarchs crowned, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow! 

AVithin — thy dwelling-place how narrow ! 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that vxis beneath : 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But Thou— thy very dust is gone ! 

Y. 

Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's fear; 

Till then— no beacon on the cliff 

]SIay shape the course of struggling sldff ; 

The scatter'd lights that skirt tlie bay, 

All, one by one, have died away ; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken ottoman 
Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran ; f 
Xear these, with emerald rays beset 
(How could she thus that gem forget?). 
Her mother's sainted amulet, % 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
And by her comboloio \ lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
And round her lamp of fretted gold 
Bloom flowers in urns of China's mould; 
Tlie richest work of Iran's loom, 
And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
All that can eye or sense delight 

Are gather'd in that gorgeous room: 

But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
What doth she hence, and on so rude a night ? 

YI. 

Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, * 
Wliich none save noblest Moslem wear. 

To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
As heaven itself to Selim dear. 

With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
As starting oft, as through the glade 
The gust its hollow moanings made. 

Till on the smoother pathway treading. 



* Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with 
laurel. &:c. He was afterwards imitated by Caracalla in his 
race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, 
named Festus, for the sake of new Patroclan games. T have 
seen the sheep feeding on the tombs of JEsietes and Antilo- 
chus : the first is in the centre of the plain. 

+ When rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, 
which is slig-ht, but vot disagreeable. 

t The belief in amulets engra^•ed on gems, or enclosed in 
gold boxes, containing scraps from the Koran, worn round 
the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The 
Koorsee (throne) verse in the second cap. of the Koran de- 
scribes the attributes of the Most High, and is engraved in 
this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed 
and sublime of all sentences. 

66 



More free her timid bosom beat. 

The maid pursued her silent guide; 
And though her terror urged retreat. 
How could she quit her Selim's side ? 
How teach her tender lips to chide ? 

YII. 

They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by art. 
Where oft her lute she w^ont to tune, 

And oft her Koran conn'd apart; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd wliat Paradise might be: 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdain 'd to show; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Xor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss 
AVithout /ler, most beloved in this! 
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well ? 

YIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some cliange seem'd wrought within the grot 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her ej'e on stranger objects fell. 

There arms were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt. 

And one was red— perchance with guilt ! 

Ah ! how without can blood be spilt ? 

A cup too on tlie board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 

What may this mean ? slie turn'd to see 

Her Selini — ''Oh! can this be he?" 

IX. 

His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no liigh-crown'd turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red. 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples wore : 
That dagger, on whose liilt the gem 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
Xo longer glitter'd at his waist. 
Where pistols unadom'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung. 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
Tlie cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote; 
Beneath— his golden-plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast ; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
But were it"^ not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee.U 



§ "Comboloio," a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly 
those of the Persians, ai-e richly adorned and illuminated. 
The Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; but many of 
the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actu- 
ally qualified for a Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our 
own "• blues'' might not be worse for hleachiiuj. 

ir'Galiongee," or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish 
sailor ; the Greeks navigate, the Turks work the guns. Thejr 
dress is picturesque ; and 1 have seen the Capitan Pacha more 
than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, 
are generally naked. The buskins described in the text as 
sheathed behind with silver are those of an Arnaut robber, 
who was my host (he had quitted the profession ) at his Pyrgo, 
near Gastouni in the Morea ; they were plated in scales one 
over the other, like the back of an armadillo. 



CANTO II. 



THE BRIBE OF ABYDOS, 



x.-xv. 



X. 

"I said I was not what I seem'd; 

And now thou seest my words were true 
I have a tale thou hast not dream 'd. 

If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 't were vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's bride: 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love ; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove; 
But first— Oh! never wed anotlier — 
Zuleika! I am not thy brother ! " 

XI. 

" Oh ! not my brother !— yet misay — 

God ! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn— I dare not curse— the day 

That saw my solitary birth ? 
Oh! thou wilt love me now no more! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill : 
But know me all T was before, 

Thy sister— friend— Zuleika still. 
Thou ledd'st me here perchance to kill ; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, see I 
My breast is offer'd— take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to thee! 
Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giaffir always seem'd thy foe ; 
And I, alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn 'd, reviled. 
If not thy sister— wouldst thou save 
My life, oh ! bid me be thy slave ! " 

XII. 

" My slave, Zuleika !— nay, I 'm thine: 

But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine. 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran* verse display 'd 
Upon its steel direct my blade. 
In danger's hour to guard us both, 
As I preserve that aw^f ul oath ! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change; but, my Zuleika, know% 
That tie is widen'd, not divided. 

Although thy Sire 's my deadliest foe. 
My father w^as to Giaffir all 

That Selim late was deem'd to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
And luird me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help. 

But like the nephew of a Cain;t 



* The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain some- 
times the name of the place of their manufacture, but more 
generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. Amongst 
those in my possession is one with a blade of singular con- 
struction; it is very broad, and the edge notched into ser- 
pentine curves like the ripple of Avater, or the wavering of 
flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it, what possible use 
such a figure could add : he said, in Italian, that he did not 
know; but the Mussulmans had an idea that those of this 
form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it Avas " piu 
feroce." I did not much admire the reason, but bought it 
for its peculiarity. 

+ It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or 
personage in the Old Testament, such as the Ark, or Cain, is 
equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew: indeed, the 
former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, 
true and iaotilous, of the patriarchs, than is warranted by our 



He watch'd me like a lion's whelp. 
That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 
My father's blood in every vein 

Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 

No present vengeance will I take ; 
Though here I must no more remain. 

But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 

How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear. 

XIII. 

" How first their strife to rancor grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
Remember'd yet in Bosniac song. 
And Paswan's % rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest : 
His death is all I need relate. 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; 
And how my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me free. 

XIV. 

"When Pas wan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
In Widdin's walls too proudly sate. 
Our Pachas rallied round the state; 
Nor last nor least in high command, 
Each brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horse-tails § to the wind. 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd ; 

To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
What need of AvordsV the deadly bowl. 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given. 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismiss'd Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
Keclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup: 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore; 
He drank one draught, || nor needed m^ore! 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, dou.bt, 
Call Haroun— he can tell it out. 

xy. 

"The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne'er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalic was gain'd: — 
Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man— 

Abdallah's honors were obtain 'd 
By him a brother's murder stain 'd ; 
'T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill-got treasure, soon replaced. 
Wouldst question whence ? Survey the waste, 



own sacred writ ; and not content with Adam, they have a 
biography of Pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all 
necromancy, and Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and 
Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name of Potiphar's wife; 
and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems 
in their language. It is, therefore, no violation of custom to 
pvit the names of Cain, or Noah, into the mouth of a Moslem. 

X Paswan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin ; who, for the last 
years of his life, set the whole power of the Porte at defiance. 

§ " Horse-tail," the standard of a Pacha. 

II Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure 
which, was actually taken oft' by the Albanian Ali, in the 
manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in the 
country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after 
the event had taken place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. 
The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, Avhich is presented 
before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after dressing. 
67 



CAXTO 11. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



XVT.-XX. 



And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow! — 
AMi}^ me the stern usurper spared, 
AVhy thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
Preserved me thus;— but not in peace: 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 

XYI. 

" Within thy father's house are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true : 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very liours were few : 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
He in Abdallah's palace grew. 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here— he saw him die: 
But what could single slavery do ? 
Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate ! 
He chose the last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray 'd, 
Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate. 
He led me helpless to his gate. 

And not in vain it seems essay 'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each", but most from me ; 
Thus Giai!ir's safety Avas insured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To this our Asiatic side, 
Par from our seats by Danube's tide, 

With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge— and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains. 
Prom which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals: 
Such still to guilt just Allah sends— 
Slaves, tools, accomplices— no friends ! 

XYII. 
"All this, Zuleika. harshly sounds ; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see. 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

AYliose laws and lives are on their swords: 
To hear wiiose desolating tale 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
Those arms thou seest my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fill'd— once quaff'd, they ne'er repine: 
Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 

They 're only infidels in wine. 

XYIII. 

"What could I be? Proscribed at home. 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 



* The Turkish notions of almost all islands are confined to 
the Archipelag-o, the sea alluded to. 

+ Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 1789- 
90, for the independence of his country. Abandoned by the 
08 



And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 
Denied the courser and the spear- 
Though oft~01i, Mahomet ! how oft !— 
In full Divan the despot scoif 'd. 
As if mij weak unwilling hand 
Refused the bridle or the brand: 
He ever went to war alone. 
And pent me here untried— unknown ; 
To Haroun 's care with women left, 
By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 
While thou— whose softness long endear'd. 
Though it unmann'd m.e, still had cheer'd— 
To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
Awaitedst there the field's event. 
Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke. 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge w'as o'er. 
'T is vain — my tongue cannot impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I v/as Free ! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was mine ! 



XIX. 

" The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey 'd me from this idle shore; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem: 
I sought by turns, and saw^ them all;* 

But w^hen and where I join'd the crew. 
With whom I 'm pledged to rise or fall. 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. 



XX. 

" 'Tis true, they are a lavdess brood. 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood; 
And every creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a place ; 
But open speech, and ready hand. 
Obedience to their chief's command; 
A soul for every enterprise. 
That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
Friendship for each, and faith to all. 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguish'd from the vulgar rank. 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some t6 higher thoughts aspire. 

The last of Lambro 'sf patriots there 

Anticipated freedom share; 
And oft around the cavern fire 

On visionary schemes debate. 

To snatch the Rayahs J from their fate. 

So let them ease their hearts with prate 

Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew; 

I have a love for freedom too. 



1 

i 



Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelag"0 was the 
scene of his enterprises. 

$ "Rayahs," all who pay the capitation tax, called the 
"Haratch." * 



CANTO II. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 



XXT.-XXIII. 



Ay! let me like the ocean Patriarch* roam, 

Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! t 

My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 

Are more than cities and Serais to me: 

Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 

Across the desert, or before the gale, 

Bomid where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my 



prow 



But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark I 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife. 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest— as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; 
Soft— as the melodv of youthful days, 
That steals the trembling tear of speechless 

praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears. 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice en- 
dears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden J in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
AVait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command! 
Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side. 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign 'd for cares — for jo3^s like these: 
:N'ot blind to fate, I see,w^here'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils, — ^but one only love ! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay. 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight. 
Blend every thought, do all— but disunite ! 
Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide; 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign'd 
By fatal IsTature to man's w^arring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests cease ! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it— peace ! 
I, like the rest, must use my skill or strength, 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by division— her resource 
The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 
Ours be the last : in time deceit may come, 
When cities cage us in a social home: 
There ev'n thy soul might err— how oft the heart 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
And woman, more than man, when death or woe. 
Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame- 
Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika 's name ! 
But life is hazard at the best; and here 
No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
Yes, fear!— the doubt, the dread of losing thee. 
By Osman's power, and Giaffir's stern decree. 
That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale. 
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
ISTo danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath 

charms ; 
Earth— sea alike— our world within our arms ! 



* This first of voyages is one of the few with which the 
Mussulmans profess much acquaintance. 

+ The wandering- life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, 
will be found well detailed in any book of Eastern travels. 
That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. 



Ay — let the loud winds w^histle o'er the deck, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be, 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To Love, w^hose deadliest bane is human Art : 
There lie the only rocks our course can check: 
Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 
But hence, ye thoughts that rise in Horror's shape ! 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close ; 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline V 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine ? 

XXL 

" His head and faith from doubt and death 

Returned in time my guard to save ; 

Few" heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band. 
Too seldom now I leave the land. 
No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I've held thine ear; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here • 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives— to-night must break thy chain : 
And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, — 

Perchance, his life wdio gave thee thine, — 
With me this hour away— away! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
Appall'd by truths imparted now. 
Here rest I— not to see thee wed : 
But be that peril on my head!" 

XXII. 

Zuleika, mute and motionless. 

Stood like tiiat statue of distress. 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into stone; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe. 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay 'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash 'd on high a blazing torch! 

Another— and another— and another— 

"Oh! fly — no more — yet now my more than 

brother!" 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread 
The fearful lights are gleaming red; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel. 
With searching flam.beau, shining steel; 
And last of all, his sabre waving. 
Stern Giaffir in his fury raving: 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 

XXIII. 

Dauntless he stood—" 'T is come— soon past — 
One kiss, Zuleika— 'tis my last: 



A young' French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that 
he never found himself alone, galloping in the desert, with- 
out a sensation approaching- to rapture, which was indescrib- 
able. 

$ "Jpnnatal Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman 
paradise. 

69 



CANTO II. 



THE BRIDE OF A B YD OS. 



XXIV.-XXVII. 



But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the tiasli ; 
Yet now too few — tlie attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth lie slept; 

His pistol's echo rang on high. 
Zuleika started not, nor wept. 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye \ — 
"They hear me not, or if tliey ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die; 
Tliat sound hath drawn my foes more nigh. 
Then forth, my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war! 
Farewell, Zuleika I— sweet ! retire : 

Yet stay within— here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not— lest even to thee perchance 
Some erring blade or ball should glance. 
Fear'st thou for him V— may I expire 
If in this strife I seek thy sire I 
No— though by him that poison pour'd ; 
No— though again he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
No— as each crest save his mav feel!" 

XXIY. 

One bound he made, and gain'd the sand : 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk: 
Another falls— but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes ; 
From right to left his patli he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
Ilis boat appears— not five oars' length— 
His comrades strain with desperate * strength- 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save V 
His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
Ills band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter tlirough the spray; 
-Wet — wild— unwearied to the strand ' 
They struggle— now they touch the hand ^ 
They come— 't is but to add to slaugliter — 
His heart's best blood is on the water. 

XXY. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel. 
Had Selim won, betray 'd, beset. 
To where the strand and billows met ; 
There as his last step left the land, 
And the last death-blow dealt his liand— 
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain. 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain. 
How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
His back was to the dashing spray ; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball— 
'' So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine rang? 
Whose bullet tlirough the night-air sang, 
Too nearlv, deadlv aim'd to err? 
'Tis thine— Abdallah's Murderer! 
The fatlier slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling— 



♦ "While the Salsette lay off the Dardanelles. Lord Byron 
saw the bodj' of a man who had been executed hy being- cast 
into the sea, floating- on the stream to and fro with the trem- 
bling of the water, which g-ave to its arms the effect of scaring 
away several sea-fowl that were hoAoring- to devour. This 
incident has been strikingly depicted. 
70 



If aught his lips essay 'd to groan. 
The rushing billows choked the tone! 

XXYI. 

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the light are there: 
The shouts tliat shook the midnight bay 
Are silent; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear. 
And fragments of each sliiver'd brand ; 
Steps stamptl; and dash'd into the sand 
The print of many a struggling hand 

May tliere be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oaiiess boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds that heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote I 
'Tis rent in twain— one dark-red stain 
The wave j'et rii)ples o'er in vain ; 

But where is lie who wore ? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep. 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Siga?um's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore: 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay. 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife. 
Flung by tlie tossing tide on high, 

Tlien leveird with the wave *— 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had bled or wept to see him die. 
Had seen those scattered limbs composed. 

And mourn'd above his turban-stone. + 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 

Yea— closed before his own! 

XXYII. 

By Heinle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
And woman's ej-e is wet— man's cheek is pale: 
Zuleika! last of Giaflir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late : 
He sees not— ne'er shall see thy face ! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleht warn his distant ear? 
Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and slirieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy tale ! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
That fearful moment when he left the cave 
Thy heart grew chill: 
He was thy hope— thy joy— thy love— thine all— 
And that last thought on him thou couldst not 
save 
Sufficed to kill ; 
Burst forth in one wild cry — and all was still. 
Peace to tliy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
Ah, happy! but of life to lose the worst! 
That grief — though deep— though fatal— was thy 

first ! 
Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 



+ A turban is cax'ved in stone above the graves of men 
onlj'. 

* The death-song of the Turkish women. The "silent 
slaves " are the men whose notions of decorum forbid com- 
plaint in public. 



CANTO TI. 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS, 



xxvnr. 



ur, 



And, oh! that pang where more than madness 

lies! 
The worm that will not sleep— and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
That dreads the darkness and yet loathes the 

light, 
That winds around and tears the quivering heart ! 
Ah! wherefore not consume it— and depart! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief ! 
Yainly thou heap'st the dast upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread : 
By that same hand Abdallah— Selim bled. 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
She, whom thy Sultan had but seen to wed. 
Thy Daughter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
What quench'd its ray ?— the blood that thou hast 

shed! 
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: 
"Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — 
"Where?"* 

^ XXYIII. 

Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 

The sad but living cypress glooms 

^ And withers not, though branch and leaf 

\ Are stamped with an eternal grief, \ 

V Like early unrequited Love, y 

One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove— 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white— so faint— the slightest gale 
- Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail. 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain — 

To-morrow sees it bloom again : 
The stalk some spirit gently rears. 
And waters with celestial tears ; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can be no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 

* " I came to the place of my birth, and cried ' The friends 
of my youth, where are they?' and an Echo answered, 
'Where are they ? ' "—From an Arabic MS. The above quo- 
tation (from which the idea in the text is taken) must be 
already familiar to every reader : it is given in the first anno- 
tation, p. 67, of "The Pleasures of Memory ; " a poem so well 
known as to render a reference almost superfluous; but to 
whose pages all will be delighted to recur. 

t "And airy tongues that syllable men's names."— Milton. 

For a belief that the souls of the dead inhabit the form of 



And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 

JSTor droops, though Spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer beam : 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen— but not remote: 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! -^ 
It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear tlie morn to break 

That melancholy spell. 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high, 
Expires that magic melody. 
And some have been who could believe 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame), 
Tliat note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable f its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 
'T is from her cypress' summit heard. 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
'T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone; 
Eve saw it placed— the Morrow gone ! 
It was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fix'd pillow to the shore; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell. 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell ; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 

And there by night, reclined, 'tis said. 

Is seen a ghastly turban 'd head : 

And hence extended by the billow, 

'T is named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow ! " 

Where first it lay that mourning flower 

Hath flourish 'd; flourisheth tliis hour. 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale ! 

birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttelton's ghost 
story, the belief of the Duchess of Kindal, that George I. flew 
into her window in the shape of a raven (see Orford's Remi- 
niscences), and many other instances, bring this superstition 
nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Wor- 
cester lady, who, believing her daughter to exist in the shape 
of a singing bird, literally furnished her pew in the cathedral 
Avith cages full of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a bene- 
factress in beautifying the church, no objection was made to 
her harmless folly. 

71 




THE COKSAIR 



I suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponrio." 

Tasso, Gerusalemme Libei ata, canto x. 



TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 

My Dear Mooee, 

I DEDICATE to you the last production with which 
I sliall trespass on public patience, and your indul- 
gence, for some years ; and I own that I feel anxious to 
avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of 
adorning my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken 
public principle, and the most undoubted and various 
talents. While Ireland ranks you among the firmest of 
her patriots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards 
in her estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the de- 
cree, permit one, whose only regret, since our first ac- 
quaintance, has been the years he had lost before it 
commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of 
friendship to the voice of more than one nation. It will 
at least prove to you, that I have neither forgotten the 
gratification derived from your society, nor abandoned tlie 
prospect of its reward, whenever your leisure or inclina- 
tion allows you to atone to your friends for too long an ab- 
sence. It is said among those friends, I trust truly, that 
you are engaged in the composition of a poem whose 
scene will be laid in the East : none can do those scenes 
so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the 
magnificent and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and 
feeling of her daughters, may there be found ; and Col- 
lins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish Eclogues, 
Avas not aware how true, at least, was a part of his paral- 
lel. Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and 
less clouded sky ; but Avildness, tenderness, and originality 
are part of your national claim of Oriental descent, to 
which you have already thus far proved your title more 
clearly than the most zealous of your country's anti- 
quarians. 

May I add a few words on a subject on which all men 
are supposed to be fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. I 
have written much, and published more than enough to 
demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but, for 
some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further 
the award of " Gods, men, nor columns." In the present 
composition I have attempted not the most difficult, but, 
perhaps, the best adapted measure to our language, tlie 
good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative ; 
though, I confess, it is the measure most after mv own 
72 



heart : Scott alone, of the present generation, has hitherto 
completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the octo- 
syllabic verse ; and this is not the least victory of his 
fertile and mighty genius : in blank verse, Milton, Thom- 
son, and our dramatists, are the beacons that shine along 
the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren rock on 
which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the 
most popular measure certainly ; but as I did not deviate 
into the other from a wish to flatter what is called public 
opinion, I shall quit it without further apology, and take 
my chance once more with that versification, in which I 
have hitherto j)ublished nothing but compositions whose 
former circulation is part of my present, and will be of 
my future, regret. 

With regard to my story, and stories in general, I 
should have been glad to have rendered my personages 
more perfect and amiable, if possible, inasmuch as I have 
been sometimes criticised, and considered no less respon- 
sible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been 
personal. Be it so — if I have deviated into the gloomy 
vanity of " drawing from self," the pictures are probably 
like, since they are unfavorable ; and if not, those who 
know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have 
little interest in undeceiving. I have no particular de- 
sire that any but my acquaintance should think the au- 
thor better than the beings of his imagining ; but 1 can- 
not help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some 
odd critical exceptions in the present instance, when I 
see several bards (far more deserving I allow) in very 
reputable plight, and quite exempted from all participa- 
tion in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might 
be found with little more morality than " The Giaour," 
and perhaps — but no — I must admit Childe Harold to be 
a very repulsive personage ; and as to his identity, those 
who like it must give him whatever "alias" they please. 

If, however, it were worth while to remove the impres- 
sion, it might be of some service to me, that the man who is 
alike the delight of his readers and his friends, ihe poet 
of all circles, and the idol of his ov>n, permits me here 
and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
Most truly. 

And affectionately. 

His obedient servant. 



January 2, 181U. 




CANTO I. 



THE CORSAIR. 



T.-YI. 



®he CorHHir,* 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



nessun maggior dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
Kella miseria, "—Dante. 



" O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These'^are our realms, no limits to their sway— 
Om' flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave! 
"Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; 
Xot thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot 

please— 
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
That tlirills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
And where tlie feebler faint can only feel — 
Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
its hope awaken and its spirit soar ? 
Xo dread of death if with us die our foes- 
Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
Come when it vill— we snatch the life of life— 
When lost— what recks it— by disease or strife ? 
Let him who crawls enamor'd of decay. 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away : 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head ; 
Ours— the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul. 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave. 
And they who loath 'd his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few. sincerely slTed, 
AVhen Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day. 
When those who win at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow. 
How had the brave who fell exulted now .'" 

II. 

Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 
Such were the sounds that thriird the rocks along, 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song I 
In scatter 'd groups upon the golden sand, 
They game— carouse— converse— or whet the brand: 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign. 
And careless ej'e the blood that dims its shine ; 
Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar. 
While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the suii the dripping net ; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
"With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil. 
And maiwel where they next shall seize a spoil : 



* The time in this poem may seem too short for the occur- 
rences, but the whole of the ^gean isles are within a few 



Xo matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 

Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 

But who that Chief V his name on every shore 

Is famed and fear 'cl— they ask and know no more. 

With these he mingles not but to command ; 

Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 

Xe'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 

But they forgive his silence for success. 

Xe'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 

That goblet passes him untasted still — 

And for his fare— the rudest of his crew 

Would that, in turn, have passed untasted too ; 

Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest roots. 

And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 

His short repast in humbleness supply 

With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 

But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense. 

His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 

" Steer to that shore ! "—they sail. " Do this ! "— 

'tis done: 
" Xow form and follow me ! "—the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 

III. 

" A sail !— a sail ! "—a promised prize to Hope ! 

Her nation— flag — how speaks the telescope ? 

Xo prize, alas I — but yet a welcome sail : 

The ;jiood-red signal glitters in the gale. 

Yes— she is ours — a home-returning bark — 

Blow fair, thou breeze— she anchors ere the dark. 

Already doubled is the cape — our bay 

Receives that prow which proudly spurns the spray. 

How gloriously her gallant course she goes I — 

Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 

She walks the wate^rs like a thing of life, 

And seems to dare th« elements to strife. 

Who would not brave the battle-fire— the wreck — 

To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 

TV. 

Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 

The sails are furPd; and anchoring round she 

swings ; 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
'T is manned— the oars keep concert to the strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout I — the friendly speech! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity. 



The tidings spread, and gathering grows the crowd ; 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends'— husbands'— lovers' names in each dear 

word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless ? 
From where the battle roars— the billows chafe— 
They doubtless boldly did— but who are safe ? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes ! " 

VI. 

" Where is our chief ? for him we bear report— 
And doubt that joy— which hails our coming- 
short ; 
Yet thus sincere— 't is cheering, though so brief ; 
But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief : 



hours' sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind 
enough to take the wind as I have often found it. 
73 



CAXTO T. 



THE CORSAIR. 



YII.-XI. 



Our greeting- paid, we '11 feast on oiir return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn." 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burst, 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo 3'our thirst ; 
From crag to cliff they mount — Xear yonder cave, 
What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
In pensive postureleaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
" 'Tis he— 'tis Conrad— here— as wont— alone', 
On— Juan I— on— and make our purpose known. 
The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
We dare not yet approach^thou know'st liis mood, 
When strange or unmvited steps intrude." 

YII. 

Him Juan sought, and told of their intent ; — 
He spake not— but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls— they come— to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
'' These letters, Chief, are from the Greek— the spy. 
Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 
Much that" — "Peace, peace!" — he cuts their 

prating short. 
Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But. this as if he guess'd, with head aside. 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll— "My tablets, Juan, hark- 
Where is Gonsalvo ? " 

" In the anchor 'd bark." 
" There let him stay — to him this order bear- 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 
" To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 

"Ay ! at set of sun: 
The breeze wiU freshen when the day is done. 
M\' corselet, cloak — one hour and we are gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand. 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armorer with speed dispose ; 
Last time, it more fatigued my arm than foes : 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To teU us when the hour of stay 's expired." 

YIII. 

They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too"^soon to seek again the watery waste : 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides ; 
And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
That man of loneliness and m5-stery. 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
Whose name appalls the fiercest of his crew. 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower hue ; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
What should it be, that thus their faith can bind ? 
The power of Thought— the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will : 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown. 
Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still nmst labor for the one ! 
'T is Xature's doom— but let the wretch who toils 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
74 



Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid cliains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains I 

IX. 

Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 

Demons in act, but Gods at least in face. 

In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 

Though his dark ej^ebrow shades a glance of fire : 

Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 

Xo giant frame sets forth his common height ; 

Y^et, in the whole, who paused to look again. 

Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 

They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 

That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 

Sunburnt his cheek, his" forehead high and pale 

The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 

And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 

The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceals. 

Though smooth his voice, and calm his general 

mien, 
StiU seems there something he would not have seen : 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye : 
He had the skiU, when Cunning's gaze would seek 
To probe his heart and watch his changing cheek, 
At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Le^t he to Conrad rather should betray 
Some secret thoug]it,than drag that chief 's to-day. 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope vathering fled— and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 

X. 

Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within — witliin — 't was there the spirit wrought ! 
Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the gove^n'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien. 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony. 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear: 
Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen— not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then— Stranger! if thou canst, and tremblest not, 
Behold his soul— the rest that soothes his lot ! 
^Eark how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself— the secret spirit free ? 

XL 

Y"et was not Conrad thus by Xature sent 
To lead the guilty— guilt's worst instrument— 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
Warp'd by the world in Disappointment's school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe. 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray 'd him still; 
Xor deem'd that gifts bestowed on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 



^ 



■^ 




" My own Medora! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad? " 

THE CORSAIR.— Page 75. 



■{fe 



CANTO I. 



THE CORSAIR, 



XII -XIV. 



rear'd—shunn'd— belied— ere youth had lost her 

force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain— but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seera'd; 
And scorn 'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and dreaded 

too. 
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from all contempt : 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
But they that f ear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn— but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires— but leaves no living foe ; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings. 
And he may crush— not conquer— still it stings ! 

XII. 

None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove. 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
Yes, it was love— unchangeable— unchanged, 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 
Though many a beauty droop'd in prison 'd bower, 
None ever sooth 'd his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
Tried in temptation, strengtlien'd by distress. 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
And yet — oh, more than all I — untired by time ; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness 

part. 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove — 
If there be love in mortals— this was love ! 
He was a villain — ay, reproaches shower 
On him— but not the passion, nor its power. 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone. 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 

XIII. 

He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
'"' Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I pass'd. 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear, 
Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile. 
We '11 furnish mourners for our funeral pile. 
Ay, let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams! 
Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze!) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave— mean boast where all are brave ! 
Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes we share, 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
Small merit claims — but 't was my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 



Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 
No medium now — we perish or succeed ; 
So let it be— it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot hath long had little of my care. 
But chafes my pride thus bafHed in the snare : 
Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
Oh, Fate !— accuse thy folly, not thy fate ! 
She may redeem thee still, nor yet too late." 

XIV. 

Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill : 
There at the portal paused— for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they rung. 
And these the notes his bird of beauty sung ; 



" Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore. 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells. 
Then trembles into silence as before. 

2. 
" There, in its centre,' a sepulchral lamp 

Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 

Though vain its ray as it had never been. 

3. 
" Eemember me— Oh ! pass not thou my grave 

Without one thought whose relics there recline ; 
The only pang my bosom dare not brave 

Must be to find forgetfulness in thine. 

4. 

" My fondest— faintest — latest accents hear— 
Grief for the dead not virtue can reprove ; 

Til en give me all I ever ask'd — a tear. 
The first — last— sole reward of so much love ! " 

He pass'd the portal — cross 'd the corridor. 

And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er: 

" My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit. 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on this lone couch reclined, 
My dreaming fear witli storms hath wing'd the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge ; 
Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire. 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire ; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star. 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew. 
And day broke dreary on my "troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed— and not a prow 
Was granted to my tears — my truth— my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon— I hail'd. and blest tlie mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it pass'd ! 
Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last ! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er. 
My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes for strife— 
75 



CANTO I. 



THE CORSAIR. 



XV.-XYI. 



How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will ! " 

" Yea, strange indeed— that heart hath long been 

changed ; 
Worm-like 't was trampled — adder-like avenged, 
AVithout one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
My very love to thee is hate to them. 
So closely mingling here, tliat disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind: 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Assures the future that my love will last ; 
But — oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart : 
This hour again— but not for long — we part." 

" This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this : 

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 

This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 

Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay: 

Her consort still is absent, and her crew 

Have need of rest before they toil anew : 

My love ! tliou mock'st my weakness ; and wouldst 

steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress. 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest ! come and share 
The feast tliese hands delighted to prepare : 
JLight toil I to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluck'd the fruit that promised best. 
And where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I guess'd 
At such as seemxl the fairest; thrice the hill 
My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
Tlie grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
Think not I mean to chide— for T rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Sliall soothe or lull— or, should it vex thine ear, 
We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 
Of fair Oh'mpia loved and left of old.'^ 
Why, thou wert worse than he who broke his 

vow 
To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
Or even that traitor chief — I "ve seen thee smile, 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
Lest time should raise that doubt to more than 

dread. 
Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main ; 
And he deceived me — for — he came again !" 

"Again — again— and oft again— mv love ! 

If there be life below, and hope above, 

He will return— but now, the moments bring 

The time of parting with redoubled wing : 

The why— the where— what boots it now to tell ? 

Since all must end in that wild word— farewell ! 

Yet would I fain— did time allow— disclose — 

Fear not— these are no formidable foes ; 

And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 

For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 

Xor be thou lonely— though thy lord 's away, 

Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee'^stay ; 

And this thy comfort— that, when next we meet. 

Security shall make repose more sweet. 

♦ Orlando Furioso, canto x. 
. 76 



List!— 'tis the bugle "—Juan shrilly blew — 
" One kiss— one more— another— Oh ! Adieu !" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace^ 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face: 
He dared not raise to his that deep-blue ej'e,. 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair liair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
So full-^/ir(^ feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
Hark— peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
It told 't was sunset— and he cursed that sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly prQss'd, 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more : 
Felt that for him earth held but her alone, 
Iviss'd her cold forehead — turned— is Conrad gone ? 

XY. 

" xYnd is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
•' 'T was but an instant past — and here he stood I 
And now" — without the portal's porch she ruslfd, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
But still her lips refused to send — '' Farewell !" 
For in that word— that fatal word— howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there breathes de- 
spair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 
Had sorrow fixed what time can ne'er erase : 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen v\itli its gaze on vacancy. 
Till — Oh, how far I— it caught a glimpse of him. 
And then it flow'd— and phrensied seem'd tosv%im, 
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes 

dew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
"He's gone I" — against her heart that hand is 

driven, 
Comoilsed and quick— then gently raised to heaven : 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set— she dared not lock again ; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
" It is no dream— and I am desolate!" 

XYI. 
From crag to crag descending, swiftly sped 
Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head; 
But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey. 
His lone but lovely dvrelling on the steep, 
That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep : 
And she — the dim and melancholy star. 
Whose ray of beauty reach'd him from afar. 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink : 
Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
]\Iay melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears. 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore. 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast. 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 



CANTO II. 



THE CORSAIR, 



T.-IIT. 



He bounds— he flies— until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beach, 
There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
Tor well had Canrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
-His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy; 
All these he wielded to command assent : 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent. 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard. 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soft en 'd, but subdued : 
The evil passions of liis youth had made 
Him value less who loved— than what obey'd. 

XYII. 

Around liim mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands— "Are all prepared ? " 

" They are— nay more — em.bark'd : the latest boat 

Waits but my chief " 

"My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
" Call Pedro here ! " He comes — and Conrad bends. 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine ! " 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wruiig, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash'd the dipt oars, and sparkling with the stroke. 
Around the waves' pliosphoric - brightness broke ; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour ; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends : 
Before them burns the lamp, and spreads tlie chart, 
And all tliat speaks and aids tlie naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew, 
And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
To gain their port — long — ^long ere morning smile : 
And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys hiy. 
Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by. 
And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 



* By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of 
the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a 
slight flash like sheet lightning from the water. 



Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape. 
That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; 
While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

'Conosceste i dubiosi desiri?" — Dante. 



I. 

In" Coron's bay floats many a galley light. 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
Por Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
A feast for promised triumph j^et to come. 
When he shall drag the fetter'd Rovers home ; 
This hath he sworn by Allah and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word. 
His summon 'd prows collect along the coast. 
And great the gathering crews, and loud the boast ; 
Already shared the captives and the prize. 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise; 
'Tis but to sail—no doubt to-m.orrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
!N'or only wake to Vv^ar, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valor on the Greek ; 
How well such deed becomes the turban 'd brave — 
To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
Infest his dwelling — ^but forbear to slay. 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day. 
And do not deign to sniite because they may ! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow. 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
And they who wish to wear a head must smile ; 
Por Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer, 



II. 

High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
Around— the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
Porbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quaff. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice t 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
The long chibouques J dissolving cloud supply, 
Wliile dance the Almas ^ to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
But Avaves are somewhat treacherous in the dark: 
And revellers m^ay more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep : 
Peast there who can— nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trust : 
And yet the numbers crowded in liis host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 

III. 

With cautious reverence from the outer gate 
Slow stalks the slave, v/hose office there to wait, 
Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor. 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
" A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
Escaped, is here— himself would tell the rest." \\ 



+ Coffee. $ " Chibouque," pipe. § Dancing girls. 

II It has been observed, that Conrad's entering disguised as 

a spy is out of nature. Perhaps so. I find something not 

77 



CANTO II. 



THE CORSAIR 



ly. 



He took the sii^n from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'cl of hardship more than years, 
And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
Vow'd to his God— his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown. 
And wrapt a breast bestow 'd on heaven alone ; 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
And question of his coming fain would seek, 
Before the Pacha's will allow 'd to speak. 

ly. 

" Whence com'st thou, Dervise ? " 

" From the outlaw's den, 
A fugitive—" 

" Thy capture where and when ? " 
" From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Allah did not smile 
Upon our course— the Moslem merchant's gains 
The Rovers won ; our limbs have worn their chains. 
I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast. 
Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and oifer'd chance of flight ; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here- 
with thee— most mighty Pacha! who can fear ? " 

"How speed the outlaws? stand they well pre- 
pared, 
Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard? 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed? " 

" Pacha! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy; 
I only heard tlie reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the 

shore ; 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky. 
Too bright — too blue— for my captivity ; 
And felt— that all which Freedom's bosom cheers. 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape. 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here— if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Pacha! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence— peace be with thee ! Peace 
With all around ! now grant repose — release. " 

" Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question— stay, 
I do command thee— sit— dost hear ?— obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring ; 
Thou Shalt not pine where all are banqueting : 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply. 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery." 

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 

Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 

jSTor show'd high relish for the banquet prest, 

And less respect for every fellow guest. 

'T was but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 

Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 



unlike it in history :— " Anxious to explore with his own eyes 
the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disg-uising 
the color of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his 
own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by 
the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the em- 
peror of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as 
78 



He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 

" What ails thee, Dervise ? eat— dost thou suppose 
This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes ? 
Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge. 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge. 
Makes ev'n contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! '' 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still i 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
And my stern vow and order's ^ laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ; 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well— as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
It shines a lake of fire !— away— away ! 
Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
The galleys feed the flames— and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him 
now! " 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
Up rose that Dervise— not in saintly garb, 
But lil^e a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, and flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume, 
More glittering e5^e,aiid black brow's sabler gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite. 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight. 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below; 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell— 
For swords begin to clash, and shouts to swell- 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
Theij seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! f 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and perish there. 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
Tlie flame was kindled ere the signal made ; 
He saw their terror — from his baldric jlrew 
His bugle— brief the blast — but shrilly blew; 
'T is answer'd — "Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
And deem design had left me single here ? " 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury what their fear begun. 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread. 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 



an improbable fiction ; butitis a fiction which would not have 
been imagined unless in the life of a hero."— See Gibbon's 
Deline and Fall of the Roman Empire. 

* The Dervises are In colleges, and of different orders, as 
the monks. 

+ "Zatanai," Satan. 




But who is she? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ; 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 

THE CORSAIR. 



-Page 79. 



m- 



-^ 



CANTO IT. 



THE CORSAIR, 



Y.-viir. 



Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, v^^ith rage,sur- 

prise, 
Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, • 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ; * 
For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait : 
Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling — 

throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim'd how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
But short their greeting — shorter his replj^ — 
*' 'T is well — but Seyd escapes — and he nmst die — 
Mnch hath been done — but more remains to do — 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too '?'" 

V. 

Quick at the word they seized him each a torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye. 
But sudden sunk— for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock 'd at that heart unmoved by battle's yell. 
"• Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 't is ours to slay : 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live ; 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door, 
Nor feels his feet glow scorcliing with the floor; 
His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoke. 
But still from room to room his way he broke. 
They search — ^they find — they save : with lusty arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck away — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ; 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd ! 

YI. 

Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,t 
Few words to reassure the trembling fair ; 
For in that pause compassion snatch 'd from war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far, 
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowlier fled— then rallied— then withstood. 
This Seyd perceives, then first perceives how few, 
Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
Allah il Allah ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well- 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
And those ,who fought for conquest strike for life. 



* A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman 
anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, pag-e 24. " The Se- 
raskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up 



Conrad beheld the danger— he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foes repell'd : 
" One effort— one — to break the circling host ! " 
They form — unite— charge— weaver— all is lost! 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset. 
Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled 

o'er; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
And sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 

VII. 

But first, e'er came the rallying host to blows, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed. 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed. 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd. 
And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair. 
Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth 'd his accents ; soften'd in his eye : 
'T was strange— i/iai robber thus with gore bedew'd 
Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, sooth'd affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
" The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female— vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot. 
The life — my loving lord remember'd not ! " 

' VIII. 
And him she saw, where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his band, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd— bleeding— baflled of the death he sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain. 
And stanch 'd the blood she saves to shed again— 
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying— ne'er to die ! 
Can this be he ? triumpliant late she saw. 
When his red hand's wild gesture w^aved, a law ! 
'T is he indeed— disarm 'd but undeprest, 
His sole regret the life he still possest ; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could 

kill. 
Oh were there none, of all the many given. 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
Must he alone of all retain his breath. 
Who more than all had striven and struck for death ? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel. 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt- 
He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
That led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 
Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening 

wound. 
But few that saw— so calmly gazed around : 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd. 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud. 



his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the 
field." 

+ Gulnare, a female name ; It means, literally, the flower of 
the pomegranate. 

79 



CAjSTTO II. 



THE CORSAIR. 



IX.-XTII. 



The better warriors who belield him near, 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

IX. 

The Leech was sent— but not in mercj^— there. 
To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain ; 
To-morrow— yea— to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Beliold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
"Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake. 
While famish'd vultures flit around the stake. 
*' Oh ! water— water ! " smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks he dies. 
This was his doom : — ^the Leech, the guard were 

gone. 
And left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 



'T were vain to paint to what his feelings grew— 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed— combined- 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse— 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
But cries " I warn'd thee !" when the deed is o'er. 
Tain voice! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel— the weak alone repent ! 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, to itself, all— all that self reveals, 
^No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought; 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews. 
All rushing through their thousand avenues. 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset ; 
The joy un tasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fate ; 
The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess of hell or heaven : 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember 'd 

not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time. 
But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
I*^ot cankering less because the more conceal'd— 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 
That opening sepulchre— the naked heart 
Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake. 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
Ay— Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all,— 
Ail— all— before— beyond— the deadliest fall. 
Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays. 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
iSTot the loud recreant wretch who boasts and 

flies ; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career. 
He half-way meets him should he menace near ! 

XI. 

In the high chamber of his highest tower 
Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish 'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
Kot much could Conrad of his sentence blame. 
His foe, if vanquish 'd, had but shared the same :— 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
80 



One thought alone he could not— dared not meet— 
'' Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ?" 
Then— only then— his clanking hands he raised, 
And strain' d with rage the chain on which he 

gazed ; 
But soon he found— or feign 'd— or dream 'd relief, 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief. 
" And now come torture when it will— or may, 
More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept. 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
'T was hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
Eor Conrad's plans matured, at once were done : 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time. 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd— 
Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — con- 
demn 'd — 
A chief on land— an outlaw on the deep- 
Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 

XII. 

He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
Was hush'd so deep— Ah ! happy if in death ! 
He slept— Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gone— and here he hath no friends ; 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid. 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain. 
And once unclosed— but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute- 
Through guards and dunnest night how came it 

there ? 
Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep— and while the Pacha's rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest. 
She left his side— his signet-ring she bore. 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
x\nd with it, scarcely question 'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
Worn out with toil, and tired with clianging 

blows. 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no 

more ; 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 

XIII. 

She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep. 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than vroe: 
'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
He moved his hand— the grating of his chain 
Too harslily told him tliat he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks my jailer's face shows wondrous fair !" 

" Pirate ! thou know'st me not — but I am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy liand 
Snatch 'd from the flames, and thy more fearful 
band. 



CANTO II. 



THE CORSAIR. 



xiv.-xvr. 



I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

" If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay Iiope delifflit : 

Theirs is the chance— and let them use their right. 

But still I thank their courtesy or thine. 

That would confess me at so fair a shrine I ■' 

Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
Is link'd a rairtli — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er bei^uiles. 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes witli the wisest and the best, 
Till even the scaffold* echoes with their jest ! 
Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whatever it was that flash'd on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life. 
Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and 
strife. 

XIT. 
" Corsair I thy doom is named — but I have power 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
Thee would I spare — ^nay more — would save thee 

now. 
But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength al- 
low; 
But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 

*' Yes !^oth indeed :— my soul is nerved to all. 
Or faU'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril— me with hope 
Of flight from' foes witli whom I could not cope : 
Unfit to vanquish— shall I meanly fly, 
The one of all my band that would not die ? 
Yet there is one to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
My sole resources in tlie path I trod 
Were these — my bark — my sword — mv love — mv 
God : ^ ^ 

The last I left in youth — he leaves me now — 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne witli prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouciiing of despair ; " 
It is" enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
Tiiat might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh I she is all that still to earth can bind— 
And this will break a heart so more tlian kind. 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd. Gulnare ! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." 

" Thou lov'st another then ?— but what to me 
Is this — 't is nothing— nothing e'er can be : 
But yet— thou lov'st— and— Oh I I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose. 
AV^ho never feel the void — tlie wandering thought 
That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath 
wrought." 

" Lady — methought thy love was his. for whom 
This arm redeemed thee from a fierv tomb." 



* In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and 

Anne Boleyu, in the Tower. Avhen. g-rasping her neck, she 

remarked, that it "-was too slender to trouble the headsman 

much." During one part of the Fiench Revolution, it be- 

6 



"My love stern Seyd'sl Oh— Xo— Xo— not my 

love — 
Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once 

strove 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favor "d slave at best, 
To share his splendor, and seem very blest I 
■ Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
. Of — ' Dost thou love ? ' and burn to answer, ' Xo I ' 
; Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
And hide from one— perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not— nor withhold— 
Its pulse nor check'd— nor quicken'd— calmly cold : 
And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate. 
Xo warmth these lips return by his imprest. 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
Yes— had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
Tlie change to hatred were at least to feel : 
But still— lie goes unmouru'd— returns unsought — 
And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
Or when reflection comes— and come it must— 
I fear that henceforth 't will but bring disgust ; 
I am his slave— but, in despite of pride, 
'T were worse than bondage to become his bride. 
Oh I that this dotage of his breast would cease : 
Or seek anotlier and give mine release. 
But yesterday— I could have said, to peace ! 
Yes— if imwonted fondness now I feign, 
Eemember— captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endear 'd below, 
Who share sucli love as I can never know. 
Farewell— morn breaks— and I must now away: 
'T will cosfc me dear— but dread no death to-day I " 

XY. 

She pressed liis fetter'd fingers to her heart, 

\ And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 
And noiselevSa. a^ a lovely dream is gone. 
And was she here 'r and is he now alone ? 

: Yfhat gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his 

' chain ? 

The teaj: most sacred, shed for otliers' pain, 

i That starts at once— bright— pure — from Pity's 

i mine, 

I Already polish 'd by the hand divine I 
Oh I too convincing — dangerously dear — 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield. 
To save, subdue— at once her spear and shield : 
Avoid it— Yirtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
Too fondly gazing on tliat grief of hers I 
What lost a world, and bade a hero fly y 
The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
Yet be the soft triumvii-'s fault" forgiven ; 
By this — how maiiy lose not earth— out heaven ! 
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 
And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe ! 

XYI. 
'T is mom— and o'er his alter'd features play 
The beams— Avith out the hope of yesterday. 
What shall he be ere night ? perchance a thing. 
O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
By his closed eye unheecled and unfelt ; 
While sets that sun, and devrs of evening melt, 
Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
Refreshing earth — reviving all but him I 

came a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and the 

quantity of facetious last words spoken during that pe- 
riod would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable 
size. 

81 



CANTO III. 



THE CORSAIR. 



T.-TIT. 



CANTO THE THIRD, 



Come vedi— ancor noB m' abbandona."— Dante. 



Slow sinks, more lovelj^ ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in Il^orthern climes, obscurely bright. 
But one unclouded blaze of living light! -^ 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows, 
On old JEgina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile : 
O'er his ova\ regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain sliadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — ^Athens! here thy AVisest look'd his last. 
How watch 'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's * latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never fro^vn'd before; 
But ere he sank below Cithseron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him w^ho scorn'd to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain. 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign. f 
No murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play. 
There the white column greets her grateful ray. 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,J 
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm. 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues arrest the eye — 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the ^gean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
]Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown— where gentler ocean seems to smile. 



* Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset 
(the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of 
his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

+ The twilig-ht in Greece is much longer than in our own 
country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of 
shorter duration. 

82 



II. 

Not now my theme— why turn my thoughts to thee? 
Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set. 
Fair Athens I could thine evening face forget ? 
Not he— Avhose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle w^as once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 

III. 

The Sim hath sunk— and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heait— the third day 's come and gone — 
With it he comes not— sends not — faithless one ! 
The wind w- as fair though light ; and storms were 

none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return 'd, and yet 
His only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens— she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaim 'd a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she w^ander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
Slie saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart. 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense ! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter 'd boat. 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
Some bleeding — all most wretched— these the few — 
Scarce knew they how escaped— ^t/^^s all they knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: 
Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot. 
Within that meek fair form, were feelings high. 
That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they soften 'd — flutter 'd — 

wept — 
All lost — ^that softness died not— but it slept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
" With nothing left to love — there 's nought to 

dread." 
'T is more than nature's ; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand— nor would I hear you tell 
What — speak not— breathe not — ^for I know it well — 
Yet would I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 

" Lady ! w^e know not — scarce with life we fled ; 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 

She heard no further — 't was in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — ^tiU then 

withstood ; 
Her own dark soul — ^these words at once subdued : 



% The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm is with- 
out the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of 
Theseus, betAveen which and the tree the wall intervenes. 
Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream 
at all. 



■^ 




The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart — the third day's come and gone — 
With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one! 

THE CORSAIR. 



-Page 82. 



^ 



■m 



CANTO III. 



THE CORSAIR. 



lY.-VII. 



She totters— falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch 'd her from another grave ; 
But that with hands thouoh rude, yet weeping eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise— fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 

lY. 

In that wild council words wax'd warm and strange. 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge ; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there j^et survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 

Y. 

Within the Haram's secret chamber sate * 

Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fate ; 

His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 

]N"ow with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell; 

Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 

Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind ; 

While many an anxious glance lier large dark eye 

Sends in its idle search for sympathy. 

His only bends in seeming o'er his beads, f 

But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

" Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken— fall'n the rest ! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies ; and well his fate 
Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy hate: 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch'd— follow'd— he were tlien an easier prey; 
But once cut oft — the remnant of his band 



" Gulnare !— if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; ^ 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here— that gold should not redeem ! 

It had not now redeem. 'd a single hour. 

But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; 

And thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 

On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" N'ay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage. 
Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches— thus released, he were not free : 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band. 
His capture could but wait thy first command." 

" His capture could, /—and shall I then resign 

One day to him— the wretch already mine ? 

Release my foe !— at whose remonstrance ?— thine ! 

Fair suitor!— to thy virtuous gratitude. 

That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 

Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 

No doubt— regardless if the prize were fair, 

My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 

I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 

I do mistrust thee, woman! and each word 

Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 

* The whole of this section was added in the course of 
printing. 



Borne in his arms through fire from jon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
Thou needst not answer — thy confession speaks, 
Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
'T is not Ms life alone may claim such care ! 
Another word and — nay— I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but no — 
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 
IS'ow 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing 1 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
Look to thyself— nor deem thy falsehood safe!" 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew. 
Rage in his e\^e and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces subdued : 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could 

dare. 
His doubts appear'd to wrong — ^nor yet she knew 
How deep the root from whence compassion grew — 
Slie was a slave — ^from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name ; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path. 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's woes I 

YI. 

Meanwhile— long anxious — weary— still— the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread. 
When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame— that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
'T was worn — perhaps decay 'd — yet silent bore 
That conflict, deadlier far than all before : 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale. 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude. 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faults, and coming fate- 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
With not a friend to animate, and tell 
To other ears that death became thee well : 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie. 
And blot life's latest scene with calimmy ; 
Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare. 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
To valor's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise— thy heaven 
Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
And those sustain 'd he— boots it well or ill ? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 

YII. 

The first day pass'd — he saw not her— Gulnare — 
The second — ^third— and still she came not there ; 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 



+ The comholoio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads are in 
number ninety-nine. 

83 



CANTO III. 



THE CORSAIK 



YIII.-IX. 



The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night, 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling might. 
Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had lie ridden on that winged wave. 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave ; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long-known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the tliunder-cloud ; 
And tlash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To him more genial than the midnight star : 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain; 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, and pray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made ; 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone. 
As if some f aitliless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 

YIII. 

The midnight pass'd — tind to the massy door 
A light step came— it paused — it moved once more ; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
'T is as his heart foreboded— that fair she ! 
Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came. 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye. 
Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
Yes, thou must die — ^there is but one resource, 
The last— the worst — if torture were not worse." 

"• Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What" last proclaim'd they— Conrad still the same : 
Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear ? 
Well have I earn 'd— nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek ? because— Oh ! didst thou not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot V 
Why should I seek ? hath misery made thee blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind V 
And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell— 
Because— despite thy crimes— that heart is moved : 
It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — madden'd 

— loved. 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again. 
Thou lov'st another — and 1 love in vain : 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
But speak not now— o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If tliou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise— and follow me!" 

"Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread. 
With theseadornments, o'er each slumbering head ! 
Thou hast forgot— is this a garb for flight ? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 

" Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
A single word of mine removes that chain ; 
Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
Well, since we met, ha,th sped my busy time. 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
84 



The crime — 't is none to punish those of Seyd. 

That hatred tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 

I see thee shudder— but my soul is changed — 

Wrong'd, spurn'd, reviled — and it shall be avenged — 

xlccused of what till now my heart disdain'd— 

Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 

Yes, smile !— but he had little cause to sneer, 

I was not treacherous then— nor thou too dear : 

But he has said it — and the jealous well. 

Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel. 

Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 

I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 

Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 

I was a slave unmurmuring ; he hath said. 

But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 

'T was false thou know'st— but let such augurs rue, 

Their words are omens insult renders true. 

Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 

This fleeting grace was only to prepare 

New torments for thy life, and my despair. 

Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 

Would fain reserve me for his lordly will : 

When wearier of these fleeting charms and me. 

There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea ! 

What, am I then a toy for dotard's play. 

To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 

I saw thee— loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 

If but to show how grateful is a slave. 

But had he not thus menaced fame and life 

(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 

I still had saved thee — ^but the Pacha spared. 

Now I am all thine own— for all prepared : 

Thou lov'st me not— nor know'st— or but the worst. 

Alas ! this loYe— that hatred are the first — 

Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not 

start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart : 
'T is now tlie beacon of thy safety— now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps— he must not wake— the oppressor 

Seyd ! " 

" Gulnare— Gulnare— I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand, 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
Thine saved I gladly, lady — not for this ; 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well— more peace be with thy breast ! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 

'• Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 

And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake. 

I heardthe order— saw — I will not see — 

If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 

My life— my love — my hatred— all below 

Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 

Without it flight were idle— how evade 

His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid. 

My youth disgraced— the long, long wasted years, 

One blow shall cancel with our future fears : 

But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 

I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 

The guards are gain'd— one moment all were o'er — 

Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more ; 

If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 

Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud." 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish 'd ere he could reply, 
But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 



^ 



■^ 




The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pass'd 
In watching all that Hope proclaina'd a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 

THE CORSAIR. 



-Page 82. 



m- 



■^ 



CANTO III. 



THE CORSAIR, 



X.-XYI. 



And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
He, fast as fetter 'd limbs allow, pursued. 
•T was dark and winding, and he knew not where 
Tiiat passage led ; nor lamp nor guard v/as there : 
He sees a dusky glimmering— shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
Chance guides his steps— a freshness seems to bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air- 
He reach 'd an open gallery— on his eye 
Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky: 
Yet scarcely heeded these— another liglit 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved : a scarcely closing door 
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more. 
With hasty step a figure outward p^iss'd, 
Then paused— and turn 'd— and paused— 'tis she at 

last ! 
No poniard in that hand — no sign of ill — 
''Thanks to that softening heart — slie could not 

kill!" 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 

She stopp'd— threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
That nearly veiPd her face and bosom fair. 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
They meet — upon her brow— uiiknown— forgot — 
Her hurrying hand had left— 'twas but a spot— 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime— 'tis blood ! 

X. 

He had seen battle— he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown : 
He had been tempted — chasten 'd — and the chain 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
But ne'er from strife— captivity— remorse— 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder'd every creeping vein. 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak. 
Had banish 'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Biood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but 

then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

'' 'T is done— he nearly waked— but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish 'd— thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain— avv'ay — away ! 
Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
Anon ray voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 

XII. 

She clapp'd lier hands— and through the gallery pour, 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals— Greek and Moor ; 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as momitain wind ! 
But on his heavy heart such sadness sate. 
As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
No words are utter 'd— at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore : 
The city lies behind— they speed, they reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray 'd ; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 

XIII. 

Embark'd, the sail unfurFd, the light breeze blew— 
How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 



Sunk he in contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor 'd rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
As its far shadow frown 'd above the mast. 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'd ; 
He thought of all — Gonsnlvo and his band, 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He turn'd and saw— Gulnare, the homicide ! 

XIY. 

She watch 'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange flerceness foreign to her eye. 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she press'd, 
" Thou mayst forgive though Allah's self detest; 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
Reproach me — ^but not yet— Oh ! spare me noio I 
I am not what I seem— this fearful night 
My brain bewilder'd — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to— hate me— if thou wilt." 

XY. 

She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 

Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he mc*de ; 

But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 

They bleed within that silent cell— his breast. 

Still onward, fair the breeze, nor rough the surge. 

The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 

Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 

A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 

Their little bark her men of watch descry. 

And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 

She bears her down majestically near. 

Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 

A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 

Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 

Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 

A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 

" 'T is mine— my blood-red flag ! again— again— 

I am not all deserted on the main!" 

They own the signal, answer to the hail. 

Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 

" 'T is Conrad ! Conrad !" shouting from the deck, 

Command nor duty could their transport check ! 

With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 

A smile relaxing in each rugged face. 

Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 

He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 

Returns their greeting as a chief may greet, 

Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 

And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 

XYI. 

These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance— hadtheyknown 
A woman's hand secured that deed her owai, 
She were their queen— less scrupulous are they 
Then haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
And her, at once above— beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall 'd not, their regards perplex. 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast. 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign 'd the rest. 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 
85 



CANTO III. 



THE CORSAIR. 



XYTI.-XXII. 



XYII. 

This Conrad mark'd, and felt— ah ! could he less ? — 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
What she has done no tears can wash awa}^ 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven ! 
And now he turn'd him to that dark-eyed slave, 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave. 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled, faint and 

meek, 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
He took that hand — it trembled — now too late — 
So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
" Gulnare !"— but she replied not — " dearGulnare!" 
She raised her eye— her only answer there— 
At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
H he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart, — 
But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
Tli'at ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith — 
To lips w4iere Love had lavish'd all his breath. 
To lips— whose broken sighs such fragrance fiing. 
As he had fann'd them freshly with his wing ! 

XYIII. 

They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 

To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 

The haven hums with many a clieering sound. 

The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 

The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 

And sportive dolphins bend them through the spray ; 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's slirill, discordant shriek 

Greets like the w^elcome of his tuneless beak ! 

Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 

Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home. 

Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled 

foam ? 

XIX. 
The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora 's tower : 
He looks in vain— 't is strange— and all remark. 
Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
'T is strange— of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
jS'or now, perchance, extinguish 'd, only veil'd. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore, 
And looks impatient on tlie lingering oar. 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight. 
To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave. 
He waits not— looks not— leaps into the wave. 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and 

high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach 'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
Broke from Avithin ; and all was night around. 
He knock 'd, and loudly— footstep nor reply 
Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
He knock 'd — but faintly— for his trembling hand 
Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens— 'tis a well-known face- 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent— twice his own essay 'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay 'd ; 



He snatch 'd the lamp— its light will answer all — 
Its quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow 'd floor ; 
His steps the chamber gain— his eyes behold 
All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 

XX. 

He turn'd not— spoke not— sunk not — fix'd his look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook: 
He gazed — ^liow long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she w^as so still and fair. 
That death with gentler aspect wither'd there ; 
And the cold flowers * her colder hand contain'd, 
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain 'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow. 
And veil'd— thought shrinks from all that lurk'd 

below— 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the spirit from her throne of light; 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse. 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips— 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile. 
And wish'd repose — but only for a w^hile ; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair— but spread in utter lifelessness. 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind. 
Escaped the baftled wreath that strove to bind ; 
These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 

XXI. 

He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
It was enough— she died — what reck'd it how ? 
The love of youth, the hope of better years. 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest fears, 
The only living thing he could not hate. 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
But did not feel it less ; — the good explore. 
For peace, those realms where guilt can never 

soar : 
The proud— the wayward — ^who have fix'd below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe. 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight ? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost. 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 

XXII. 

By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one. 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show. 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conmd's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
AVhich thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his trickling tears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — ^brokenness of heart r- 



* In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the 
bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to 
place a nosegay. 



i 



■^ 




-& 



CANTO Tir. 



THE CORSAIR. 



XXIII.-XXIV. 



The sun goes forth — but Conrad's daj^ is dim ; 
And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Grief's vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
To blackest shade— nor will endure a guide ! 

XXIII. 

His heart was form'd for softness— warp 'd to 

wrong ; 
Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; . 
Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping clew 
Within the grot ; like that had harden 'd too ; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock, 
If such his heart, so shatter 'd it the shock. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade— it shelter 'd— saved till 

now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted both, 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither 'd where it fell ; 



And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver 'd fragments on the barren ground ! 

XXIY. 

'T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
He was not there — nor seen along the shore ; 
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
Another morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search 'd in vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away. 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
Xor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! 
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn 

beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue ^i and a thousand crimes. —\ 




"*^7 ,^fi2^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^"^ "-"^^5- 



Yet tempests wear aud lig-htning- cleaves the rock."— Page 87, stanza xxiii. 



87 



LARA: 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 



The Serfs* are glad through Lara's wide domain, 
And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord. 
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored: 
There be bright faces in the busy hall. 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth. 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth. 

II. 

The chief of Lara is return 'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such "loss to know, 
Lord of himself, — that heritage of woe, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
l^ut holds to rob the heart within of rest I— 
With none to check, and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime : 
Then, when he most required commandment, then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all t lie mazes of its race ; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
But long enough to leave him half undone. 

III. 

And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
But from the hour he waved his parting hand. 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals could declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there ; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame. 
Another chief consoled his destined bride. 
The young forgot him, and the old liad died ; 
'' Yet doth he live! " exclaims the impatient heir, 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file. 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 

And whence they know not,why they need not guess ; 



* The reader is apprized that the name of Lara being 

Spanish, and no circumstance of local and natural description 

fixing^ the scene or hero of the poem to any country or age, 

tlie word " Serf," which could not be correctly applied to the 

88 



They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 

Not that he came, but came not long before : 

No train is his beyond a single page, 

Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 

Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed away 

To those that wander as to those that stay ; 

But lack of tidings from another clime 

Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 

They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 

The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 

Though sear'd by toil, and something touch'd by 

time; 
His faults, whate'er they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame : 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
And such, if not jqX> harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 

Y. 

And they indeed were changed— 't is quickly seen, 
Whate'er he be, 't was not what he had been ; 
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past : 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
A high demeanor, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue. 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
And makes those feel that will not own the 

wound : 
All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 
Tlian glance could well reveal, or accents breathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 
That some can conquer, and that all would claim, 
Within his breast appear 'd no more to strive, 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 

VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast. 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And— as himself would have it seem— unknown ; 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 

lower classes in Spain, who were never vassals of the soil, 
has nevertheless been employed to designate the followers of 
our fictitious chieftain.— Lord Byron elsewhere intimates 
that he meant Lara for a chief of the Morea. 



CANTO I. 



LAEA, 



VII.-XIII. 



If still more prying such inquiry grew, 

His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 

VII. 

Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
Bom of high lineage, link'd in high command, 
He mingled with the magnates of his land; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; * 
But still he only saw, and did not share. 
The common pleasure or the general care ; 
He did not follow what they all pursued. 
With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd ; 
Nor shadowy honor, nor substantial gain, 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
And things more timid that beheld him near, 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 

YIII. 

'Twas strange— in youth all action and all life. 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman— the field— the ocean— all that gave 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave. 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below. 
And found his recompense in joy or woe. 
No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thougl4 T 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements had raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high. 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
Cliain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme. 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not— but he did awake 
To curse the wither'd heart that would not break. 



IX. 
Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan, 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 
From all communion he would start away: 
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said. 
Through night 's long hours would sound his hurried 

tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frowii'd 
In rude but antique portraiture around : 
They heard, but whisper'd—'' that must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his ovm. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had 

seen 
They scarce knew what, but more than should have 

been. 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather 'd from the dead, 
That still beside his open'd volume lay. 
As if to startle all save him away ? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
All was not well, they deem'd— but where the 

wrong ? 
Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too long ; 
And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 



* " This description of Irara, suddenly and unexpectedly 
returned from distant travels, and reassuming bis station in 
the society of Ms own country, has strong- points of resein- 



But if they would — they could " — around the board 
Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 

X. 

It was the night — and Lara's glassy stream 

The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; 

So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray. 

And yet they glide like happiness away ; 

Reflecting far and fairy-like from higli 

The immortal lights that live along the sky : 

Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree. 

And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 

Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove. 

And Innocence would offer to her love. 

These deck the shore ; the waves their channel make 

In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 

All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 

You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 

Secure that nought of evil could delight 

To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 

It was a moment only for the good : 

So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood. 

But turn'd in silence to his castle gate; 

Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 

Such scene reminded him of other days. 

Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 

Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that now — 

No — no— the storm may beat upon his brow, 

Unfelt— unsparing— but a night like this, 

A night of beauty, niock'd such breast as his. 

XL 

He turn'd within his solitary hall. 
And his high shadow shot along the wall: 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
'T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
That hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; 
And half a column of the pompous page, 
Tiiat speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies. 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer. 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew. 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view : 
His bristling locks of sabltf, brow of gloom. 
And the wide waving of his shaken plume. 
Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 

XII. 

'T was midnight — all Vva-s slumber ; the lone light 
Dimm'd in tlie lamp, as loth to break the night. 
Hark I there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
A sound— a voice— a shriek— a fearful call ! 
A long, loud shriek— and silence— did they hear 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave. 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their liands, 
And snatch 'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 

XIII. 

Cold as the marble where his length was laid. 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
Was Lara stretch 'd ; his half -drawn sabre near, 
Dropp'd it should seem, in more than nature's fear ; 
Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 



blance to the part which the author himself seemed occa- 
sionally to bear amid the scenes Avhere the great mingle with 
the fair." 

89 



CA^^TO T. 



LARA. 



XTV.-XVTII. 



Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay, 

There' lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 

Some half-iorni'd threat in utterance there had died, 

Some imprecation of despairhig pride ; 

His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook. 

Even in its trance, the gladiator's look. 

That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 

And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 

They raise him — bear him : — hush ! he breathes, he 

speaks. 
The swarthy blush recolors in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Kolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Kecalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
That hears him not— alas ! that cannot hear ! 

xiy. 

His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 

To know the import of the words they heard ; 

And, by the changes of his cheek and brov\^, 

They were not such as Lara should avow, 

Nor"^he interpret,— yet with less surprise 

Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes, 

But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 

And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied ; 

And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 

To soothe away the horrors of his dream — 

If dream it were that thus could overthrow 

A breast that needed not ideal woe. 

XV. 

Whate'er his frenzy dream 'd or eye beheld. 
If yet remember 'd ne'er to be reveal 'd. 
Rests at his heart : the custom'd morning came. 
And breatlied new vigor in his shaken frame ; 
And solace sought he none from priest nor leech. 
And soon the same in movement and in speech, 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 
Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lowers. 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved t/ieirfear was less forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
The astonisU'd slaves, and shun the fated hall : 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees. 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appalls, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 

XYI. 

Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetfulness, that marie 
His vassals more amazed nor less afraid. 
Had memory vanish 'd then with sense restored? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray 'd a feeling that recall'd to these 
That fever'd moment of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
Their slumber ? his the oppress'd, o'erlabor'd heart 
That ceased to beat, the look tliat made them start ? 
Could he who thus had suffer'd so forget. 
When such as saw that suffering shudder y&t ? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
In that corroding secrecy wliich gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
'Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
90 



Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 

XVII. 

In him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 

Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot. 

In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot : 

His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 

Tliey guess 'd — they gazed — they fain would know 

his fate. 
What had he been ? wdiat was he, thus unknow^n. 
Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known V 
A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard, 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride. 
And steel 'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 

XVIII. 

There w^as in him a vital scorn of all : 

As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 

He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 

An errij^g spirit from another hurl'd ; 

A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 

By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 

But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 

His mind would half exult and half regret : 

With more capacity for love than earth 

Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 

His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 

And troubled manhood follow'd baflled youth ; 

Yv'ith thought of years in phantom chase misspejit, 

And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 

And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 

In hurried desolation o'er his path. 

And left the better feelings all at strife 

In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 

But haughty still, and loth himself to blam.e, 

He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame. 

And charged all faults upon the fleshy form 

Slie gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 

Till he at last confounded good and ill. 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will: 

Too high for common selfishness, he could 

At times resign his own for others' good, 

But not in pity, not because he ought. 

But in some strange perversity of thought. 

That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 

To do what few or none would do beside ; 

And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 

Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 

So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath, 

The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathe, 

And long'd by good or ill to separate 

Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 

His mind abhorring this, had fix'd her throne 

Far from the world, in regions of her own : 

Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below. 

His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 

Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 

But ever in that icy smoothness flow 'd I 

'T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 

And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd. 

Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 

His madness was not of the head, but heart; 



CANTO I. 



LAEA, 



XTX.-XXIY 



And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 

XIX. 

With all that chilling m^'stery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
It was not love perchance— nor hate— nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well. 
And on the words, however light, would dwell : 
None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself perforce around the hearer's mind; 
There he was stamp 'd, in liking, or in hate, 
If greeted onae ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew. 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
You could not penetrate his soul, but found. 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound : 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Yain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget. 

XX. 

There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
Appear — a high-born and a welcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
Tlie long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
Tliat mingle there in well-according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth. 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth. 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad. 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo tiiere : 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
jSTor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his — 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
At length he caught it— 't is a face unknown. 
But seems as searching his, and his alone ; 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien. 
Who still tin now had gazed on him unseen : 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew. 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 
Plash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could 
learn. 

XXIL 

" 'T is he ! " the stranger cried, and those that heard 
Re-echo'd fast and far the whisper 'd word. 
"'Tishe!' ~ - . - - 

near. 



-" 'T is who ? " they question far and 



Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
The general marvel, or that single look : 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 
gazed ; 



And drawing nigh, exclaim 'd, with haughty sneer, 
" 'T is he ! — how came he thence ? what doth he 
here ? " 

XXIII. 

It were too much for Lara to pass by 

Such questions, so repeated fierce and high ; 

With look collected, but with accent cold. 

More mildly firm than petulantly bold. 

He turn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 

" My name is Lara !— when thine own is known, 

Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 

The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 

'T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 

I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there 

none 
Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 

shun ? 
And deem'st thou me unknov^Ti too ? Gaze again! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt. 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
He deign'd no answer, but his head he sliook. 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
"A word ! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer. 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown^not, lord. 
If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell. 
Which thus begins so courteously and weU. 
Let Otho cherish here his polish 'd guest. 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 
And here their wondering host hath interposed — 
" AVhate'er there be between you undisclosed. 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown. 
Though, like Count Lara, now return 'd alone 
Prom other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle bii'tli 
I augur right of courage and of worth, 
He will not that untainted line belie, 
Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 

" To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 

" And here our several worth and truth be tried : 

I gage my life, my falchion to attest 

My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 

What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 

His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 

The words of many, and the eyes of all 

That there were gather 'd, seem'd on him to fall; 

But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 

In far forgetf ulness away — away— 

Alas! that lieedlessness of all around 

Bespoke remembrance only too x^rofound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! ay, to-morrow ! " further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard : 
91 



CANTO I. 



LAEA. 



XXV.-XXIX. 



Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Yet there was something fixW in that low tone, 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though un- 
known. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd. 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
With which that chieftain's brow would bear him 

down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide ; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood? 
Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to 
learn. 

XXY. 

And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
Well could that stripling word or sign obey: 
II is only follower from those climes afar. 
Where the soul glows beneath a brightei star ; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land. 
In such from him he rarely heard command ; 
But fleet his step, and clear his tones would come. 
When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their absent echoes in his ear. 
Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 

XXVI. 

Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew. 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; 
Yet not such blush as mounts when health would 

show 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there. 
Or, if 't were grief, a grief that none should share : 
And pleased not him the sports that please his age, 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander 'd lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questions none : 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook ; 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 

XXVII. 

If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 
His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
92 



Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 

A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 

His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 

In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 

As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 

That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 

Slight were the tasks enjoin 'd him by his lord, 

To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword; 

To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 

On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 

But ne'er to mingle with the menial train. 

To whom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 

But that well-woirn reserve which proved he knew 

No sympathy with that familiar crew : 

His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 

Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 

Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 

Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 

So femininely white it might bespeak: 

Another sex, when match 'd with that smooth cheek, 

But for his garb, and something in his gaze. 

More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 

A latent fierceness that far more became 

His fiery climate than his tender frame : 

True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 

But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 

Kaled his name, though rumor said he bore 

Another ere he left his mountain-shore; 

For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 

That name repeated loud without reply, 

As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 

Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 

Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake. 

For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 

XXYIII. 
He had look'd down upon the festive hall. 
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
And when the crowd around and near him told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold. 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
The color of young Kaled went and came, 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of flame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew. 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
Yes— there be things which we must dream and 

dare, 
And execute ere thouglit be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kaled 's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he pass'd ; 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if on something recognized right well ; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
And all within that hall seem'd left alone; 
Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 
All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 
That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream. 
Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth. 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there. 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
But long remain 'd not ; ere an hour expired, 
He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 



i 



CANTO II. 



LARA, 



I.-VI. 



Again to that accustom 'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow siglis to sleep, 
And man, o'erlabor'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's. guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile : 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench 'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
I^ight's sepulchre, the universal home. 
Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine. 
Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death. 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Night wanes— the vapors round the mountains 

curl'd 
Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty IS'ature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam. 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exulting inly, " They are thine ! " 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladden 'd eye ma,y see; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee : 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf sliall fall. 
Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for tliee, for all; 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 

II. 

'Tis morn— 'tis noon— assembled in the hall, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call : 
'T is now the promised hour that must proclaim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
When Ezzelin his charge may liere unfold. 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith Avas pledged, and Lara's promise given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not ? Such truths to be di^mlged, 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged." 

III. 

The hour is past, and Lara too is there. 
With self -confiding, coldly patient air; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercast. 
'■ I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear. 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
My halls from such a guest had honor gain'd. 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin liis host disdain'd. 
But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain," 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, " I am here 
To lend at thy demand a listening ear 



To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue. 

Whose words already might my heart have wrung, 

But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad. 

Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 

I know him not — but me it seems he knew 

In lands where— but I must not trifle too : 

Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 

Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge." 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
"• The last alternative befits me best. 
And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 

With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 

However near his o\ati or other's tomb ; 

With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoke 

Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 

With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 

Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 

In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 

For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 

And from his lips those words of insult fell — 

His sword is good who can maintain them well. 

IV. 

Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 

Yain Otho gave his bosom to the gaslf : 
He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dexterous sleight along the grour'h 
" Demiand thy life !" He answer'd not : and then 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brov/; 
Then all was stern collectedness and art, 
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd. 
That when the approaching crowd his arm with- 
held, 
He almost turn'd the thirsty point on tliose 
Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
That left a foe, howe'er overcome, with life; 
As if to search how far the wound he gave 
Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 

Y. 

They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; 
The others met within a neighboring hall. 
And he, incensed, and heedless of them all. 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode aw^ay ; 
He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 

YI. 

But where was he ? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Vv^here was this Ezzelin ? who came and went. 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere morn, 
In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest. 
His host alarm 'd, his murmuring squires distress'd : 
Their search extends along, around the path, 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
Nor gout 01 blood, nor shred of mantle torn : 
93 



CANTO TI. 



LARA. 



YIT.-TX. 



Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
AVhicli still retains a mark where murder was : 
Xor dabbling lingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail. 
When agonized hands that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
Now daily^mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it fear'd, 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 

YII. 

Daj^s roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd. 

But not his pride ; and hate no more conceal'd : 

He was a man of power, and Lara's foe. 

The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 

And from liis country's justice now demands 

Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 

Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 

His presence ? who had made him disappear. 

If not the man on whom his menaced charge 

Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 

The general rumor ignorantly loud. 

The mysteryidearest to the curious crowd ; 

The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 

To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 

The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray 'd, 

The skill with which he wielded his keen blade i 

Where had his arm unwarlike cauglit that art ? 

Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ? 

For it was not the blind capricious rage 

A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 

But the deep v\'orking of a soul unmix 'd 

AVith aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 

Such as long power and overgorged success 

Concentrates into all that 's merciless : 

These, link'd with that desire which ever swaj^s 

Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 

'Gainst Lara gathering raised at lengtli a storm, 

Such as himself miglit fear, and foes would form, 

And he must answer for the absent head 

Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 

YITI. 

AVithin that land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tjTanny to which he bent ; 
That soil full many a wringing despot saw. 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law^ ; 
Long war without and frequent broil within 
Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
That waited but a signal to begin 
New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
AVhich knows no neuter, o^^^ls but foes or friends ; 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord. 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abborr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands. 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
And now, diverted by his milder sway, 
All dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone. 
But more for him than them that fear was growTi ; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur'd of the worst. 
And each long restless night, and silent mood. 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
From thence the wretched ne'er uusoothed with- 
drew, 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
94 



Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who watch 'd might mark that, day by 

day. 
Some new retainers gather 'd to his sway ; 
But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost. 
He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
Perchance his strife witli Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; 
Whate'er his view, his favor more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 't was sound. 
The million judged but of him as they found ; 
From him, by sterner chiefs to exile driven. 
They but required a shelter, and 't was given, 
By him no peasant mourned his rifled cot, 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure. 
With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
Detain 'd, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he offer'd, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of delay 'd revenge ; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
Tliat slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought, 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought ; 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall. 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slaves 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
Such is their cry— some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
Religion — freedom— vengeance— what you will, 
A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed. 

IX. 

Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 

Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign 'd; 

Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth. 

The Serfs contemn 'd the one, and hated both : 

They waited but a leader, and they found 

One to their cause inseparably bound ; 

By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 

In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 

Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 

Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 

Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 

Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 

Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 

Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 

By mingling with his ovtm the cause of all, 

E'en if he fail'd, he still delay 'd his fall. 

The sullen calm that long his bosom kept. 

The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 

Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urge 

His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge. 

Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 

And is again ; he only changed the scene. 

Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 

But not less fitted for the desperate game : 

He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 

And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fate. 

What cared he for the freedom of the crowd? 

He raised the humble but to bend the proud. 

He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair. 

But man and destiny beset him there: 

Inured to hunters, he was found at bay; 

And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 



CANTO II. 



LARA, 



X.-XVI. 



stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife. 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
The varying fortune of each separate field, 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield ? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
In bitterness that banish 'd all remorse. 
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
In either cause, one rage alone possess 'd 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem'd few were slain, while more remain 'd to 

slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
And Desolation reap'd the famish 'd land ; 
The torch was liglited, and the flame was spread. 
And Carnage smiled upon her daily dead. 

XI. 

Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 

The first success to Lara's numbers chmg: 

But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 

They form no longer to their leader's call : 

In blind confusion on the foe they press. 

And think to snatch is to secure success. 

The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate. 

Lure on the broken brigands to their fate: 

In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 

To check the headlong fury of that crew : 

In vain their stubborn ardor he would tame. 

The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 

The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 

And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 

The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 

The daily harass, and the fight delay'd. 

The long privation of the hoped supply, 

The tentless rest beneath the humid sky. 

The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 

And palls the patience of his baffled heart. 

Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 

They could encounter as a veteran may; 

But more preferr'd the fury of the strife. 

And present death, to hourly suffering life: 

And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 

His numbers melting fast from their array ; 

Intemperate triumph fades to discontent. 

And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 

But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 

And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 

Desperate, though few, the last and best remain'd 

To mourn the discipline they late disdain 'd. 

One hope survives, the frontier is not far. 

And thence they may escape from native war ; 

And bear within them to the neighboring state 

An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 

Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 

But harder still to perish or submit. 

XII. 

It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
Guides with her star their dim and torchless flight : 
Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank V 
Away ! 't is lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
'T is Otho's banner — the pursuer's s-pear I 



Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
Cut off from hope, and compass 'd in the toil. 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spoil ! 

XIII. 

A moment's pause — 't is but to breathe their band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand ? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assault 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 

XIY. 

His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 

As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 

A something of indifference more than then 

Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 

He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 

And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 

Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 

Along his aspect an unwonted hue 

Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express 'd 

The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 

This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: 

It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 

His lip was silent, scarcely beat liis heart, 

His eye alone proclaim'd, " We will not part ! 

Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 

Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 

The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven. 
Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel. 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream. 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

XY. 

Comm.anding, aiding, animating all. 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again. 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
Himself he spared not— once they seem'd to fly — 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
And shook — Why sudden droops that plumed crest? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
Til at fatal gesture left the unguarded side. 
And Death has stricken down yon arm of pride. 
The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
That hand, so raised, how droopingiy it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow. 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow. 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage: 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XYI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
95 



CANTO II. 



LAEA, 



XVII.-XXTI. 



The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his hloody girth ; 
And near, j^et quivering with what life remain'd. 
The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death. 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste. 
But yet tliey reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause ? No further thirst have they to slake— 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XYII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene. 

Where but for him that strife had never been, 

A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 

•T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 

His follower once, and now his only guide. 

Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side. 

And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush. 

With each convulsion ^ in a blacker gush ; 

And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 

In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 

He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 

And merely adds another throb to pain. 

He clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 

And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 

Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 

Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim. 

Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XYIII. 

The foe arrives, who long had search'd the field. 
Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield: 
They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain. 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate : 
And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
And questions of his state ; he answers not. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
And turns to Kaled :— each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone; 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound. 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
They seem'd even then— that twain — unto the last 
To half forget the present in the past ; 
To shai-e between themselves some separate fate. 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 

XIX. 

Their words though faint were m.any— from the 

tone 
Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's 

death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath. 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely 

near. 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
Sok unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
96 



Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
Or that 'twas chance, or some remember'd scene. 
That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away. 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning light. 
To look on Lara's brow— where all grew night. 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ; 
For when one near display'd the absolving cross. 
And proffered to his touch the holy bead. 
Of which his parting soul might own the need. 
He look'd upon it with an eye profane. 
And smiled— Heaven pardon ! if 't were with dis- 
dain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face liis fix'd despairing view. 
With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift. 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift. 
As if such but disturb 'd the expiring man. 
Not seem'd to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ is sure. 

XX. 

But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew. 

And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 

His limbs stretch 'd fluttering, and his head droop 'd 

o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain. 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats!" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone- 
It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 

XXI. 

He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 

The haughty spirit of that humble clay; 

And those around have roused him from his trance, 

But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 

And when, in raising him from where he bore 

Within his arms the form that felt no more. 

He saw the head his breast vrould still sustain. 

Roll dovm like earth to eartli upon the plain ; 

He did not dash himself tliereby, nor tear 

The glossy tendrils of his raven liair, 

But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 

Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 

The breast of man such trusty love may breathe ! 

That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 

The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 

In baring to revive that lifeless breast. 

Its grief seem'd ended, but tlie sex confess'd ; 

And life return 'd, and Kaled felt no shame— 

What now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 

XXII. 
And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep. 
But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
Xor is his mortal slumber less profound. 
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the 

mound; 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief. 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
Yain was all question ask"d her of the past. 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
Slie told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him ? Curious fool !— be still- 
Is Imman love the growth of human will V 



CANTO II. 



LAEA. 



XXIIT.-XXV 



To lier lie might be gentleness : the stern 
Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
And when they love, your siiiilers guess not how 
Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
They were not coromon links, that form'd the chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain; 
But that wild tale she brook 'd not to unfold. 
And seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 

They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest. 
They found the scatter 'd dints of m^any a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass "d his summer years of life. 
It seems they vanished in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guflt, 
Tiiese only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who miglit have spoke the past, 
Return'd no more— that night appear'd his last. 

XXIV. 

Upon that night fa peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd tlie intervening vale, 
Wiien Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn ; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to threa-l the Avood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's 

food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's broad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle bow ; *^ 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time. 
And some foreboding that it might be crime. 
Himself unheeded watch 'd the stranger's course. 
Who reach 'd the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen wdiich he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore. 
Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd to 

watcli. 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gather'd there, 
And slung them with a more tlian common care. 
Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseen 
Himself might safely mark what this might mean: 



He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 

And something glitter'd star-like on the vest ; 

But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 

A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk ; 

It rose again, but indistinct to view. 

And left the waters of a purple hue, 

Tlien deeply disappear 'd : the liorseman gazed 

Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 

Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 

And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 

His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 

If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread; 

But if in sooth a star its bosom bore. 

Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 

And such 't is known Sir Ezzelin had worn 

Upon the night that led to such a morn. 

If" thus he perish'd. Heaven receive his soul ! 

His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roil : 

And charity upon the hope would dwell 

It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

xxy. 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone. 
Alike without their monumental stone! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been: 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud. 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Wliere yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
Her eye" shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her wdielpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air. 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints. 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints ; 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee : 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair. 
And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
As if she stancli'd anew some phantom's wound. 
Herself would question, and for him reply; 
Tiien rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or trace strange characters along the sand. 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
Her tale untold— her truth too dearly proved. 




97 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



January 22, 1816, 



TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ.,. 

BY HIS FRIEND. 



AD VEB TISEMENT. 



"fpiIE grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the 
J- Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a Tvay into the 
heart of the Morea, and to form the siege of Napoli di 
Romania, the most considerable place in all that country,* 
thought it best in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
which they made several storms. The garrison being 
weakened, and the governor seeing that it was impossible 
to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it fit to 
beat a parley : but while they were treating about the 



articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, where- 
in they had six hundred barrels of powder, blew up by 
accident, whereby six or seven hundred men were killed ; 
which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant 
any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much 
fury, that they took it, and put most of the garrison with 
Signior Minolti, the governor, to the sword. The rest, 
with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were made 
j prisoners of war." — History oj' the Turks, vol. iii., p. 151. 



^\\t f ieje of (Eorintit, 

In the year since Jesus died for men.t 

Eighteen hundred years and ten, 

AVe were a gallant company, 

Hiding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea. 

Oh ! but we went merrily ! 

We forded the river, and clomb the high hill. 

Never our steeds for a day stood still : 

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed : 

Whether we couch 'd in our rough capote, t 

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 

Or stretch 'd on the beach, or our saddles spread 

As a pillow beneath the resting head, 

Fresli we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope, 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 



♦ Xapoli di Romania is not now the most considerable place 
in the Morea, but Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and 
maintains his g-overnraent. Napoli is near Arg-os. I visited 
all three in 1810-11 ; and, in the course of journeyinpf throug-h 
the country from my first arrival in 1S09, 1 crossed the Isth- 
mus eig-ht times in my way from Attica to the Morea, over 
the mountains, or in the other direction, when passing' from 
the Gulf of Athens to that of Lepanto. Both the routes are 
picturesque and beautiful, though very different : that by sea 
has more sameness; but the voyag'e being- alwaj^s within 
sig-ht of land, often very near it, presents many attractive 
views of the islands Salamis, ^gina, Poros, &c., and the coast 
of the Continent. 

+ On Christmas day, 1815, Lord Byron, enclosing this frag- 
ment to Mr. Murray, saj'S, — " I send some lines, written some 
time ago, and intended as an opening to the ' Siege of Corinth.' 
1 had forgotten them, and am not sure that they had not 
better be left out now :— on that, you and j'our synod can de- 
termine."— " They are written," says Moore, "in the loosest 
form of that rambling style of metre, which his admiration 



We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those vdio counted beads. 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search, 

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills ^ 

That look along Epirus' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments rallies, 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree. 
And some ail restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh ! never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily! 
And Avhen they now fall drearily. 



of Mr. Coleridge's ' Christabel ' led him, at this time, to 
adopt." It will be seen, hereafter, that the poet had never 
read "Christabel " at the time when he wrote these lines:— 
he had, however, the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." With re- 
gard to the character of the species of versification at this 
time so much in favor, it may be observed, that feeble imita- 
tions have since then vulgarized it a good deal to the general 
ear: but that in the hands of Mr. Coleridge, Sir Walter Scott, 
and Lord Bj-ron himself, it has often been employed with the 
most happy effect. Its irregularity, when moulded under the 
guidance of a delicate taste, is more to the eye than to the 
ear, and in fact not greater than was admitted in some of the 
most delicious of the lyrical measures of the ancient Greeks. 

% In one of his sea excursions, Lord BjTon was neaily lost 
in a Turkish ship of war, owing to the ignorance of the cap- 
tain and crew. 

§ The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the 
Arnaouts who followed me) state him to be in revolt upon the 
mountains, at the head of some of the bands common in that 
country in times of trouble. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



^ly thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer. 

'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my lay, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — v^dlt thou follow now, 

And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow ? 



I. 

Many a vanish'd year and age. 

And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 

Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 

A fortress form'd to Freedom's bands. 

The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock. 

Have left untouch 'd her hoary rock, 

The keystone of a land, which still, 

Though fall'n. looks proudly on that hill. 

The landmark to the double tide 

That purpling rolls on either side. 

As if their waters chafed to meet. 

Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 

But could the blood before her shed 

Since first Timoleon's brother bled,* 

Or baffled Persia's despot fled. 

Arise from out the earth which drank 

The stream of slaughter as it sank. 

That sanguine ocean w^ould overflow 

Her isthmus idly spread below^ : 

Or could the bones of all the slain. 

Who perish 'd there, be piled again. 

That rival pyramid would rise 

More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 

Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 

Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

II. 

On dun Cithseron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten tliousand spears ; 
And downward to the Isthmian plain. 
From shore to shore of either main. 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spakis bands f advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels. 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd,t 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
AVings the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
Which crumbles v\'ith the ponderous ball : 
And from that wall the foe replies. 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well " 
The summons of the Infidel. 



♦ Tiraoleon, who had saved the life of his brother Timo- 
phanes in battle, afterwards killed him for aimino: at the 
supreme power in Corinth, preferring his duty to his country 
to all the obHgations of blood. Dr. Wharton says, that Pope 
once Intended to write an epic poem on the story, and that 
Dr. Akenside had the same design, 

+ Turkish holdere of military fiefs, which oblige them to 
join the army, mounted at their own expense. 

t The life of the Turcomans is wandering" and patriarchial : 
they dwell in tents, 
g AM Coumourgi, the favorite of three sultans, and Grand 



III. 

But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work its fall. 
With deeper skill in war's black art 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
From post to post, and deed to deed. 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed. 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail. 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable. 
Alighting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
The first and freshest'of the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast. 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield. 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ;— 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 

IV. 

From Venice— once a race of worth 

His gentle sires— he drew his birth ; 

But late an exile from her shore. 

Against his countrymen he bore 

The arms they taught to bear ; and now 

The turban girt his shaven brow. 

Through many a change had Corinth pass'd 

With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 

And here, before her walls, with those 

To G-reece and Venice equal foes. 

He stood a foe, with all the zeal 

Which young and fiery converts feel, 

AVithin whose heated bosom throngs 

The memory of a thousand w^rongs. 

To him had Venice ceased to be 

Her ancient civic boast— ''the Free ;" 

And in the palace of St. Mark 

Unnameil accusers in the dark 

Within the " Lion's mouth " had placed 

A charge against him uneffaced : 

He fled in time, and saved his life. 

To waste his future years in strife. 

That taught his land how great her loss 

In him who triumph 'd o'er the cross, 

'Gainst which he rear'd the crescent high, 

And battled to avenge or die. 

V. 

Coumourgi I — he whose closing scene 
Adorn 'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain. 
The last and m.iglitiest of the slain. 
He sank, regretting- not to die. 
But cursed the Christian's victory — 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
That latest conqueror of Greece, 
Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 



Vizier to Achmet III., after recovering- Peloponnesus from 
the Venetians in one campaig-n, Avas mortally wounded in the 
next ag-ainst the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin (in 
the plain of Carlowitz), in Hungary, endeavoring- to rally his 
guards. He died of his wounds next daj% His last order was 
the decapitation of General Breuner, and some other German 
prisoners ; and his last words, " Oh that I could thus serve all 
the Christian dogs! " a speech and act not unlike one of Ca- 
ligula. He was a young man of great ambition and un- 
bounded presumption : on being told that Prince Eugene, 
then opposed to him, "• wisagreatgenei-al," he said, "I shiUl 
become a greater, and at his expense." 
99 



THE SIEOE OF CORINTH. 



\ 



To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
By cities levelFd with the dust; 
And proved, by many a deed of death, 
How firm his heart iii novel laith. 

VI. 

Tlie walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
Against tlieni pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
AVith iinahatiug fury sent 

1^ From battery to battlement ; 

N And thunder-iike tlie pealing din 

/ Eose from each lieated culverin : 
And here and there some crackling dome 

-, Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

/ And as the fabric sank beneath 

^ Tjhe shattering shelPs volcanic breath, *\_ 
In red and wreathing coluiiJns fiash'd 
Tiie flame, as loud the ruin crash 'd, 
Or into countless meteors driven, 

) Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

/ Whose clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
Impervious to the hidden sun, 
With volumed smoke that slowly grew 

-To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 

YII. 

But not for vengeance, long delay 'd. 
Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
Tlie Moslem warriors sternly teach 
His skill to pierce the promised breach : 
Witliin these walls a maid was pent 
His hope vfould win, without consent 
Of tliat inexorable sire, 
Yv hose heart refused him in its ire, 
When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 
Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
In happier mood, and earlier time, 
While unimpcaeh'd for traitorous crime. 
Gayest in gondola or hall. 
He glitter 'd tlrrough the Carnival ; 
And tuned the softest serenade 
That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
At midnight to Italian maid. 

YIII. 

And many deem'd her heart was won ; 
For sought by numbers, given to none. 
Had young rrancesca's hand remain'd 
Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
And when the Adriatic bore 
Lanciotto to the Payiiim shore, 

flier wonted smiles were seen to fail, 

\ And pensive wax'd the maid and pale; 

/More constant at confessional, 

j More rare at masque and festival ; 

/ Or seen at such v/ ith downcast eyes, 

\ Which conquered hearts they ceased to prize; 

) With listless look she seems to gaze ; 

/ With humbler care her form arrays ; 

! Her voice less lively in the song ; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The paii's, on whom the Morning's glance 

I Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 

IX. 

Sent by the state to guard the land 
(Which, wTCsted from the Moslem's hand, 
AVlnle Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Biida's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay), 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
Tlie Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian yoke, 
100 



With him his gentle daughter came; 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love. 
Had faker form adorn'd tlie shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger, bore. 

X. 

The wall is rent, the ruins vaTsm ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assaidt. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed '■'forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 
And win their way with falchion's force. 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone— the last who dies ! 

XT. 

'T is midnight : on the mountains bro^vn 

The cold, round moon shines deeply down ; 

Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 

Spreads like an ocean hung on high. 

Bespangled with those isles of light. 

So wildly, spiritually bright ; 

Who ever gazed upon them shining 

And turn'd to earth without repining. 

Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 

And mix with their eternal ray ? 

The waves on either shore lay there 

Calm, clear, and azure as the air ; 

And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 

But murmur 'd meekly as the brook. 

Tlie winds were pillow 'd on the v^^aves ; 

The banners droop'd along their staves. 

And, as they fell around them furling, 

Above them shone the crescent curling ; 

And that deep silence was inibroke, 

Save where the watch his signal spoke. 

Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill. 

And echo answered from the hill. 

And the wide hum of that wild host 

Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 

As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 

In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 

It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 

Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain : 

'T was musical, but sadly sweet, 

Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 

A.nd take a long unmeasured tone, 

To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 

It seem'd to those within the wall 

A cry prophetic of their fall : 

It struck even the besieger's ear 

With something ominous and drear, 

An undefined and sudden thrill, 

Which makes the heart a moment still. 

Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 

Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 

Such as a sudden passing-bell 

Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 

XII. 

The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 

The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 

The watch was set, the night-round made. 

All mandates issued and obey'd: 

'T is but another anxious night. 

His pains the morrow may requite 

With all revenge and love can pay, 

In guerdon for their long delay. 

Few hours remain, and he hath need 

Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH, 



Of slaughter: but witlnn liis soul 

The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 

lie stood alone among his host ; 

Kot his the loud fanatic boast 

To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 

Or risk a life with little loss, 

Secure in paradise to be 

By Houris loved iinmortally : 

Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 

The stern exaltedness of zeal. 

Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 

When battling on the parent soil. 

He stood alone— a renegade 

Against the country he betrayed ; 

He stood alone amidst his band, 

Without a trusted heart or hand : 

They follow'd him, for he was brave, 

And great the spoil he got and gave : 

They crouch 'd to him, for he had skill 

To warp and wield the vulgar will : 

But still liis Christian origin 

With them was little less than sin. 

They envied even the faithless fame 

He earn'd beneath a Moslem name : 

Since he, their miglitiest chief, had been 

In youth a bitter Kazarene. 

They did not knov/ how pride can stoop. 

When baffled feelings withering droop ; 

They did not know how hate can burn 

In hearts once changed from soft to stern ; 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal 

Tlie convert of revenge can feel. 

He ruled them— man may rule the worst, 

By ever daring to be first : 

So lions o'er the jackals sway ; 

The jackal points, he fells the prey. 

Then on the vulgar yelling press. 

To gorge the relics of success. 

XIII. 

His head grows fever 'd. and his pulse 
The quick successive throbs convulse: 
In vain from side to side he throws 
His form, in courtship of repose; 
Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
Awoke him wath a sunken heart. 
Tlie turban on his hot brow press'd, 
The mail weigh 'd leadlike on his breast, 
Though oft and long beneath its weight 
Upon his eyes had slumber sate. 
Without or couch or canopy, 
Except a rougher field and "sky 
Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
Than now along the heaven was spread. 
He could not rest, he could not stay 
Within his tent to wait for day, 
But w^alk'd him fortli along the sand. 
Where thousand sleepers strew'd tlie strand. 
What pillow'd them V and why should he 
More wakeful than the humblest be, 
Since more their peril, worse their toil ? 
And 5^et they fearless dream of spoil ; 
While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
A night of sleep, perchance their last. 
In sickly vigil wander 'd on. 
And envied all he gazed upon. 

XIY. 

He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool w^as the silent sky, through calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm: 
Behind, the camp— before hiiii lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto's gulf ; and, on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow. 
High and eternal, such as shone 



Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; 
It v/ill not melt, like m.an, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept ^way. 
Less form'd to wear before the ray; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
y/hich on the mighty mount thou liailest, 
Y^hile tower aiid tree are torn and. rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud. 
In texture like a hovering shroud. 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger 'd on the spot, wiiere long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Oh ! still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would w^ake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token : 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember'd rays. 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
And Siiw the Spartan smile in dying, 

XV. 

Not mindless of these mighty times 

Was Alp, despite his fliglit and crimes; 

And through this night, as on he wander'd, 

And o'er the past and present ponder'd. 

And thought upon the glorious defid 

Wlio there in better cause had bled. 

He felt ho\v faint and feebly dim 

Tlie fame that could accrue to him, 

Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 

A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 

xlnd led them to the lawless siege. 

Whose best success v/ere sacrilege. 

Not so had those his fancy numbered, 

The chiefs wdiose dust around him slumber'd; 

Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 

3Vhose bulwarks w^ere not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, but undying; 
The very gale their name seem'd sighing : 
The waters murmur'd of their name ; 
The woods were peopled wuth their fame ; 
The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
Claim'd kindred with their sacred clay ; 
Their spirits wrapp'd tlie dusky mountain. 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
lloird mingling with their fame for ever. 
Despite of every yoke she bears. 
That land is glory's still and theirs! 
'T is still a watchword to the earth : 
Wlien man w^ould do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 

^ So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head: 

'He looks to her, and rushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 

XVI. 

Still by the shore Alp mutely mused. 

And w^oo'd the freshness night diffused. 

There shrinks no ebb in that tideloss sea,* 

Which changeless rolls eternally ; 

So that wildest of weaves, in their angriest mood. 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood : 

And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 

Heedless if she come or go : 

Calm or high, in main or bay. 

On their course she hath no sway. 

The rock unworn its base doth bare, 

And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 



* The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no 
perceptible tides in the Mediterranean. 

101 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ages ago : 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and the greener land. 

He wander 'd on along the beach, 

Till within the range of a carbine's reach 

Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 

Or how could he 'scape from the liostile shot ? 

Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 

\^ere their hands grown stiff, or their hearts w^ax'd 

cold V 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash 'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd the seaward gate of tlie town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel. 
As his measured step on the stone below 
flank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival. 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 
From a Tartar's skidl they had stripp'd the flesh, 
As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
And their white tusks crunch 'd o'er the whiter 

skull, 
As it slipp'd tlu'ough their jaws, w^hen their edge 

grew dull, 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they scarce could rise from the spot where 

they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's repast. 
And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 

sand, 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw : 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf. 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 

XYII. 

Alp turned him from the sickening sight : 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorch'dwith the death-thirst, and writhing in vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
A.nd Honor's eye on daring deeds ! 
But v/hen all is past, it is humbling to tread 
O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
All regarding man as their prey, 
Ail rejoicing in his decay. 

XYIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 
Fash ion 'd by long-forgotten hands ; 
Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
Of the things to come than the things before ! 
Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 
But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
102 



O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which 

must be : 
What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
Remmants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay! 

XIX. 

He sate him down at a pillar's base, 

And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was liis attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key. 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you would awaken. 

There he sate all heavily. 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind through some hollow stone 

Sent that soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea. 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass— it waved not a 

blade ; 
How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
He look'd to the banners— each flag lay still. 
So did the leaves on Cithseron's hiil. 
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 

XX. 

He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers ! what is here ? 

Who art thou, and wherefore sent 

So near a hostile armament V" 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem.'d no more divine : 

He had resumed it in that hour. 

But conscience wrung away the powder. 

He gazed, he saw: he knew the face 

Of beauty, and'the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride I 

The rose was yet upon her cheek. 

But mellow'd with a tenderer streak : 

Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 

Gone was the smile that enliven'd their red. 

The ocean's calm within their vie\v. 

Beside her eye had less of blue ; 

But like that; cold wave it stood still, 

And its glance, though clear, was chill. 

Around her form a thin robe twining, 

]!Srought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 

Through the parting of her hair. 

Floating darkly downward there, 

Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 

And ere yet she made reply. 

Once she raised her hand on high : 

It was so ^Y^\l, and transparent of hue, 

You might have seen the moon shine through. 

XXI. 

" I come from my rest to him I love best. 
That I may be happy, and he may be bless'd. 
I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
'T is said the lion will turn and flee 
From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 
From the hands of tlie leaouermg infidel. 
I come— and if I come in vain, 
Never, oh never, we meet a.G^ain ! 
Thou liast done a fearful deed 
In falling away from thy fathers' creed: 
But dash that turban to" earth, and sign 
The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine; 
Y/ring the black drop from thy heart, 
And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

''And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 

In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 

For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 

The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 

None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 

vShall be left upon the morn : 

But thee will I bear to a lovely spot. 

Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow 

forgot. 
There thou yet shalt be my bride. 
When once again I 've quell'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and lier hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Upon his hand she laid her own— 

Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 

And shot a chillness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 

As those thin fingers, long and white. 

Froze through his blood by their touch that night. 

The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 

And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 

As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue. 

So deeply changed from what he knew : 

Fair but faint— vvdth out the ray 

Of mind, that made each feature play 

Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 

And her motionless lips lay still as death. 

And her words came forth v^'ithout her breath, 

And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 

Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 

And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix 'd 

With augjit of change, as the ej^s-may seem 

Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream : 

Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 

Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 

So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light. 

Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 

As they seem, through the dimness, about to come 

down 
From the shadowy wall where their images fro^vn ; 
Fearfully flitting to and fro. 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

" If not for love of me be given 

Thus much, then, for the love of heaven, — 



* I have been told that the idea expressed in this and the 
five following lines has been admired by those whose appro- 
bation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original— at 
least not mine ; it may be found much better expressed in 
pages 183-3-4: of the English version of "Vathek" (I forget 
the precise page of the French), a work to which I have be- 
fore referred ; and never recur to, or read, without a renewal 
of gratification.— The following is the passage :—"' Deluded 
prince!' said the Genius, addressing the Caliph, 'to whom 
Providence hath confided the care of innumerable subjects: 
is it thus that thou fulfillest thy mission? Thy crimes are 
already completed ; and ai^t thou now hastening to thy pun- 
ishment? Thou knowest that beyond those mountains Eblis 



Again I say — that turban tear 
From off thy faith.less brow, and swear 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
Or thou art lost : and never shalt see — 
Not earth — that 's past — but heaven or me. 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 
That doom shall half absolve thy sin. 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within: 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shat from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon * — 
'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapory sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
Then God and man are both avenged ; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 

But his heart was swollen, and turned aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of his breast 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

l/e, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him— let it biu'St 1 

He look'd upon it earnestly, 

Without an accent of reply; 

He watch'd it passing ; it is flown : 

Full on his eye the clear moon shone. 

And thus he spake — '' Wliate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 't is too late : 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver. 

Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all save love to thee : 

But thou art safe : oh, fly with me ! " 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

Hath she simk in the earth, or melted in air? 

He saw not — ^he knew not— but nothing is there. 

XXII. 

The night is passed, and shines the sun 

As if that morn were a jocund one. 

Lightly and brightly breaks away 

The Morning from her mantle gray, 

And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 

Hark to the trump, and the drum. 
And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn. 
And the flap of the banners, that flit as they 're 

borne, 
And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum. 
And the clash, and the shout, "They come! the^^ 
come ! " 



and his accursed dives hold their infernal empire ; and, se- 
duced by a malignant phantom, thou art proceeding to sur- 
render thyself to them ! This moment is the last of grace 
allowed thee : give back Nouronahar to her father, who still 
retains a few sparks of life : destroy thj- tower with all its 
abominations : drive Carathis from thy councils : be just to 
thy subjects: respect the ministers of the Prophet: compen- 
sate for thy impieties by an exemplary life ; and, instead of 
squandering thy days in voluptuous indulgence, lament thy 
Climes on the sepulchres of thy ancestors. Thou beholdest 
the clouds that obscure the sun ; at the instant he recovers 
his splendor, if thy heart be not changed, the time of mercy 
assigned thee will be past for ever,' " 
103 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



Tlie horse-tails* are pluck 'd from the ground, and 

the sword 
From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for 

the word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
That the fugitive may flee in vain. 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape. 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass. 
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar. 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 
Alp at their head ; his right arm is bare, 
So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
A priest at her altars, a cliief in her ijalls, 
A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
G-od and the prophet— Allah Hu ! 
Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to 

scale ; 
And your hands on your sabres, and how sliould ve 

'fail? 
He vdio first downis with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and have ! " 
Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear. 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire : — 
Silence— hark to the signal—fire ! 

XXIIT. 

As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on earth, or tosses on liigh 

The foremost, who rush on his strength but to 

die: 
Thus against the wall they went, 
Thus the first were backward bent ; 
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
Strew 'd the earth like broken glass, 
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
The ground whereon they moved no more : 
Even as they fell, in files they lay. 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
When his work is done on the levelPd plain ; 
Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 

XXIV. 

As the spring tides, with heavy splash. 
From the cliffs invading dash 
Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
Till white and thundering down they go, 
Like the avalanche's snow 
On the Alpine vales belov/ ; 
Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
Corinth's sons were downvv'ard borne 
By the long and oft renew'd 
Ciiarge of the Moslem multitude. 
.In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
Heap'd, by thehost of the infidel. 
Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 



* The horse-tails, fixed upon a lance, forming a pacha's 
standard. 

104 



Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory, 

jVTingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes, 

If with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In that annihilating voice. 

Which pierces the deep hills through and through 

With an echo dread and new : 

You might have heard it, on that day, 

O'er Salamis and Megara ; 

(We have heard the hearers say,) 

Even unto Piraeus' bay. 

XXY. 

From the point of encountering blades to the hilt, 

Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 

But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun. 

And all but the after carnage done. 

Shriller shrieks nov/ mingling come 

From within the plunder'd dome : 

Hark to the haste of flying feet. 

That splash in the blood of the slippery street ! 

But here and there, where vantage ground 

Against the foe may still be found. 

Desperate groups, of twelve or ten. 

Make a pause, and turn again — 

W^ith banded backs against the vs'all, 

Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — ^liis hairs were white. 

But his veteran arm was frill of might : 

So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 

The dead before him, on that day. 

In a semicircle lay ; 

Still he combated unwounded. 

Though retreating, imsurrounded. 

Many a scar of former fight 

Lurk'd beneath his corselet bright ; 

But of every wound his body bore. 

Each and all had been ta'en before : 

Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 

Few of our youth could cope with him ; 

And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 

Outnumber'd his tliin hairs of silver gray. 

From right to left his sabre swept ; 

Many an Othman mother wept 

Sons that were unborn, wiien dipp'd 

His v/eapon first in Moslem gore, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire : 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

E[is wrath made many a childless foe ; 

And since the day, when in the strait f 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on the 
shore ' 

What of them is left, to tell 

Where they lie, and how they fell ? 
Not a stone on their turf , nor a J3one in their graves ; 
But they live in the verse tliat immortaily saves. 

XXYI. 

Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 



+ In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, be- 
tween the Venetians and the Turks. 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH, 



Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, and never to spare— 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known : 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the "greedy foe ; 

Many a hand 's on a richer hilt. 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 

Many a loftier turban may v\-ear, — 

Alp is but knovTi by the white arm bare; 

J.ook through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ! 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So well advanced the ranks before : 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far ; 

It glances like a falling star ! 

Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been ; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yield a groan in dying ; 

Mustering- his last- feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe. 

Though faint beneath th.e mutual wound, 

Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXYII. 

Still the old man stood erect. 
And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
" Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take. 
For thine o^vn, thy daughter's sake.'' 

" ]Srever, renegado, never ! 

Though the life of tliy gift would last for ever." 

" Prancescal— Oh, m^y promised bride ! 
Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 

" She is safe. "—"Where ? where ? "— '^ Tnheaven ; 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven— 
Far from thee, and undefiled."' 
Grimly then Minotti smiled. 
As he "saw Alp staggering bow 
Before his words, as with a blow. 

" Oh God ! when died she ? "— " Yesternight— 

Nor weep I for her spirit's tlight : 

Xone of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee— 

Come on — ! " — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp 's already with the slain I 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow'd to woimd. 

From within tlie neigliboring porch 

Of a long-defended church. 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing figlit renew. 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash 'd through the brain of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and do\^Tl he fell ; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise. 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Tin'ough all the palpitating trunk ; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 

They turn'd him on liis cack ; his breast 

And brow were staiu'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed ; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Xor on his lips one dying sob ; 



Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
Heralded his way to deatli : 
Ere his very thought could pray, 
Unanell'd he pass'd away, 
Without a hope from mercy's aid, — 
To the last a Renegade. 

XXYIII. 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Of his followers, and his foes ; 

These in joy, in fury those : 

Tlien again in conflict mixing. 

Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 

Interchanged the blovr and thrust, 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and foot by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command : 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

Th.e remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 
Vrhence issued late the fated ball 
That half avenged the city's fall. 

When Alp, lier fierce assailant, fell : 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And. vrith their faces to the foe. 

Dealing wounds with every blow. 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fane : 

There they yet may breathe awhile, 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathing-time I the turban 'd host, 

Yrith adding ranks and raging boast. 

Press onwards witli such strength and heat, 

Tiieir numbers balk their own retreat : 

For narrov\' the vray that led to the spot 

Where still the Christians yielded not : 

And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 

Through the massy column to turn and tty ; 

They perforce must do or die. 

They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 

Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 

Fresh and furious, fast they fill 

The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughter *d still; 

And faint the weary Christians vvax 

Before the still renevv 'd attacks : 

And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 

Still resists its iron weight, 

And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 

From every crevice comes the shot ; 

From every shatter'd window pour 

Tiie volleys of the sulphurous shower : 

But the portal wavering grows and weak — 

The iron yields, the hinges creak — 

It bends— it falls — and all is o'er ; 

Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
Madonna's face upon him shone. 
Painted in heavenly hues above. 
With eyes of light and loolis of love ; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our tiioughts on things divine. 
When pictured there, vve kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee. 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
Minotti hfted his aged eye, 
105 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which bkized thereby; 
And still he stood, while, witli steel and flame, 
Inward and onward tlie Mussulman came. 

XXXI. 

The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 

Contained the dead of ages gone ; 

Their names were on the graven floor, 

But now illegible with gore : 

The carved crests, and curious hues 

The varied marble's veins diffuse. 

Were sraear'd, and slipperj' — stain 'd, and strown 

With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 

There were dead above, and the dead below 

Lay cold in many a coffin 'd row ; 

You might see them piled in sable state, 

By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 

But War had enter'd their dark caves, 

And stored along the vaulted graves 

Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 

In masses by the tleshless dead : 
Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine ; 

To these a late-form 'd train now led, 

Minotti's last and stern resource 

Against the foe's o'er whelming force. 

XXXII. 

The foe came on, and fev/ remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further Jives, to slake 

The thirst of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

And lop the already lifeless head, 

And fell the statues from their niche. 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a glorious show! 

On its table still beliold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 

Massy and deep, a glittering prize. 

Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 

That morn it held the holy wine. 

Converted by Christ to his blood so divine. 

Which his worshippers drank at the break of 

day, 
To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray. 
Still a few drops within it lay : 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal cast ; 
A spoil— the richest, and the last. 

XXXIII. 

So near they came, the nearest stretch'd 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach 'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train— 
'T is fired ! 



Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band, 
All that of living or dead remain, 
Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired ! 
The shatter'd town— the walls thrown down — 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although unrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd— 
The thousand shapeless things all driven 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven. 

By that tremendous blast- 
Proclaim 'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long, afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below : 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivelFd to a span. 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain : 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
Som.e fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
Christian or Moslem, which be they ? 
Let their mothers see and say ! 
When in cradled rest they lay. 
And each nursing mother smiled 
On the sweet sleep of her child, 
Little deem'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
l^ot the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more; 
Tliat one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scatter'd scalp or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, stroT\Ti 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
All blacken 'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that lieard 
That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
The wild birds flew ; th.e wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke; 
The distant steer forsook the yoke— 
The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain. 
And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh; 
The v\^olves yell'd on the cavern'd hill, 
Wliere echo rolFd in thunder still: 
The jackals' troop, in gather 'd cry,* 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, ' 
With a mix'd and mournful sound. 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
With sudden wing, and ruffled breast. 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun. 
The clouds beneath him seem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail'd his startled beak, 
And made him higher soar and shriek — 

Thus was Corinth lost and won ! 



^ * 1 believe I have taken a poetical lieen?e to transplant the I animals ; but among- the ruin? of Ephesus I have heard them 
jackal from Asia. In Greece I never saw nor beard these | by hundreds. Tiiey haunt ruins and follow armies. 




Coin of Ancieui Corinth, showing the Pegasus, or winged horae. 



106 



PARISINA 



TO SCROPE BERDMOBE I>AVIES,'ESQ., 



BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUED HIS FRIENDSHIP. 

January 22, 181G. 



AD VEB TISE21EXT. 



THE following poem is grounded on a circumstance 
mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of the House 
of Brunswick." I am aware, that in modern times the 
delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
subjects unfit for the purpo^es of poetry. The Greek 
dramatists, and some of the best of our old English writers, 
were of a different opinion : as Alfieri and Schiller have 
also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The fol- 
lowing extract will explain the facts on which the story 
is founded. The name of Azo is substituted for ^S^icholas, 
as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III., Ferrara was pol- 



luted with a domestic tragedy. By the testimony of an 
attendant, and his own observation, the Marquis of Este 
discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
Hugo his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant youth. 
They were beheaded in the castle by the sentence of a 
father and husband, who published his shame, and sur- 
vived their execution.* He was unfortunate, if they 
were guilty: if they Avere innocent, he was still more 
unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation in Avhich 
I can sincerely approve the last act of the justice of 
a parent." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous- Works, vol. iii., p. 
470. 



farishm. 



It is the hour wlien from the l)onglis 
The nightingale's high note is heard; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 
Seem sweet in eveiy whispered word ; 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 

Each flower the dews liave lightly wet, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue. 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.f 

II. 

But it is not to list to the waterfall 
Tliat Parisina leaves her hall, 
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light 
Til at the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
And if she sits in Este's bower, 
'Tis not for the sake of its full-bloT\Ti flower; 
She listens— but not for the nightingale— 
Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
Tiiere glides a step through the foliage thick, 
And her cheek grows pale— and her heart beats 
quick. 

* " Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated : but the 
castle still exists entire : and I saw the court where Parisina 
and Hugo were beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon." 
—Byron Letters, 1817. 



There whispers a voice through the rustling leaves, 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves. 
A moment more— and they shall meet — 
'T is past— her lover 's at her feet. 

III. 

And what unto them is tlie world beside, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things— its earth and sky- 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are they 

Of aught around, above, beneath ; 
As if all else had pass'd away, 

They only for each other breathe ; 
Their Very sighs are full of joy 

So deep', that did it not decay, 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fiery sway: 
Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
In that tumultuous tender dream? 
Who that have felt that passion's power, 
Or paused, or fear'd in such an hour? 
Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
But yet— they are already past I 
Alas ! we must av,ake before 
We know such vision comes no more. 

lY. 

With many a lingering look they leave 
Tiie spot of guilty gladness past : 

+ The lines contained in this section were printed as set to 
music some time since, but belong-ed to the poem where they 
noAv appear; the greater part of which was composed prior 
to "Lara." 

107 



PARISINA. 



And though they hope, and vow, they grieve, 

As if that parting were tlie last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace— 

The lip tliat there would cling forever. 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar— 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace. 
Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
But it must come, and they must part 
In fearful heaviness of heart. 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 



And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep she seems. 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams, 

And mutters slie in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day. 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away: 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 

YI. 

He clasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 
And listen'd to each broken word: 
He hears— Why doth Prince Azo start, 
- As if the Archangel's voice he heard ? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
AVhen he shall wake to sleep no more, 
And stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peace 
Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow. 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
And whose that name y 't is Hugo's,— his — 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this! — 
'Tis Hugo's,— he, the cliild of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring of his wayv/ard youth, 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

YII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 
But sheath 'd it ere the point was bare — 

Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
At least, not sm.iling — sleeping — there: 

Xay more :— he did not wake her then, 
But gazed upon her with a glance 
Vv^hich, had she roused her from her trance, 

Had frozen her sense to sleep again; 

And o'er his brow the burning lamp 

Gleam 'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 

She spake no more— but still she slumber'd — 

While, in his thought, her days are number'd. 
108 



VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
Their present guilt, his future woe; 
The long conniving damsels seek 
To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt— the shame— the doom to her: 
Concealment is no more— they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Pull credence to the tale they tell: 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel or hear. 

IX. 

He was not one who brook 'd delay : 

Within the chamber of his state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

LTpon his throne of judgment sate; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair: 
Both 5'oung,— and one how passing fair! 
Witn swordless belt, and fetter 'd hand, 
OIj, Christ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face ! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale of his disgrace ! 
And yet he seems not overcome. 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

X. 

And still, and pale, and silently 

Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eye 

Glanced gladness round the glittering room, 
Where high-born men were proud to wait — 
Yf Iiere Beauty watch'd to imitate 

Her gentle voice— her lovely mien — 
And gather from her air and gait 

The graces of its queen: 
Then, — had her eye iii sorrow wept, 
A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
A thousand swords had slieathless shone, 
And made her quarrel all their own. 
Now, — what is she? and what are they? 
Can she command, or these obey? 
All silent and unheeding now, 
AVith downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
And folded arms, and freezing air. 
And lips that scarce their scorn forbear. 
Her knights an.d dames, her court — is there: 
And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
Had yet been couch 'd before her glance, 
}Vho — were his arms a moment free — 
Had died or gain'd her liberty; 
The minion of his father's bride, — 
He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 
Xor sees her swoln and full eye swim 
Less for her own despair than him : 
Those lids— o'er which the violet vein 
Y'andering, leaves a tender stain, 
Shining through the smoothest white 
That e'er did softest kiss invite— 
Xow seem'd with hot and livid glow 
To press, not shade, the orbs below; 
Which glance so heavily, and fill. 
As tear on tear grows gatherhig still. 

XI. 

And he for her had also wept, 
But for the ej^es that on him gazed: 

His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
Stern and erect his brow was raised. 

Whatever the grief his soul avow'd. 

He would not shrink before the crov,d ; 



PARISINA. 



But yet he dared not look on her: 
Remembrance of the hours that were— 
His guilt— his love— his present state— 
His father's wrath— all good men's hate— 
His earthly, his eternal fate— 
And hers,— oh, hers!— he dared not throw 
One look upon that deathlike brow! 
Else had his rising heart betray 'd 
liemorse for all the wreck it made. 

XII. 

And Azo spake:— "But yesterday 

I gloried in a wife and son ; 
That dream this morning pass'd away ; 

Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
My life must linger on alone; 
Well,— let that pass,— there breathes not one 
Wlio would not do as I have done : 
Those ties are broken— not by me ; 

Let that too pass;— the doom's prepared! 
Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 

And then — thy crime's reward ! 
Away! address thy prayers to Heaven, 

Before its evening stars are met — 
Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; ^ 

Its mercy m.ay absolve thee yet. 
But here, upon the earth beneath. 

There is no spot where thou and I 
Together, for an hour, could breathe : 

Earewell ! I will not see thee die- 
But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head — 

Away! I cannot speak the rest: 

Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
Not I, but thou his blood dost shed : 
Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
And joy thee in the life I give." 

XIII. 

And here stern Azo hid his face — 
For on his brow the swelling vein 
Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again; 

And therefore bow'd he for a space. 
And pass'd his shaking hand along 
His eye, to veil it from the throng : 

While Hugo raised his chained hands, 

And for a brief delay demands 

His father's ear: the silent sire 

Forbids not what his words require. 

"It is not that I dread the death — 

For thou hast seen me by thy side 

All redly through the battle ride. 

And that — not once a useless brand— 

Thy slaves have wrested from my hand 

Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 

Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: 
Thou gav'st, and mayst resume my breath, 

A gift for which I thank thee not ; 

Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 

Her slighted love and ruin'd name. 

Her offspring's heritage of shame; 

But she is in the grave, where he. 

Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 

Her broken heart — my sever'd head — 

JShall witness for thee from the dead 

How trusty and how tender were 

Tiiy youthful love— paternal ca,re. 

'T is true that I have done thee wrong- 
But wrong for wrong:— this,— deem'd thy 

bride. 
The other victim of thy pride,— 

Thou know'st for me was destined long ; 

Thou saw'st, and covetedst her charms ; 
And with thy very crime — my birth — 
Thou tauntedst me, as little worth ; 

A match ignoble for her arms. 



Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 
Yet, were a few short summers mine. 
My name should more than Este's shine 
With honors all my own. 
I had a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught * a crest 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of 'Este and of Victory!' 
I v.'ill not plead the cause of crime. 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust ;— 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not, and they did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like me— 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of niy father's face. 
And in my spirit— all of thee. 
From thee this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee— nay, wherefore dost thou start ? — 
From thee in ail their vigor came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame ; 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul. 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st and wilt resume so soon, 
I valued it no more than thou. 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
And we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
Yet would I that I then had died ; 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
And made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou art my father still ; 
And, harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
'Tis not unjust, aUhougli from thee. 
Begot in sin, to die in sliarae, 
My life begun and ends the same : 
As err'd tlie sire, so errYl the son. 
And thou must punish both in one. 
My crime seems worst to human view. 
But God must judge between us two!" 

XIV. 

He ceased— and stood with folded arms, 
On which the circling fetters sounded; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded. 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd. 
When those dull chains in meeting clank 'd ; 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye- 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die? 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, ' 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide. 
Not once had turn'd to either side— 
Nor once did those, sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose. 

* Haught, haughty.— " AAvay, haught man, thou art iusuit- 
ing- me."— Shakspeare, 

109 



PARISINA. 



But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling Avhite dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gathered slid 
From "the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It Avas a thing to see, not hear I 
And those who saw, it did surprise. 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought— the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased— again she thought to speak. 
Then burst her voice in one long sliriek, • 
And to the eartli she fell like stone. 
Or statue from its base overthrown, 
More like a thing tlmt ne'er had life, — 
A monument of "Azo's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
AVhose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bear 
That guilt's detection and despair. 
But yet she lived— and all too soon 
Recovered from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason— every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relax'd by rain, 
The erring arrow launch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide— 
The past a blank, the future black, 
With glimpses of a dreary track. 
Like lightning on the desert path, 
AVhen midnight storms are mustering ^Tath. 
She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
Lay on her soul, so deep and chill : 
That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
That some one was to die — but who ? 
She had forgotten :— did she breatlie ? 
Could this be still the earth beneath, 
The sky above, and men around: 
Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
On one, before whose eyes each eye 
Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
All was confused and undefined 
To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind; 
A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 
And now in laughter, now in tears, 
But madly still in each extreme. 
She strove with that convulsive dream ; 
For so it seem'd on her to break : 
Oh ! vainly must she strive to wake ! 



XY. 

The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow ; 
In the gray square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Hark! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so! 
For a departing being's soul 
The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
He is near his mortal goal; 
Kneeling at the friar's knee; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see- 
Kneeling on th.e bare cold ground, 
With the block before and the guards aronnd— 
And the hea<lsman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sliarp and true 
Since he set its edge anew : 
110 



While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
To see the Son fall by the doom of the Fa- 
ther ! 

XYI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the sum.mer sun shall set. 

Which rose upon that heavy day. 

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 

And his evening beams a,re shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen, " 

And the rings of chestnut hair 

Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 

But brighter still the beam was thrown 

LTpon the axe \Aiiich near him shone 

With a clear and ghastly glitter 

Oh! that parting hour was bitter I 
Even the stern stood chill'd with awe: 
Dark the crime, and just tlie law — 
Yet they shudder 'd as they saw. 

XYII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 

Of that false son— and daring lover! 

His beads and sins are all recounted. 

His hours to their last minute mounted; 

His mantling cloak before v\'as stripp'd. 

His bright brown locks must now be clipped ; 

'Tis done— all closely are they'shorn ; 

The vest which till this moment worn— 

The scarf which Paris in a gave — 

Must not adorn him to the grave. 

Even that must now be thro\vn aside, 

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 

But no— that last indignity 

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 

All feelings seemingly subdued. 

In deep disdain were half renew'd, 

W^hen headsman's hands prepare to bind 

Those eyes which would not brook such blind, 

As if they dared not look on death. 

''No — yours my forfeit blood and breath; 

These hands are chain "d, but let me die 

At least with an unshackled eye — 

Strike: "—and as the word he"^said, 

Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 

These the last accents Hugo spoke: 

"Striive: " — and flashing fell the stroke — 

Eoll'd the head— and, gushing, sunk 

Back the stain 'd and heaving trunk, 

In the dust, which each deep vein 

Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 

His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 

Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 

He died, as erring man should die, 

Without display, without parade; 

Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 

As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling. 
His 'heart was wean'd from earthly feeling; 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach— no more despair; 
No thought but heaven — no word but prayer — 
Save tlie few which from him broke. 
When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke, 
He claim 'd to die with eyes unbound, 
His sole adieu to those around. 



PARISINA. 



XYIII. 

Still as the lips that closed in death, 

Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 

But yet, afar, from man to man, 

A cold electric shiver ran, 

As down the deadly blow descended 

On him_ whose life and love thus ended; 

And, with a hushing sound compr^ss'd, 

A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 

But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullen shock, 

Save one : — wha.t cleaves the silent air 

So madly shrill — so passing wild ? 

That, as a mother's o'er her child, 

Done to death by sudden blow, 

To the sky these accents go, 

Like a soul's in endless woe. 

Through Azo's palace-lattice driven. 

That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 

And every eye is turn'd thereon : 

But sound and sight alike are gone ! 

It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 

In madlier accents rose despair : 

And those who heard it, as it x)a3s'd, 

In mercy wish'd it were the last. 



XIX. 

Hugo is fallen; and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower. 

Was Parisina heard or seen: 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear. 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Pruice Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife of son; 

No tomb —no memory had they ; 

Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid : 

AVhether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feel; 

Or if, upon the moment smote. 

She died by tortures less remote. 

Like him she saw upon the block. 

With heart that shared the headsman's shock, 

In quicken'd brokenness that came. 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know: ; 

But whatsoe'er its end below, . \ 

Her life began and closed in woe I \ 



XX. 

And Azo found another bride. 
And goodly sons grew by his side, 
But none so lovely and so brave 
As him who wither 'd in the grave ; 
Or if they were — on his cold eye 
Their grov\^th but glanced unheeded by, 
Or noticed with a smother 'd sigh. 
But never tear his cheek descended. 
And never smile his brow unbended ; 
/And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
/The intersected lines of thought; 
>Those furrows which the burning share 
Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
Scars of the lacerating mind 
Wliich the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
He was past all mirth or woe : 
Nothing more remain'd below 
But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
A heart which shunn'd itself— and yet 
That would not yield — nor could forget ; 
Wliich, when it least appear'd to melt, 
Intently thought — intensely felt : 
The deepest ice which ever froze 
Can only o'er the surface close ; 
The living stream lies quick below, 
And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 
By thoughts which Nature hath implanted; 
Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
Howe'er our stifled tears we banish ; 
When, struggling as thej^ rise to start. 
We check those waters of the heart. 
They are not dried— those tears unshed 
But flow back to the foumain head, 
And resting in their spring more pure, 
Forever in its depth endure. 
Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd. 
And cherish 'd most wiiere least reveal'd. 
With inward starts of feeling left. 
To throb o'er those of life bereft. 
Without the power to All again 
The desert gap which made his pain ; 
Without the hope to meet them where 
Ujiited souls shall gladness share. 
With all the consciousness that he 
Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
That they had wrought their doom of ill; 
Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
The tainted branches of the tree, 
If lopp'd with care, a strength may give, 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveals. 




Hi 



TPIE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



SONI^^ET ON CHILLOK. 



Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! . 
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 

And wh.en thy sons to fetters are consign'd — 
To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 



And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — for 't was trod, 
Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard! — May none those marks efface I 

For they appeal from tyranny to God.* 



i^he ^riaoner of (Hhillon. 



My hair is gray, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night ,t 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 

But rusted with a vile repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 

And mine has been the fate of those 
To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare; 
But this was for my father's faith 
I suffer'd chains and courted death; 
That father perish 'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not forsake; 
Aud for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven— who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish 'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd, 
Dying as their father died. 
For the God their foes denied; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
Of whom this wreck is left the last. 



* When this poem was cornposed, I was not sufficiently 
aware of the historj'- of Bonnivard, or I should have en- 
deavored to diornify the subject by an attempt to celebi-ate 
hss courage and his virtues. With some account of his life I 
have been furnished, bj- the klndr.ess of a citizen of that 
republic, which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy 
of the best ag'e of ancient freedom. 

Lord Byron wrote this beautiful poem at a small inn, in 
the little village of Ouchj', near Lausanne, where he hap- 
pened in June, 1816. to be detained two days by stress of 
weather; "thereby adding'," sa3's Moore, "one more death- 
i^jss association to the already immortalized localities of the 
Lake." 

*■ Ludovico Sforza, and others. The same is asserted of 
Maiie Antoinette's, the wife of Louis the Sixteenth, though 
112 



II. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
There are seven columns, massy and gray, 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And tiirough the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left ; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp: 
And in each pillar there is a ring. 

And in each ring there is a chain; 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain. 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score. 
When my last brother droop 'd and died. 
And I lay living by his side. 

III. 

They chain 'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone ; 
We could not move a single pace, 
W^e could not see each other's face. 
But with tliat pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight : 
And thus together— yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but join'd in heart, 



not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same 
effect : to such, and not to fear, this change in hers was to bo 
attributed. 

" I Avas struck," says Madame Campan, speaking- of Marie 
Antoinette, "with the astonishing' chang-e misfortune bad 
wrought upon her features: her whole head of hair had 
turned almost white, during- her ti'ansit from Varennes to 
Paris." The same thing- occurred to the unfortunate Queeu 
Mary. "With calm but undaunted fortitude," says her his- 
torian, "she laid her neck upon the block; and while one 
executioner held her hands, the other, at the second stroke, 
cut off her head, which, falling- out of its attire, discovered 
her hair, already grown quite g-ray with cares and sorrows." 
The hair of Mary's g-randson, Charles I., turned quite gray 
in like manner, during his stay at Carisbrooke. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



'T was still some solace in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold: 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 
A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be : 
It might befancj^ — but to me 
They never sounded like our own. 

lY. 

I was the eldest of the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do— and did my best— 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest whom my father loved, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven. 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress 'd 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he w^as beautiful as da}^ — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles, being free) — 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer 's gone. 

Its sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-clad offspring of the sun: 

And thus he was as jjure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
W^ith tears for nought but others' ills. 
And then they llow'd like mountain rills, 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abliorr'd to "view below. 



Y. 

The other was as pure of mind. 
But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
AVhich 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish 'd in the foremost rank 

With joy :— but not in chains to pine : 
His spirit wither 'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline— 

And so perchance in sooth did mine: 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had follow 'd there the deer and wolf ; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 



YI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy w^aters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chilton's snow-white battlement,* 

Which round about the wave enthralls: 



* The Chateau de Chillon (see illustration, pag"ell5,) is be- 
tween Clarens and Villeneuve, which last is at one extremity 
of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the 
Rhone; opposite are the heights of Jleillerie and the rang-e 
of Alps above Boveret and St. Ging-o. Near it. on a hill be- 
hind, is a torrent ; below it, washing its walls, the lake has been 
fathomed to the depth of 800 feet, French measure : within 
it is a rang-e of dungeons, in which the early reformers, and 
subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across one 
of the vaults is a beam, black with age, on which we were in- 
formed that the condemned were formerly executed. In the 
cells are seven pillars, or rather eight, one being half mei-ged 
8 



A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made— and like a living grave 
Below the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day: 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were high 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 
And then the very ro€k hath rock'd. 
And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that would have set me free. 

YII. 

I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food : 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's fare, 
And for the like had little care: 
Tlie milk drawn from the mountain goat 
AVas changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten 'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den ; 
But what were these to us or hira? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
]\Iy brother's soul was of that mould 
Wliich in a palace had grown cold, 
Plad his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side; 
But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
ISTor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died— and they unlock'd his chain. 
And scoop 'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
But then within my brain it wrought,- 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer — 
They coldly laugh 'd — and laid hira there: 
The flat and turfless earth above 
Tlie being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant, 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 

YIII. 

But he, the favorite and the flower, 
Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
His mother's image in fair face. 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that liis might be 
Less wretched now, and one day free ; 



in the wall : in some of these are rings for the fetters and the 
fettered: in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left 
their traces. He was confined here several years. It is by 
this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his 
Heloise, in the rescue of one of her children by Julie from 
the water ; the shock of which, and the illness produced by 
the immersion, is the cause of her death. The chateau is large, 
and seen along the lake for a great distance. It is said, in his- 
tory, that Charles the Fifth, Duke of Savoy, stormed and took 
it in 1536: that he there found great hidden treasures, and 
many v.-retched beings pining away their lives in these fright- 
ful dungeons, amongst whom was the good Bonnivard. 
113 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLOK 



He, too, who yet had held nntired 

A spirit natural or inspired — 

He, too, was struck, and day by day 

Was withered on the stalk away. 

Oh, God ! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood : 

I 've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I 've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 

I 've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of Sin delirious with its dread : 

But these were horrors — this was woe 

Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow: 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind ; 

With all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb, 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray — 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright, 

And not a word of murmur— not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise, 

For I was sunk in silence-^lost 

In this last loss, of all the most ; 

And then the sighs he would suppress 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could not hear ; 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 

I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be .thus admonished; 

I call'd, and thought I lieard a sound — 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rush'd to him : — I found him not, 

I only stirr'd in this black spot, 

/ only lived — J only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last— the sole — tlie dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

AVhich bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 

One on the earth, and one beneath — 

My brothers — both had ceased to breathe : 

I took that hand which lay so still, 

Alas ! my own was full as cliill ; 

I had not strength to stir, or strive. 

But felt that I was still alive — 

A frantic feeling, when we know 

That what we love shall ne'er be so. 

I know not why 

I could not die, 
I had no earthly hope but faith, 
And that forbade a selfish death. 

IX. 

What next befell me then and there 

I know not well — I never knew— 
First came the loss of light, and air. 

And then of darkness too: 
I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
Among the stones I stood a stone. 
And was, scarce conscious what I wist. 
As slirubless crags within the mist ; 
For all was blank, and bleak, and gray ; 
It was not night — it was not day ; 
It was not even the dungeon-light. 
So hateful to my heavy sight, 
But vacancy absorb hi g space. 
And fixedness — without a place; 
There were no stars — no earth — no time — 
l!^o check — no change — no good — no crime — | 
114 



But silence, and a stirless breath 
Which neither was of life nor death ; 
A sea of stagnant idleness. 
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless I 



X. 

A light broke in upon my brain, — 

It was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard. 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery : 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track ; 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done. 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch 'd, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings. 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
It seem'd like me to want a mate. 
But was not half so desolate. 
And it was come to love me when 
None lived to love me so again. 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine. 
But knowing well captivity. 

Sweet bird ! I could not\vish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant from paradise 

For— Heaven forgive that thought ! the while 
Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew. 
And then 't was mortal well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown. 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud. 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day. 
While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
A frown upon the atmosphere 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



XI. 

A kind of change came in my fate. 

My keepers grew compassionate ; 

I know not what had made them so. 

They were inured to sights of woe. 

But so it was :— my broken chain 

With links unfastened did remain, 

And it was liberty to stride 

Along my cell from side to side. 

And up and down, and then athwart, 

And tread it over every part ; 

And round the pillars one by one. 

Returning where my walk begun. 

Avoiding only, as I trod. 

My brothers' graves without a sod ; 

For if I thought with heedless tread 

My step profaned their lowly bed. 

My breath came gaspingly and thick, - 

And my crush 'd heart fell blind and sick. 



THE PRISONER OF CHILL OK 



XII. 

I made a footins? in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all 

Who loved me in a human siiape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth be 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child— no sire — no kin had I, 
1^0 partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad; 
Bat I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 

XIII. 

I saw them — and they were the same. 
They were not changed like me in frame ; 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channelPd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-walPd distant town. 
And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
And then there was a little isle,* 
Which in my very face did smile, 

Tlie only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, ' 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing, 

Of gentle breath and hue. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
The eagle rode the rising blast, 
Methought he never flew so fast 



* Between the entrances of the Rhone and Villeneuve, not 
far from Chillou, is a very small island ; the only one 1 could 
perceive, in my voyage round and over the lake, within its 



As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
And then new tears came in my eye, 
And I felt troubled — and ^vould fain 
I had not left my recent chain ; 
And when I did descend again, 
The darkness of my dim abode 
Fell on me as a heavy load; 
It was as is a new-dug grave, 
Closmg o'er one we soug'ht to save, — 
And yet my glance, too much oppress'd. 
Had almost need of such a rest. 

XIY. 

It might be months, or years, or days, 

I kept no count — I took no note, 
I had no hope my eyes to raise, 

xlnd clear them of their dreary mote ; 
At last men came to set me free, 

I ask'd not why, and reck'd not where, 
It was at length the same to me, 
Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 

I learn'd to love despair. - — ^, 
And thus when they appear'd at last, 
And all my bonds aside were cast, 
These heavy walls to me had grown 
A hermitage — and all my own ! 
And half I felt as they were come 
To tear me from a second home: 
With spiders I had friendship made, 
And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 
Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
And why should I feel less than they ? 
AVe were all inmates of one place, 
And I, the monarch of each race, 
Had power to kill— yet, strange to tell I 
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell ; 
Jkly very chains and I grew friends, 
So much a long communion tends 
To make us \vhat we are : — even I 
Regained my freedom with a sigh. 



circumference. It contains a few trees (I think not above 
three), and from its singieness and diminutive size has a pe- 
culiar effect upon the view. 




THE CASTLE OF CHILL.ON. 

[From a Photograph taken 1883.] 

Lake Leraan lies by Chillon's walls: 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow. 

tiianza VI., Page 113. 



115 



BEPPO: 

% Uenetian ^torg. 



EosaJind. Farewell. Monsieur Traveller : Look, you lisp, and wear strange suits ; disable all the benefits of j-our 
own country ; be out of love with your Nativity, and almost chide God for making you that countenance you are ; or 
J will scarce think that you have swam in a Gondola. As You Like It, act iv. sc. 1. 

Annotation of the Commcnintors. 

English gentlemen of those times, and was then 



That is. been at Venice, which was much visited by the youn 
what Paris is wow— the seat of all dissoluteness. 



S. A. 



cp^o. 



'T IS known, at least it should be, that throughout 
All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 

Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, ■ 
The people take their fill of recreation, 

And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
However high their rank, or low their station, 

AV ith fiddling , feasting, dancing, drinking, masking. 

And other things which may be had for asking. 

II. 

The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
The skies (and the more duskily the better), 

The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
Begins, and Prudery flings aside her fetter ; 

And Gayety on restless tiptoe hovers. 
Giggling with all the gallants who beset her : 

And there are songs and quavers, roaring, hum- 
ming. 

Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 

III. 

And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical. 
Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 

And harlequins and clovrns, with feats gyranastical, 
Greeks, Bomans, Yankee-doodles, and Hindoos; 

All kinds of dress, except the ecclesiastical, 
All people, as their fancies hit, may choose. 

But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 

Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye. 

IV. 

You 'd better walk about begirt with briars. 
Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 

A single stitch reflecting upon friars. 
Although you swore it only was in fun ; 

Tiiey 'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fires 
Of Phlegetlion with every mother's son. 

Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 

That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them double. 



But saving this, you may put on whatever 
You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 

Sucii as in Monmouth-street, or in Bag Fair, 
Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 

And even in Italy such places are. 
With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
116 



For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 

No place that 's call'd •' Piazza " in Great Britain. 

VI. 

This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
Interpreted, implies " farewell to flesh : " 

So caird, because the name and thing agreeing. 
Through Lent they live on fish both salt and 
fresh. 

But why they nsher Lent with so much glee in. 
Is more than I can tell, altliough I guess 

'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 

In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 

VTI. 

And thns they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
And solid rheats, and highly spiced ragouts, 

To live for forty days on ill-dressYl fishes, 
Because they gave no sauces to their stews, 

A thing which causesmany •' poohs " and " pishes." 
And several oaths iwhicli would not suit the Muse) , 

From travellers accustom 'd from a boy 

To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 

VIII. 
And tlierefore humbly I would recommend 

" The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend. 

Walk or ride to the Strand, and buy in gross 
(Or if set out beforeliand, these may send 

By any means least liable to loss) 
Ketchu]^, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve ye ; 

IX. 

That is to say, if your religion 's Boman, 

And you at Borne would do as Bomans do, 
According to the proverb, — although no man, 

If foreign, is obliged to fast; and you, 
If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
^ Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
Dine and be d— d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
But that 's the penalty, to say no worse. 

X. 

Of all the places where the Carnival 
Was most facetious in the days of yore. 

For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball. 
And masque, and mime, and mystery, and more 

Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
Venice the bell from every city bore, — 

And at the moment when I fix liiy story, 

That sea-born city was in all her glory. 



BEPPO. 



XI. 

They 've pretty faces yet, those same Tenetians, 
Black eves, arch 'd* brows, and sweet expressions 
still : 

Such as of old were copied fi'oin the Grecians, 
In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill. 

And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
(The best "s at Florence— see it, if ye wHl), 

They look when leaning OA'er the balcony, 

Or stepp'd from out a incture by Giorgione, 

XII. 

Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 

And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
That picture (howsoever fine tlie rest) 

Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
It may perhaps be also to your zest, 

And that "s the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
'Tis but a portrait of his son, and wife, 
And self ; but such a woman I love in life ! 

XIII. 

Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
Xo, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 

But something better still, so very real, 
That the sweet model must have been the same: 
/ A thing that you would purcliase, beg, or steal, 
Were 't not impossible, besides a shame : 

The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain. 

You once have seen, but ne'er will see again. 

XIT. 

One of those forms which flit by us, when v/e 
Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 

And. oh I the loveliness at times w^e see 
In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 

The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
In many a nameless being we retrace, 

Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall 
know. 

Like the lost Pleia-d seen no more below. 

XY. 

I said that like a picture by Giorgione 
Yenetian women were, and so they are^ 

Particularly seen from a balcony 
(For beauty "s sometimes best set oti afar). 

And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar ; 

And, truth to say, they 're mostly very pretty, 

And rather like to show it, more 's the pity l' 

XYI. 

For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 

Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter. 
Which flies on wings of liglit-heerd Mercuries, 

Who do such things because they knov^' no better; 
And then, God knows what mischief may arise, 

When love links two young people in one fetter, 
Yile assignations, and adulterous beds. 
Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 

XYII. 

Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 

And to this day from Yenice to Yerona 
Such matters may be probably the same, 

Except that since those times was never known a 
Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 

To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 

Because she had a " cavalier servente."^ 

XYIII. 
Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 

Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 

Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 



I But worthier of these much more jolly fellows, 
' AVhen weary of the matrimonial tether 
; His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
But takes at once another, or another's. * 

XIX. 

Didst ever see a Gondola V For fear 
You shotild not, I '11 describe it you exactly: 

'T is a long cover'd boat that 's common here. 
Carved at the prow, built lightly, but comp;uctly 

Row'd by two rowers, each call'd ''Gondolier," 
It glides along the water looking blackly. 

Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe. 

Where none can make out what you say or do. 

XX. 

And up and down the long canals they go. 

And under the Rialto shoot along, 
By night and day. all paces, swift or slow. 

And round the theatres, a sable throng. 
They wait in their dusk livery of woe. — 

But not to them do woeful things belong. 
For sometimes they contain a deal of fun. 
Like mourning coaches when the funeral 's done. 

XXI. 

But to my story. — 'T Avas some years ago, 
It may be tliirty, forty, more or less. 

The Carnival was at its lieight, and so 
Y>re all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 

A certain lady went to see the show, 
Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 

And so we -11 call her Laura, if you please, 

Because it slips into my verse with ease. 

XXII. 

She was not old. nor young, nor at the years 
Which certain people call a '''certain age^"' 

Which yet the most imcertain age appears,^ ^ 
Because I never heard, nor could engage 

A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears. 
To name, define by speech, or write on page. 

The period meant precisely by that word, — 

Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 

XXIII. 

Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
Of time, and time return 'd the compliment. 

And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; ' 

A pretty woman is a welcome guest,^ 
And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 

Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatter 



er / 



: Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her 

! XXIY. 

She was a married woman : 't is convenient. 
Because in Christian countries -t is a rule 
, To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
i Whereas if single ladies play the fool 
(Lnless within the period intervenient 

A well-timed vredding makes the scandal cool), 
I don't know hov\- they ever can get over it, 
Except they manage never to discover it. 

XXY. 

Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic. 

xVnd made some vo^-ages, too, in other seas. 
And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 

(A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 
His wife would mount, at times, her highest attic, 

For thence she could discern the ship with ease : 

* "Jealousy is not the order of the day in Venice, ani 
daggers are out of fashion, while duels on love mattei-s are 
I unknown— at least, -with the husbands."— J3y?on Lettos. 

117 



BEPPO, 



He was a merchant trading to Aleppo, 

His name Giuseppe, calPd more briefly, Beppo. 

XXVI. 

He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 

Though color'd, as it were, within a tanyard. 
He was a person both of sense and vigor— 

A better seaman never yet did man yard ; 
And she, although her manners show'd no rigor, 

Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 

So much as to be thought almost invincible. 

XXYII. 

But several years elapsed since they had met ; 

Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
That he had somehow blunder'd into debt, 

And did not like the thoughts of steering home ; 
And there were several oifer'd any bet, 

Or that he would, or that he would not come ; 
For most men (till by losing render'd sager) 
^AVill back their own opinions with a wager. 

XXVIII. 
'T is said that their last parting Avas pathetic, 

As partings often are, or ought to be, 
And their presentiment was quite prophetic 

That they should never more each other see 
(A sort of morbid feeling, half poetic, 

Which I have known occur in two or three). 
When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 
He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 

XXIX. 

And Laura waited long, and wept a little. 
And thought of wearing weeds, as well she might ; 

She almost lost all appetite for victual. 
And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 

She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
Against a daring housebreaker or sprite. 

And so she thought it prudent to connect her 

With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her. 

XXX. 

She chose (and what is there they will not choose, 
If only you will but oppose their choice ?), 

Till Beppo should return from his long cruise. 
And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 

A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 

A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 

And in his pleasures of great liberality. 

XXXI. 

And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
Music, and dancing, fiddling, 1 rencli, and Tus- 
can ; 

The last not easy, be it known to you, 
For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 

He was a critic upon operas, too. 
And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin ; 

And no Venetian audience could endure a 

Song, scene, or air, v/hen he cried "• seccatura ! " 

XXXII. 

His " bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
Hush'd "Academic " sigh'd in silent awe ; 

The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
For fear of some false note's detected flaw- 

The " prima donna's " tuneful heart would bound, 
Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah ! " 

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 

Wish'd him five fathom under the Kialto. 



* Cortejo is pronounced Corte^o, with an aspirate, accord- 
ing to the Arabesque guttural . It means what there is as yet 
118 



XXXIII. 

He patronized the Improvisatori, 

Nay, could himself extemporize some stanzas. 
Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 

Sold pictures, and was skillful in the dance as 
Italians can be, though in this their glory 

Must surely yield the palm to that which France 
has; 
In short he was a perfect cavaliero, 
And to his very valet seem'd a hero."^' 

XXXIV. 

Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 

So that no sort of female could complain. 
Although they 're now and then a little clamorous, 

He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
His heart was one of those which most enamor us, 

Wax to receive, and marble to retain : v ,._- 
He was a lover of the good old school, . 

Who still become more constant as they cooD 

XXXV. 

No wonder such accomplishments should turn 
A female head, however sage and steady— 

With scarce a hope that Beppo could return, 
In law he was almost as good as dead, he 

Nor sent, nor wrote, nor show'd the least concern, 
And she had waited several years already ; 

And really if a man won't let us know 

That he 's alive, he 's dead, or should be so. ^\-' 



XXXVI. 



^^.;J^(^^' 



Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
(Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin), 

'T is, I may say, permitted to have tico men ; 
I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 

But " Cavalier Serventes " are quite common, 
And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 

And we may call this (not to say the worst) 

A second marriage which corrupts the first. 

XXXVII. 

The word was formerly a " Cicisbeo," 
But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 

The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,^'' * 
For the same mode subsists in Spain, though 
recent ; 

In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent : 

But Heaven preserve Old England from such 
courses ! 

Or what becomes of damage and divorces ? 

XXXVIII. 

However, I still think, with all due deference 
To the fair single part of the creation. 

That married ladies should preserve the preference 
In tete-a-tete or general conversation — 

And this I say without peculiar reference 
To England, France, or any other nation— 

Because they know the world, and are at ease. 

And being natural, naturally please. 

XXXIX. 

'T is true, your budding Miss is very charming, 

But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
So much alarm 'd, that she is quite alarming. 

All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 
And glancing at Mamma, for fear there 's harm in 

What you, she, it, or they, may be about, 
Tlie nursery still lisps out in all they utter- 
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 



no precise name for in England, though the practice is as 
couiinon as in any tramontane country whatever. 



BEPPO. 



XL. 

But " Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 

Used in politest circles to express 
This supernumerary slave, who stays 

Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
Her word the only law which he obeys. 

He is no sinecure, as you may guess ; 
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call. 
And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. 

XLI. 

With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
That Italy's a pleasant place to me. 

Who love to see the Sun sldne every day, 
And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 

Festoon 'd, much like the back scene of a play. 
Or melodrame, which people flock to see, 

When the first act is ended by a dance 

In vineyards copied from the south of France. 

XLII. 

I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 
AVithout being forced to bid my groom be sure 

My cloak is round his middle strapp'd about, ^.- 

Because the skies are not the most secure ; 

I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
Where the green alleys windingly allure. 

Keeling with grapes red wagons choke the way, — 

In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 

XLIII. 

I also like to dine on becaficas. 

To see the Sun set, sure he '11 rise to-morrow, 
Kot through a misty morning tv/inkling weak as 

A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow. 
But with all Heaven t' himself ; that day will break 
as 

Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
Where reeking London's smoky caldron simmers. 

XLIV. 

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
/ Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
( And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
/ With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
^ And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
That not a single accent seems uncouth. 
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting gut- 
tural. 
Which we 're obliged to hiss, and spit,and sputter all. 

XLV. 

I like the w^omen too (forgive my folly), 
From the rich peasant-cheek of ruddy bronze, 

And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
■ To the high dama's brow, more melancholy. 
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 

Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 

XLYI. 

Eve of the tand which still is Paradise ! 

Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
Eaphael,* who died in thy embrace, and vies 

With all we know of Heaven, or can desire. 
In what he hath bequeath'd us ?— in what guise. 

Though flashing from the fervor of the lyre, 
Would words describe thy past and present glow% 
While yet Canova can create below ? f 

* For the received accounts of the cause of Raphael's death, 
see his lives, 
t Note.— {In talking thus, the writer, more especially 
Of women, would be understood to say, 
He speaks as a spectator, not officially, 
And always, reader, in a modest way ; 



XLYII. 

" England ! with all thy faults I love thee still," 
I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; 

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
I like the government (but that is not it) ; 

I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we 've got it) ; 

I like a parliamentary debate. 

Particularly when 't is not too late ; 

XLYIII. 

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many ; 

I like a sea-coal fire, when not too dear ; 
I like a beef -steak, too, as well as any; 

Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
I like the weather, when it is not rainy. 

That is, I like two months of every year. 
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! 
Which means that I like all and everything. 

XLIX. 
Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,- 

Poor's rate. Reform, my own, the nation's debt, 
Our little riots just to show we are free men,- 

Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly w^omen. 

All these I can forgive, and those forget. 
And greatly venerate our recent glories. 
And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 



But to my tale of Laura,— for I find 

Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind. 

And, therefore, may the reader too displease — 
The gentle reader, w^ho may wax unkind. 

And caring little for the author's ease, 
Insist on knowing wdiat he means, a hard 
And hapless situation for a bard. 

LL 

that I had the art of easy writing 

What should be easy reading ! could I scale 
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 

Those pretty poems never known to fail. 
How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 

A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; 
And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism. 
Some samples of the finest Orientalism ! 

LII. 

But I am but a nameless sort of person 
(A broken Dandy lately on my travels), 

And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, 
The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
Xot caring as I ought for critics' cavils; 

1 've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 
But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 

LIII. 

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do. 

For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
They had their little differences, too ; 

Those jealous whiffs, which never any change 
meant ; 
In such affairs there probably are few 

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble. 

From sinners of high station to the rabble. 



Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he 

Appear to have offended in this lay. 
Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets 
Would seem unflnish'd, like their untrimm'd 
bonnets.) 
(Signed) Printer's Devil. 

119 



BEPPO. 



K 



LIV. 
But, on the whole, the)^ were a happ}' pair, 

As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
^ Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth wliile to 

break them : 
The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 

The pious only wish'd " the devil take them ! " 
He took them not : he very often waits, 
And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 

LY. 

But they were young: Oh! what without our youth 
Would lovebe ! What would youth be without 
love ! 

Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigor, truth, 
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; 

But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
One of the few things experience don't improve, 

Wliich is, perliaps, the reason why old fellows 

Are always so preposterously jealous. 

LVI. 

It was the Carnival, as I have said 
Some six and thirty stanzas ]>ack, and so 

Laura the usual preparations made, 
Which Tou do when your mind 's made up to go 

To-night to Mrs. Boelim's masquerade. 
Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 

The only diiierence known between the cases 

Is — here^ we have six weeks of '' varnish 'd faces." 

LYII. 

Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 

A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 

Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
With all the fasliions wlucli the last month wore, 

Color'd, and silver paper leaved between 
That and the title-page, for fear the press 
Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 

LVIII. 

They went to the Kidotto ; 't is a hall 
Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 

Its proper name, perhaps, were a masked ball, 
But that 's of no importance to my strain ; 

'T is (on a sm.aller scale) like our Vauxliali, 
Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 

The company is "mix'd " (the phrase I quote is 

As much as saying, they 're below your notice) ; 

LIX. 

For a " mix'd company " implies that, save 
Yourself and friends, and half a Imndred more, 

Wliom you may bow to without looking grave, 
The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore' 

Of public places, where they basely brave 
Tlie fasliionable stare of twenty score 

Of well-bred persons, call'd ''The World; " but I, 

Although I know tliem, really don't know why. 

LX. 

This is the case in England ; at least was 
During the dynasty of Dandies, now 

Perchance succeeded by some other class 
Of imitated imitators : — how 

Irreparably soon decline, alas I 
The demagogues of fashion : all below 

Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 

By love, or wai", and now and then by frost ! 

LXI. 

Crush 'd was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 

Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
A blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 
120 



Good cause had lie to doubt the cliance of war, 
And as for Fortune — but I daie not d — n her, 
Because, were I to ponder to infinity. 
The more I should believe in her divinity. 

LXII. 

Siie rules the present, past, and all to be yet ; 

She gives us luck in lotteries, love, and raarririge ; 
I cannot say that she 's done much for me yet ; 

Not that I mean her bounties to disparage. 
We 've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 

How much she '11 make amends for past miscar- 
riage. 
Meantime the goddess I '11 no more importune. 
Unless to thank her when she 's made my fortune. 

LXIII. 

To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 

This story slips forever through my fingers, 
Because, just as the stanza likes to make it. 

It needs must be — and so it rather lingers : 
This form of verse began, I can't well break it. 

But must keep timeand tune like public singers; 
But if I once get .through my present measure, 
I '11 take another when 1 'm next at leisure. 

LXIY. 

They went to tlie Kidotto ('t is a place 
To which I mean to go myself to-morrow. 

Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
Because I 'm rather hippish, and may borrow 

Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 

Slackens its pace sometimes, I '11 make, or find, 

Something shall leave it half an hour behind). 

LXY. 

Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd. 
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 

To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips. 

Complains of warmth, and this complaint avow'd, 
Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 

She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 

Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ill. 

LXYI. 

One has false curls, another too much paint, 
A third — where did she buy that frightful turban ? 

A fourth 's so pale she fears she 's going to faint, 
A fifth's look 's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 

A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 

And lo ! an eighth appears, — '' I '11 see no more I" 

For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score. 

LXYII. 

Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
Others were levelling their looks at her; 

She heard the men's half-whisper 'd mode of praising, 
And, till 't was done, determined not to stir; 

The women only thought it quite amazing 
That, at her time of life, so many were 

Admirers still,— but men are so debased, 

Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 

LXYIIL 

For my part, now, I ne'er coidd understand 
Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 

A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
I only don't see why it should be thus ; 

And if I wei-e but in a gown and band, 
Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 

I 'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Eomilly 

Should quote in their next speeches from my homily. 

LXIX. 

While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling. 
Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what, 



BEPPO. 



So tiiat her female friends, with envy broiling, 
Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that; 

And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 

More than the rest one person seem'd to stare 

With pertinacity that 's rather rare. 

LXX. 

He was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 

And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 

Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
'T is said they use no better than a dog any 

Poor woman, wliom they purchase like a pad ; 
They have a number, though they ne'er exliibit 'em, 
Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 

LXXI. 
Tliey lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 

They scarcely can behold tlieir male relations. 
So that their moments do not pass so gayly 

As is supposed the case with nortliern nations ; 
Confinement , too, must make them look quite palely ; 

And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing. 
Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 

Lxxir. 

They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 

Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
Were never caught in epigram or witticism. 

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
In harems learning soon would make a pretty schism ! 

But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
" That charming passage in the last new poem :" 

LXXIII. 

No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
Who having angled all his life for fame. 

And getting but a nibble at a time, 
Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 

Small '■ Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
Of mediocrity, the furious tame. 

The echo's echo, usher of the school 

Of female wits, boy bards— in short, a fool ! — 

LXXIY. 

A stalking oracle of awl\il phrase. 

The apiu'oving '""Good! " (by no means good in 
law), 
Humming like flies around the newest blaze. 

The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw. 
Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise. 

Gorging the little fame he gets all rav/. 
Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
And sweating plays so middling, bad v/ere better. 

LXXY. 

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows 
In foolscap uniform.s turn'd up with ink. 

So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous. 
One don't know what to say to them, or think. 

Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
Of coxcombry's worse coxcombs e'en the pink 

Are preferable to these shreds of paper. 

These unquench'd snufllngs of the midnight taper. 

LXXVI. 

Of these same we see several, and of otliers, 
Men of tlie world, who know the world like men, 

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brotliers. 
Who think of something else besides the pen ; 

But for the children of the "mighty mother's," 
The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 

I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 

Smug coterie, and literary lady. 



LXXVII. 

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 

And one would seem to them a new invention, 
Unknown as bells within a Turkisli steeple ; 

I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 

A missionary author, just to preach 

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 

LXXVIII. 

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases. 
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
j No circulating library amasses 

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 

Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 

They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 

Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics. 

LXXIX. 

Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 

I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose. 
And as, perhaps, they ^vould not highly flatter, 
I '11 keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
I fear I have a little turn for satire, 
/-^And yet methinks the older that one grows 
Inclines us more to laugh than scold,though laughter 
Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 

"^ LXXX. 

Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water ! 

Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter. 

Abominable Man no more allays 
Llis thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 

I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy I — 
Meantime I drink to your return in brandy. 

LXXXI. 

Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her. 
Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 

Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honor. 
And while I please to stare, you '11 please to stay." 

Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 

But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 

She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 

Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 

LXXXII. 

The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
A turn of time at which I would advise 

Ladies v/ho have been dancing, or partaking 
In any other kind of exercise. 

To make their preparations for forsaking 
The ball-room ere the sun begins to rise. 

Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 

liis blushes make them look a little pale. 

LXXXIII. 

I 've seen some balls and revels in my time. 
And stay'd them over for some silly reason, 

And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
To see what lady best stood out the season ; 

And though I've seen some thousands in their prime. 
Lovely and pleasing, and wdio still may please on, 

I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 

Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 

LXXXIY. 

The name of this Aurora I '11 not mention, 
Althougfi I might, for she was nought to me 

More than, that patent work of God's invention, 
A charming woman, whom ^ve like to see ; ' 

But writing names would merit reprehension. 
Yet if you like to find out this fair s/ie, 
121 



BEPPO. 



At the next London or Parisian ball 

You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming all. 

LXXXY. 

Laura, who knew it Avould not do at all 
To meet tlie daylight after seven hours' sitting 

Among three thousand people at a ball. 
To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting. 

The Count was at her elbow with her sliawl, 
And they the room were on the point of quitting, 

AVhen lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 

Just in the very place where they should not. 

LXXXVI. 

In this they 're like our coachmen, and the cause 
Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling, 

With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
They make a never intermitted bawling. 

At home, our Bow^-street gem men keep the laws, 
And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 

But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 

And nauseous words past mentioning or bearhig. 

LXXXYII. 

The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
And homeward floated o'er the silent tide. 

Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 

Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
(As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 

Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 

When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 

LXXXYIII. 

" Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
" Your unexpected presence here will make 

It necessary for myself to crave 
Its import ? But perhaps 't is a mistake ; 

I hope it is so ; and, at once to waive 
All compliment, I hope so for yorir sake: 

You understand my meaning, or you shall.'''' 

" Sir," (quoth the Turk), " 'tis no mistake at all : 

LXXXIX. 

" That lady is my wife ! " Much w^onder paints 
The lady's changing cheek, as well it might ; 

But W'here an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
Italian females don't do so outright; 

They only call a little on their saints, 
And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 

Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling 
faces, 

And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 

XC. 

Slie said, — what could she say? Why, not a word : 
But the Count courteously invited in 

The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
" Such things, perhaps, we 'd best discuss within," 

Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 
In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 

For then the chief and only satisfaction 

WiU be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 

XCI. 

They enter'd, and for coffee call'd— it came, 
A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 

Although the way they make it 's not the same. 
Xow Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 

To speak, cries " Beppo ! what 's your pagan name ? 
Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 

And how came you to keep away so long ? 

Are you not sensible 't was very wrong V 

XCII. 

" And are 5^ou really, truly, now a Turk ? 
With any other women did you wive ? 
122 



Is 't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 

Well, that 's the prettiest shawl — as I 'm alive ! 
You '11 give it me ? They say you eat no pork. 

And how so many years did you contrive 
To — Bless me ! did I ever ? No. I never 
Saw a man grown so yellow ! How 's your liver ? 

XCIII. 

" Beppo ! that beard of yours becomes you not ; 

It shall be shaved before you 're a day older : 
Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 

Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
How do I look ? You shan't stir from this spot 

In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
Should find you out, and make the story known. 
How short your hair is ! Lord ! how gray it 's 
grown ! " 

XCIY. 
What answer Beppo made to these demands 

Is more than I know. He was cast away 
About wiiere Troy stood once, and nothing stands : 

Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 

Of pirates landing in a neighboring bay. 
He join'd the rogues and prosper'd, and became 
A renegado of indifferent fame. 

XCY. 

But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
Keen the desire to see his home again, 

He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
And not be always thieving on the main ; 

Lonely he felt, at times, as Ptobin Crusoe, 
And so he hired a vessel com.e from Spain, 

Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 

Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 

XCYI. 

Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten !) 
cash. 

He then embark 'd, with risk of life and limb, 
And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 

He said that Providence protected him — 
For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 

In our opinions :— well, the ship was trim, 
Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 

XCYII. 

They reach'd the island, he transferr'd his lading 
And self and live stock to another bottom. 

And pass'd for a true Turkey merchant, trading 
With goods of various names, but I 've forgot 'em. 

How^ever, he got off by this evading, 
Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 

And thus at Yenice landed to reclaim 

His wife, religion, house, and Christian name. 

XCYIII. 

His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him 
(He made the church a present by the way) ; 

He then threw off the garments which disguised him , 
And borrow'd the Coimt's smallclothes for a day : 

His friends the more for his long absence prized him. 
Finding he 'd wherewithal to make them gay. 

With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 

For stories— but / don't believe the half of them. 

XCIX. 

Whate'er his youth had suffer'd, his old age 
With wealth and talking make him some amends ; 

Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
I 've heard the Count and he were always friends. 

My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
AVhich being finished, here the story ends ; 

'T is to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 

But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 



M A Z E P P A. 



A D VEB TISEMEISTT. 



"riELUI qui remplissait alors cette place etait un gen- 
yJ tilhomme Polonais, nomme Mazeppa, ne dans le 
palatinat de Podolie : il avait ete.eleve page de Jean Casi- 
mir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinture des belles- 
lettres. Une intrigue qu'il eut dans sa jeunesse avec la 
femrae d'un gentilhomme Polonais ayant ete decouverte, 
le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval farouche, et le 
laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui etait du pays de 
I'Ukraine, y retourna, et y poi'ta Mazej)pa, demi-mort de 
fatigue et de faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : il 
r«sta long-tems parmi eux, et se signala dans plusieurs 
courses centre les Tartares. La superiorite de ses lumi- 
^res lui donna une grande consideration parmi les Cosaques : 
sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le 
Czar a le faire Prince de I'Ukraine." — Voltaire, IJist. 
de Charles XIL, p. 196. 



" Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue sous 
lui ; le Colonel Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sang, lui 
donna le sien. Ainsi on remit deux fois a cheval, dans 
sa fuite, ce conquerant qui n' avait pu y monter pendant 
la bataille."— /6tc^., p. 216. 

" Le roi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cava- 
liers. Le carrosse ou il etait rompit dans la marclie ; on 
le remit a ciieval. Pour comble de disgrace, il s'egara 
pendant la nuit dans un bois ; la, son courage ne pouvant 
plus suppleer a ses forces epuisees, les douleurs de sa 
blessure devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son 
cheval etant tombe de lassitude, il se couclia quelques 
heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger d'etre snrpris a 
tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de 
tons cotes." — Ibid., p. 218. 



Pa^epa/ 



1. 

'TwAs after dread Pultowa's day, 

When fortune left the royal Swede, 
Around a slaughter VI army lay, 

No more to combat and to bleed. 
The power and glory of the war. 

Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar, 

And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
Until a day more dark and drear, 
And a more memorable year, 
Sliould give to slaughter and to shame 
A mightier host and haughtier name;t 
A greater wreck, a deeper fall, 
A shock to one — a tliunderbolt to all. 

II. 

Such was the hazard of the die ; 
The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
By day and night through field and flood, 
Siain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 

* " The story is a well known one ; namely, that of the 
young Pole, who, being bound naked on the back of a v/ild 
horse, on account of an intrigue with the lady of a certain 
great noble of his country, was carried by his steed into the 
heart of the Ukraine, and being there picked up by some 
Cossacks, in a state apparently of utter hopelessness and ex- 
haustion, recovered, and lived to be long after the prince and 
leader of the nation among whom he had arrived in this ex- 
traordinary manner. Lord Byron has represented the strange 
and wild incidents of this adventure, as being related in a 
half serious, half sportive way, by Mazeppa himself, to no 
less a person than Charles the Twelfth of Sweden, in some 
of whose last campaigns the Cossack Hetman took a distiu- 



JFor thousands fell that flight to aid : 

And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 

Ambition in his humbled hour, 

When truth had nought to dread from power. 

His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 

His own— and died the Kussians' slave. 

This too sinks after many a league 

Of well sustain 'd but vain fatigue; 

Arid in the depths of forests, darkling, 

The w^atch -fires in the distance sparkling — 

The beacons of surrounding foes— 
A king must lay his limbs at length. 

Are these the laurels and repose 
For which the nations strain their strength ? 
They laid him by a savage tree, 
In outworn nature's agony; 
His wounds were stiff— his limbs were stark — 
The heavy hour w^as cliill and dark ; 
The fever in his blood forbade 
A transient slumber's fitful aid: 
And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
And made, in this extreme of ill, 
His pangs the vassals of his will : 
All silent and subdued were they. 
As once the nations round him lay. 



guished part. He tells it during the desolate bivouac of 
Charles and the few friends who fled with him towards Tur- 
key, after the bloody overthrow of Pultowa. There is not a 
little of beauty and gracefulness in this way of setting the 
picture;— the age of Mazeppa— the calm, practised indiffer- 
ence with which he now submits to the worst of fortune's 
deeds— the heroic, unthinking coldness of the royal madman 
to whom he speaks— the dreary and perilous accompani- 
ments of the scene around the speaker and the audience,— 
all contribute to throw a very striking charm both of prep- 
aration and of contrast ov3r the wild story of the Het- 
man." 
+ Napoleon Bonaparte. 

123 



3IAZEPPA. 



III. 

A band of chiefs!— alas! how few, 

Since but the fleeting of a clay 
Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 

And chivalrous : upon the clay 
Each sate him down, all sad and mute, 

Beside his monarch and his steed, 
For danger levels man and brute, 

And all are fellows in their need. 
Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
His pillow in an old oak's shade— 
Himself as rough, and scarce less old. 
The Ukraine's Hetman, calm and bold ; 
But first, outspent with this long course. 
The Cossack prince rubb'd down his horse, 
And made for him a leafy bed. 

And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 

And slack'd his girth, and stripp'd his rein. 
And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
For until now he had the dread 
His wearied courser might refuse 
To browse beneath the 'midnight dews: 
But he was hardy as his lord, 
And little cared for bed and board; 
But spirited and docile too, 
Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
All Tartar-like he carried him; 
Obey'd his voice, and came to call, 
And knew him in the midst of all : 
Though thousands were around,— and aSTight, 
Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
That steed from sunset until dawn 
His chief would follow like a fawn. 

ly. 

This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
And laid his lance beneath his oak. 
Felt if his arms in order good 
The long day's march had well withstood — 
If still the powder fill'd the pan, 

And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt. 
And whether they had chafed his belt — 
And next the venerable man. 
From out his haversack and can. 

Prepared and spread his slender stock; 
And to the monarch and his men 
The whole or portion offer'd then 
With far less of inquietude 
Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
And Charles of this his slender share 
With smiles partook a moment there, 
To force of cheer a greater show. 
And seem above both wounds and woe ; 
And then he said — " Of all our band, 
Though firm of heart and strong of hand, 
In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
Can less have said or more have done 
Tlian thee, Mazeppa I On the earth 
So fit a pair had never birth, 
Since Alexander's days till now, 
As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
Mazeppa answer 'd — "111 betide 
The school wherein I learn'd to ride!" 
Quoth Charles — "Old Hetman, wherefore so. 
Since thou hast learn 'd the art so well? " 
Mazeppa said—" 'Twere long to tell; 
And we have many a league to go, 
With every now and then a blow. 
And ten to one at least the foe. 
Before our steeds may graze at ease 
Beyond the swift Borysthenes: 
And, sire, your limbs "have need of rest, 
And I will be the sentinel 
124 



Of this your troop."— "But I request," 
Said Sweden's monarch, "thou wilt tell 
This tale of thine, and I may reap. 
Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
For at this moment from my eyes 
The hope of present slumber flies." 

"Well, sire, with such a hope, I '11 track 
My seventy years of memory back : 
I think 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
Ay, 'twas,— wdien Casimir was king- 
John Casimir — I was his page 
Six summers, in my earlier age : 
A learned monarch, faith ! was he. 
And most unlike your majesty: 
He made no wars, and did not gain 
Xew realms to lose them back again ; 
And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
He reign 'd in most unseemly quiet ; 
Not that he had no cares to vex ; 
He loved the muses and the sex; 
And sometimes these so fro ward are, 
They made him wish himself at war ; 
But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
Another mistress, or new book ; 
And then he gave prodigious fetes- 
All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
To gaze upon his splendid court, 
And dames, and chiefs, of princely port : 
He was the Polish Solomon, 
So sung his poets, all but one, 
Who. being unpension'd, made a satire, 
And boasted that lie could not flatter. 
It was a court of jousts and mimes. 
Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
Even I for once produced some verses. 
And sign'd my odes 'Despairing Thja-sis.' 
There was a certain Palatine, 

A Count of far and high descent, 
Rich as a salt or silver mine ; * 
And he was proud, ye may divine, 

As if from heaven he had been sent : 
He had such wealth in blood and ore 

As few could match beneath tlie throne ; 
And he would gaze upon his store. 
And o'er his pedigree would pore. 
Until by some confusion led. 
Which almost look'd like want of head, 

He thought their merits wer'e his own. 
His wife was not of his opinion ; 

His junior she by thirty years. 
Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 

And, after wishes, hopes, and fears, 

To virtue a few farewell tears, 
A restless dream or two, some glances 
At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
Awaited but the usual chances. 
Those happy'accidents which render 
The coldest dames so very tender. 
To deck her Count with titles given, 
'Tis said, as passports into heaven ; 
But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
Of these, who have deserved them most. 

V. 

" I was a goodly stripling then ; 

At seventy years I so may say. 
Til at there were few, or boys or men, 

Who, in my dawning time of day. 
Of vassal or of knight's degree. 
Could vie in vanities with me ; 
For I had strength, youth, gayety, 
A port, not like to this ye see, 



*This comparison of a '■''saU mine" may. perhaps, be pfr^ 
mitted to a Pole, as the wealth of the country consists greatly 
iu the salt mines. 



^ 



^ 




— She was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet bound her to the place, — 

MAZEPPA,— Page 125. 



^ 



■4* 



3IAZEPPA. 



But smooth, as all is rugged now; 

For time, and care, and war, have plough 'd 
My very soul from out my brow ; 

And thus I should be disavow'd 
By all my kind and kin, could they 
Cvompare my day and yesterday : 
This change was wrouglit, too, long ere age 
Had ta'en my features for his pag-e : 
With years, ye know, have not declined 
My strength,'my courage, or my mind, 
Or at this hour I should not be 
Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
AVith starless skies my canopy. 

But let me on : Theresa's form — 
Methinks it glides before me now, 
Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 

The memory is so quick and warm ; 
And j'et I find no words to tell 
The shape of her I loved so well : 
Siie had the Asiatic ej^e. 

Such as our Turicish neighborhood 

Hath mingled witli our Polish blood, 
Dark as above us is the sky; 
But through it stole a tender light, 
Like the first moonrise of midnight; 
Large, dark, and swimming in the stream, 
Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
All love, half languor, and half fire, 
Like saints that at the stake expire. 
And lift their raptured looks on high, 
As though it were a joy to die. 
A brow like a midsummer lake. 

Transparent with the sun therein. 
When waves no murmur dare to make, 

And heaven beholds her face witliin. 
A cheek and lip— but why proceed ? 

I loved her then— I love her still; 
And such as I am, love indeed 

In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
But still we love even in our rage. 
And haunted to our very age 
With the vain shadow of the past, 
As is Mazeppa to the last. 

VI. 

" We met— we gazed — I saw, and sigh'd, 
Slie did not speak, and ^^et replied ; 
/ There are ten thousand tones and signs 
; We hear and see, but none defines — 
Involuntary sparks of thought, 
Which strike from out the heart o'erwrought, 
And form a strange intelligence, 
Alike mysterious and intense, 
Which link the burning chain that binds, 
1 Without their will, young hearts and minds : 
' Conveying, as the electric wire. 
We know not how, the absorbing fire. 
I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
And still reluctant distance kept. 
Lentil I was made known to her. 
And we might then and there confer 
Without suspicion — then, even then, 

I long'd, and was resolved to speak; 
But on my lips they died again, 

The accents tremulous and weak, 
LTntil one hour. — There is a game, 

A frivolous and foolish play, 

Wherewith we while away the day ; 
It is— I have forgot the name — 
And V7e to this, it seems, were set, 
By some strange chance, which I forget : 
I reck'd not if I won or lost, 

It was enough for me to be 

So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
The being whom I loved the most. 
I watch 'd her as a sentinel 
(.May ours this dark night watch as well!), 



L 



Until I saw, and thus it was, 
Tliat she was pensive, nor perceived 
Her occupation, nor was grieved 
Kor glad to lose or gain- but still 
Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
Yet boimd her to the place, tliough not 
That hers might be the winning lot. 

Then through my brain the thought did pass 
Even as a flash of' lightning tliere. 
That there was something in her air 
Which would not doom me to despair ; 
And on the thought my words broke forth. 

All incoherent as they ^^■ere ; 
Their eloquence was little worth. 
But yet she listen 'd— 'tis enough— 

Wiio listens once will listen twice ; 

Her heart, be sure, is not of ice. 
And one refusal no rebuff. 

YII. 

" I loved, and was beloved again — 
They tell me, sire, you never knew 
Those gentle frailties; if 'tis true, 

I shorten all my joy or pain ; 

To you 't would seem absurd as vain ; 

But all men are not born to reign. 

Or o'er their passions, or as you 

Tlius o'er themselves and nations too. 

I am — or rather v:as — a prince, 
A chief of thousands, and could lead 
Them on where each would foremost bleed ; 

But could not o'er myself evince 

The like control.— But to resume: 
I loved, and was beloved again ; 

In sooth, it is a happy doom. 
But yet where happiest ends in pain. 

We met in secret, and the hour 

Which led me to tliat lady's bower 

Was fiery Expectation's dower. 

My days and nights were nothing— all 

Except that hour which doth recall 

In the long lapse from youth to age 
Xo other like itself: I'd give "v 
The Ukraine back again to live ) 

It o'er once more, and be a page, 

Tlje happy page, who was the lord 

Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 

And had no other gem nor wealth 

Save nature's gift of youth and health. 

We met in secret — doubly sweet. 

Some say, they find it so to meet ; 

I kno\v not that— I would have given 
My life but to have call'd her mine 

In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
For I did oft and long repine 

That we could only meet by stealth. 

YIII. 
" For lovers there are many eyes. 

And such there were on us ; — the devil 

On such occasions should be civil — 
The devil !— I 'm loth to do him wrong, 

It might be some untoward saint. 
Who would not be at rest too long. 

But to his pious bile gave vent- 
But one fair night, some lurking spies 
Surprised and seized us both. 
The Count was something more than wroth — 
I was unarm'd ; but if in steel. 
All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
What 'gainst their numbers could I do? 
'TAvas near his castle, far away 

From city or from succor near. 
And almost on the break of day ; 
I did not think to see another. 

My moments seem'd reduced to few; 
125 



IfAZEPPA. 



And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 

And, it may be, a saint or two, 
As I resi.un'd me to my fate, 
They led me to the castie gate : 

Theresa's doom I never knew, 
Onr lot was henceforth separate. 
An angry man, ye may opine, 
Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
And he had reason good to be, 

But he was most enraged lest such 

An accident should chance to touch 
Upon his future pedigree ; 
Nor less amazed, that such a blot 
His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
"While he was highest of his line : 

Because unto himself he seem'd 
' The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
'Sdeatli ! with a page — perchance a king 
Had reconciled him to the thing; 
But with a stripling of a page — 
I felt, but caimot paint his rage. 

IX. 

"'Bring forth the horse!' — the horse was 
brouglit ; 

In truth, he was a noble steed, 

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
Were in his limbs ; but he was wild. 

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught. 
With spur and bridle undefiled— 

'T was but a day he had been caught ; 
And snorting, with erected mane, 
And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
In the full foam of wrath and dread 
To me the desert-born was led : 
They bound me on, that menial throng, 
Upon his back Avitli many a thong ; 
Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
Torrents less rapid and less rash. 

X. 

" Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone— 
I sav,' not where he hurried on : 
*T was scarcely yet the break of day, 
And on he foam'd — away! — av^'■ay ! — 
The last of human sounds which rose, 
As I was darted from my foes. 
Was the wild shout of savage laugiiter. 
Which on the wind came roaring after 
A moment from that rabble rout; 
With sudden wrath I wrench 'd my head. 
And snapp'd the cord, which to the mane 
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein. 
And, writhing half my form about, 
HowPd back my curse; but 'midst the tread. 
The thunder of my courser's speed, 
Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
It vexes me— for I would fain 
Have paid their insult back again. 
I paid it well in after days : 
There is not of that castle gate. 
Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight, 
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
Xor of its fields a blade of grass, 
Save what grows on a ridge of v;all, 
"Where stood tbe hearth-stone of tlie liall 
And many a time ye there might pass, 
Xor dream that e'er that fortress was. 
I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
Their crackling battlements all cleft. 

And the hot lead pour down like rain 
From off the scorchxl and blackening roof, 
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof, 
They little thought that dav of pain, 
X26 



When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
They bade me to destruction dash, 

That one day I should come again, 
With twice five thousand horse, to thank 

The Count for his uncourteous ride. 
Tliey play'd me tlien a bitter prank, 
When, with the wild horse for my guide, 
They bound me to his foaming flank: 
At length I play'd them one as frank— 
For time at last sets all things even — 

And if we do but watch tlie liour. 

There never yet was human power 
W^hich could evade, if unforgiven, 
Tiie patient search and vigil long 
Of him who treasures up a wrong. 

XI. 

" Away, away, my steed and I, 

Upon the pinions of the wind. 

All human dwellings left behind ; 
We sped like meteors through the sky. 
When with its crackling sound the night 
Is checkered with the northern light : 
Town — village — none were on our track. 

But a wild plain of far extent. 
And bounded by a forest black ; 

And, save the scarce-seen battlement 
On distant heights of some strong hold. 
Against the Tartars built of old, 
Xo trace of man. The year before 
A Turkish army had march'd o'er: 
And where the Spain's hoof hath trod, 
The verdure flies the bloody sod : 
The sky was dull, and dim, and gray. 

And a low breeze crept moaning by — 

I could have answer'd with a sigh — 
But fast we fled, away, away. 
And I could neither sigh nor pray; 
And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
But, snorting still wdth rage and fear, 
He flew upon his far career : 
At times I almost thought, indeed, 
He must have slacken'd in his speed; 
But no — my bound and slender frame 

Was nothing to his angry might. 
And merely like a spur became : 
Each motion which I made to free 
My swoln limbs from their agony 

Increas'd his fury and affright : 
I tried my voice, — 't was faint and low. 
But 5'^et he swerv'd as from a blow; 
And, starting to each accent, sprang 
As from a sudden trumpet's clang : 
Meantime my cords were wet with gore. 
Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er; 
And in my tongue the thirst became 
A something fierier far than flame. 

XII. 

"We near'd the wild wood— 'twas so wide, 

I saw no bounds on either side ; 

'T was studded with old sturdy trees. 

That bent not to the roughest breeze 

Which howls do^^'n from Siberia's waste. 

And strips the forest in its haste, — 

But these were few and far between. 

Set thick with shrubs more young and green, 

Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 

Ere strown by tliose autumnal eves 

That nip the forest's foliage dead, 

Discolor 'd with a lifeless red, 

Which stands thereon like stiften'd gore 

Upon the slain when battle 's o'er, 

And some long winter's night hath shed 

Its frost o'er every tombless liead. 

So cold and stark the raven's beak 



MAZEPPA. 



May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
'Twas a -wild waste of underwood, 
And here and there a chestnut stood, 
The strong oak, and- the hardy pme ; 

But far apart— and w^ell it were, 
Or else a diiferent lot were mine — 

The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
My limbs ; and I found strength t(5*bear 
My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
Left shrubs, and trees, and w^olves behind ; 
By night I heard them on the track, 
Their troop came hard upon our back. 
With their long gallop, which can tire 
The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire: 
Where'er we flew they follow 'd on. 
Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
Behind I saw them, scarce a rood. 
At daybreak winding through the wood, 
And through the night had heard their feet 
Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword. 
At "least to die amidst the horde. 
And perish — if it must be so — 
At bay, destroying many a foe ! 
When first my courser's race begun, 
I wish'd the goal already won ; 
But now I doubted strength and speed. 
Yain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
Had nerved him like the mountain roe ; 
Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
Which whelms the peasant near the door 
Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
Bewilder 'd with the dazzling blast. 
Than through the forest paths he pass'd— 
Untired, untamed, and worse than wild; 
All furious as a favor'd child 
Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
A woman piqued — who has her will. * 

XIII. 

" Tjie wood was pass'd ; 't was more than noon, 

But chill the air, although in June ; 

Or it might be my veins ran cold— 

Prolong'd endurance tames the bold; 

And I was then not Avhat I seem, 

But headlong as a wintry stream, 

And wore my feelings out before 

I well could count their causes o'er : 

And what with fury, fear, and wrath, 

The tortures wdiich Ijeset my path. 

Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress. 

Thus bound in nature's nakedness; 

Sprung from a race whose rising blood 

When stirr'd beyond its calmer mood, 

And trodden hard upon, is like 

The rattlesnake'^, in act to strike. 

What marvel if this worn-out trunk 

Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 

The earth gave way, tlie skies roli'd round, 

I seem'd to sink upon the gromid; 

But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 

My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sore. 

And throbb'd awhile, then beat no more : 

The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 

I saw the trees like drunkards reel. 

And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 

Which saw no farther : he who dies 

Can die no more than then I died. 

O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 

I felt the blackness come and go, 

And strove to wake ; but could not make 
My senses climb up from below : 
I felt as on a plank at sea. 
When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 



At the same time upheave and whelm. 
And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
My undulating life was as 
The fancied lights that flitting pass 
Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
Fever begins upon the brain ; 
But soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
But a confusion worse than such : 
I own that I should deem it much, 
Dying, to feel the same again ; 
And yet I do suppose we must 
Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
No matter; I have bared my brow . 

Full in Death's face — before— and now. ^ 

XIV. 

'■My thoughts came back; v\'here was I? 
Cold, 

And numb, and giddy : pulse by pulse 
Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
And throb by throb,— till grown a pang 

Which for a moment would convulse. 

My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill; 
My ear with imcouth noises rang, 

My heart began once more to thrill; 
My sight return 'd, though dim, alas! 
And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
There was a gleam too of the sky, 
Studded Vvith stars;— it is no dream; 
The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
The bright broad river's gushing tide 
Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
To yon unknown and silent shore. 
The waters broke my hollow trance, 
And with a temporary strength 

My stiffen 'd limbs were rebaptized. 
My courser's broad breast proudly braves, 
And dashes off the ascending waves. 
And onward we advance! 
We reach the slippery sliore at length, 

A haven I but little prized, 
For all behind was dark and drear, 
And all before was night and fear. 
How many hours of night or day 
In those suspended pangs I lay, 
I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
If this were human breath I drew. 



XV. 

"With glossy skin, and dripping mane, 

And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
Tlie wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 

Up the repelling bank. 
We gain the top : a boundless plain 
Spreads through the shadow of the night, 

And onward, onward, onward, seems, 

Like precipices in our dreams. 
To stretch beyond the sight ; 
And here and there a speck of white, 

Or scatter'd spot of dusky green. 
In masses broke into the light. 
As rose the moon upon my right : 

But nought distinctly seen 
In the dim waste would indicate 
The omen of a cottage gate ; 
No twinkling taper from afar 
Stood like a hospitable star; 
Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
To make him merry Avith my woes : 

That very cheat had cheer'd me then I 
Although detected, welcome still, 
Reminding me, through every ill. 

Of the abodes of men. 
127 



3fA ZEPPA, 



XYI. 

" Onward we went— but slack and slow; 

His savage force at length o'erspent, 
The drooping courser, faint and low, 

All feebly foaming went. 
A sickly infant had had power 
To guide him forward in that hour; 

But useless all to me: 
His new-born tameness nought avail'd— 
My limbs were bound: my force had faird, 

Perchance, had tliev been free. 
"With feeble ^effort still I tried 
To rend the bonds so starkly tied, 

But still it was in vain ; 
jSIv limbs were only wrung the m.ore. 
And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 

AVhich but prolonged their pain: 
The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
Although no goal was nearly won : 
Some streaks announced the coming sun — 

How slow, alas I he came ! 
Met h ought tliat mist of dawning gray 
Would never dapple into day ; 
How heavily it roll'd away— 

Before the eastern flame 
Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
And calPd the radiance from their cars, 
And fiird the earth, from his deep throne, 
With lonely lustre, all his own. 

XYII. 

"Up rose the sun: the mists were eurPd 
Back from the solitary world 
Which lay around— behind — ^before. 
AVhat booted it to traverse o'er 
Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
Xor dint of hoof, nor print of foot. 
Lav in the wild luxuriant soil: 
Xo sign of travel— none of toil ; 
The very air was mute : 
And not an insect's shrill sm.all horn, 
Xor matin bird's new voice Avas borne 
From herb nor thicket. Many a werst, 
Panting as if his heart would burst. 
The weary brute still stagger 'd on; 
And still we were — or seem "d— alone. 
At length, while reeling on our way, 
Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
Xo, no ! from out the forest prance 

A trampling troop ; I see them come ! 
In one vast squadron they advance I 

I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
The steeds rush"^ on in plunging pride : 
But where are they the reins to guide? 
A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
With flowing tail, and flying mane. 
Wide nostrils— never stretch'd by pain. 
Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
And feet that iron never shod, 
And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
Like waves that follow o'er the sea. 

Came thickly thundering on, 
As if our faint approach to meet ; 
The sight renerved my courser's feet, 
A moment staggering,' feebly fleet, 
A moment, with a faint low neigh. 

He answer'd, and then fell: 
"With gasps and glazing eyes he lay. 

And reeking limbs immovable, 
His til St and last career is done! 
On came the troop — they saw him stoop, 

They saw me strangely bound along 

His back with many a bloody thong : 
128 



They stop— they start— they snuff the air, 
Gallop a moment here and there. 
Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
Headed by one black mighty steed. 
Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 

Without a single speck or hair 
Of white upon his shaggy hide : 
They snort — they foam^ieigh — swerve aside, 
And backward to the forest fly. 
By instinct, from a human eye. 

They left me there to my despair, 
Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch. 
Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch. 
Believed from that unwonted weiglit. 
From whence I could not extricate 
Xor him nor me — and there we lay, 

The dying on the dead! 
I little deem'd another day 

Would see my houseless, helpless head. 

"And there from morn till twilight bound, 
I felt the heavy hours toil round, 

(IVith just enough of life to see 

J My last of suns go down on me, 

/ In hopeless certainty of mind, 

\ That makes us feel at length resign'd 
To that which our foreboding years 
Present the worst and last of fears : -- 
Inevitable— even a boon, 
Xor more unkind for coming soon, 

.' Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 

^ As if it only were a snare 
That prudence might escape: 
At times both wish'd for and implored. 
At times sought with self-pointed sword. 
Yet still a dark and hideous close 
To even intolerable woes, 

And welcome in no shape. 
And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, 
They who have reveil'd beyond measure 
In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure. 
Die cahn, or calmer, oft tlian he 
Wliose heritage was misery: 
For he who hath in tinrn run through 
All that was beautiful and nev\', 
Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave : 

/ And, save the future (which is view'd 

2^ Not quite as men are base or good. 
But as tlieir nerves maybe endued), 

With nought perhaps' to grieve: 
The wretch still hopes his woes must end. 
And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
Appears, to his distemper'd eyes. 
Arrived to rob him of his prize. 
The tree of his new Paradise. 
To-morrow would have given him all, 
RepaidThis pangs, repair'd his fall : 
' To-morrow would have been the first 
Of days no niore deplored or curst. 
But brigiit, and long, and beckoning years, 
Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
Guerdon of many a painful hour : 
To-morrow would have given him power 
To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
And must it dawn upon his grave ? 

XYIII. 
"The sun was sinking — still I lay 

Chain'd to the chill and stiffening steed ; 
I thought to mingle there our clay: 

And "my dim eyes of death had need, 

]N! o hope arose of being freed : 
I cast my last looks up the sky, 

And there between me and the sun 
I saw the expecting raven fly, 
Yfho scarce would wait till both should die. 



3IAZEPPA. 



Ere his repast begun ; 
He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
And each time nearer than before; 
I saw his wirg through twilight flit, 
And once so near me lie alit 

I could have smote, but lack'd the strength : 
But the slight motion of my hand. 
And feeble scratching of the sand, 
The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 

Together scared him otf at length. 
I know no more — my latest dream 

Is som.ething of a lovely star 

Wliich fix'd my dull eyes from afar. 
And went and came with v^-andering beam, 
And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
Sensation of recurring sense, 

And then subsiding back to death, 

And then again a little breath, 
A little thrill, a short suspense, 

An icy sickness curdling o'er 
My heart, and sparks that cross-d my brain, 
A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 

A sigh, and nothing more. 



XIX. 

" I woke— Where was I ?— Do I see 
A human face look down on me ? 
And doth a roof above me close ? 
Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
Is this a chamber where I lie ? 
And is it mortal 3'on bright eye, 
That watches me with gentle glance ? 

I closed my own again once more, 
As doubtful that my former trance 

Could not as yet be o'er. 
A slender girl, long-liair'd, and tall, 
Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
The sparkle of her eye I cauglit, 
Even with my first return of thought ; 
Eor ever and anon she threw 

A prying, pitying glance on me 

With her black eyes so Avild and free : 
I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 

No vision it could be, — 
But that I lived, and was released 
From adding to the vulture's feast : 
And when the Cossack maid beheld 
My heavy eyes at length unseal'd. 
She smiled— and I essay'd to speak, 

*" Charles, having perceived that the day was lost, and 
that his only chance of safety was to retire with the utmost 
precipitation, suffered himself to be mounted on horseback, 
and with the remains of his array fled to a place called Pere- 
woloehna, situated in the angle formed by the junction of the 
Vorskla and the Borysthenes. Here, accompanied by Ma- 
zeppa, and a few hundreds of his followers, Chai'les swam over 
the latter great river, and proceeding over a desolate country, 
in danger of perishing with hunger, at length reached the 



But fail'd— and she approach'd, and made 

AVith lip and finger signs that said, 
I must not strive as yet to break 
The silence, till my strength should be 
Enough to leave my accents free ; 
And then her hand on mine she laid. 
And smooth 'd the pillow for my head. 
And stole along on tiptoe tread. 

And gently oped the door, and spake 
In whispers— ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
Even music followed her light feet ; 

But those she call'd were not awake. 
And she went forth; but, ere she pass'd, 
Another look on me she cast. 

Another sign she made, to say. 
That I had nought to fear, that all 
Were near, at my command or call, 

And she would not delay 
Her due return: — while she was gone, 
Methought I felt too much alone. 

XX. 

" She came with mother and with sire — 
What need of more V— I will not tire 
With long recital of the rest. 
Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
They found me senseless on the plain-- 

They bore me to the nearest hut— 
They brought me into life again— 
Me^one day o'er their realm to reign 1 

Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
His rage, refining on my pain. 

Sent' me forth to the wilderness. 
Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone. 
To pass the desert to a throne,— 

What mortal his own doom may guess ? 

Let none despond, let none despair I 
To-morrow the Borysthenes 
May see our coursers graze at ease 
Upon his Turkish bank,— and never 
Had I such welcome for a river 

As I shall yield when safely there.* 
Comrades, good-night ! "—The Hetman threw 

His length beneath the oak-tree shade. 

With leafy couch already made, 
A bed nor comfortless nor new 
To him, who took his rest whene'er 
The hour arrived, no matter where: 

His eyes the hastening slumbers steep. 
And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
To thank his tale, he wonder 'd not,— 

The King had been an hour asleep. f 

Bog, where he was kindly received by the Turkish paclia. 
The Russian envoy at the Sublime Porte demanded that Ma- 
zeppa should be delivered up to Peter ; but the old Hetman 
of the Cossacks escaped this fate by taking a disease which 
hastened his death,"— Babrow's Peter the Great, pp. 196-203, 
+ It is impossible not to suspect that the poet had some cir- 
cumstances of his own personal history in his mind, when he 
portrayed the fair Polish Theresa, her youthful lover, and tbe 
jealous rage of the old Count Palatine, 




Ancient Macedonian Coin. 
Struck to commemorate the virtues of the hors«. 



129 



THE ISLAND; 



OR, 



Christian ixn& his (Homxix&t^^ 



AD VEE TISEMENT. 



THE foundation of the following story will be found 
partly in Lieutenant Bligh's "Narrative of the 
Mutiny and Seizure of the Bounty, in the South Seas, 



in 1789;" and partly in "Mariner's Account of the 
Tonga Islands."* 
Genoa, 1823. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 



The morning watch was come ; the vessel lay 
Her course, and gently made her liquid way; 
The cloven billow flash 'd from off her prow 
In furrows form'd by that majestic plough ; 
The waters with their world were all before ; 
Behind, the South Sea's many an islet shore. 
The quiet night, now dappling, 'gan to wane, 
Dividing darkness from the dawning main ; 
The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray ; 
The stars from broader beams began to creep, 
And lift their shining eyelids from the deep ; 
The sail resumed its lately shadow'd white. 
And the wind flutter 'd with a freshening flight ; 
The purpling ocean owns the coming sun, 
But ere he break— a deed is to be done. 

II. 

The gallant chief within his cabin slept, 
Secure in those by whom the watch was kept : 
His dreams were of Old England's welcome shore, 
Of toils rewarded, and of dangers o'er ; 
His name was added to the glorious roll 
Of those who search the storm-surrounded Pole. 
The worst was over, and the rest seem'd sure,t 
And why should not his slumber be secure ? 
Alas ! his deck was trod by unwilling feet. 
And wilder hands would hold the vessel's sheet ; 
Young hearts, which languish 'd for some sunny isle, 
Where summer years and summer women smile ; 
Men without country, who, too long estranged, 
Had found no native home, or found it changed, 
And, half uncivilized, preferr'd the cave 
Of some soft savage to the uncertain wave — 
The gushing fruits that nature gave untill'd : 
The wood without a path but where they v/ill'd ; 

* For complete and very interesting details of the past and 
present condition of the descendants of the mutineers of the 
*' Bounty," during nearly the century they have lived at 
Pitcairn's Island, see Lady Belcher's "The Mutineers of 
the Bounty and their Descendants in Pitcairn and Norfolk 
Islands." London and New York, 1871. 
130 



The field o'er which promiscuous Plenty pour'd 

Her horn ; the equal land without a lord ; 

The wish — which ages have not yet subdued 

In man — ^to have no master save his mood ; 

The earth, whose mine was on its face, unsold. 

The glowing sun and produce all its gold ; 

The freedom which can call each grot a home ; 

The general garden, where all steps may roam. 

Where Nature owns a nation as her child, 

Exulting in the enjoyment of the wild ; 

Their shells, their fruits, the only wealth they know, 

Their unexploring navy, tlie canoe ; 

Their sport, the dashing breakers and the chase ; 

Their strangest sight, an European face : — 

Such was the country which these strangers yearn 'd 

To see again ; a sight they dearly earn'd. 

III. 

Awake, bold Bligh ! the foe is at the gate ! 

Awake ! awake ! Alas ! it is too late ! 

Fiercely beside thy cot the mutineer 
Stands, and proclaims the reign of rage and fear. 
Thy limbs are bound, the bayonet at thy breast ; 
The hands, which trembled at thy voice, arrest ; 
Dragg'd o'er the deck, no more'al thy command 
The obedient helm shall veer, the sail expand ; 
That savage spirit, which would lull by wrath 
Its desperate escape from duty's path. 
Glares round thee, in the scarce believing eyes 
Of those who fear the chief they sacrifice: 
For ne'er can man his conscience all assuage, 
Unless he drain the wine of passion— rage. 

lY. 

In vain, not silenced by the eye of death. 
Thou call'st the loyal with thy menaced breath :^ 
They come not ; they are few, and, overawed. 
Must acquiesce, while sterner hearts applaud. 
In vain thou dost demand the cause : a curse 
Is all the answer, with the threat of worse. 
Full in thine eyes is waved the glittering blade, 
Close to thy throat the pointed bayonet laid. 



+ " A few hours before, my situation had been peculiarly 
flattering-: I had a ship in the most perfect order, stored 
with every necessary, both for health and service ; the ob- 
ject of the voyage was attained, and two-thirds of it now 
completed. The remaining part had every prospect of suc- 
cess." 



CANTO T. 



THE ISLAND, 



V.-IX, 



The levell'd nmskets circle round thy breast 

111 hands as steePd to do the deadly rest. 

Thou darest them to their worst, exclaiming— 

"Fire!" 
But they who pitied not could yet admire ; 
Some lurking remnant of their former awe 
Restrain'd them longer than their broken law; 
They would not dip their souls at once in blood, 
But left thee to the mercies of the flood.^ 

y. 

" Hoist out the boat ! " was now the leader's cry ; 

And who dare answer " No ! " to Mutiny, 

In the first dawning of the drunken hour, 

The Saturnalia of unhoped-for power ? 

The boat is lower'd with all the haste of hate, 

"With its slight plank between thee and thy fate ; 

Her only cargo such a scant suj)ply 

As promises the. death their hands deny; 

And just enough of water and of bread 

To keep, some days, the dying from the dead : 

Some cordage, canvas, sails, and lines, and tv/ine. 

But treasures all to hermits of tlie brine. 

Were added after, to the earnest prayer 

Of those who saw no hope, save sea and air; 

And last, that trembling vassal of the Pole — 

The feeling compass— Navigation's soul.f 

YI. 

And now the self-elected chief finds time 

To stun the first sensation of his crime, 

And raise it in his followers—" Ho ! the bowl ! " J 

Lest passion should return to reason's shoal. 

" Brandy for heroes ! '' Burke could once exclaim — 

No doubt a liquid path to epic fame ; 

And such the new-born heroes found it here. 

And drain 'd the draught with an applauding cheer. 

*' Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry. 

How strange such shouts from sons of Mutiny ! 

The gentle island, and the genial soil. 

The friendly hearts, the feasts witliout a toil. 

The courteous manners but from nature caught. 

The wealth unhoarded, and the love unbought ; 

Could these have charms for rudest sea-boys, driven 

Before the mast by every wind of heaven V 

And now, even now prepared with others' woes 

To earn mild Virtue's vain desire, repose ? 

Alas ! such is our nature ! all but aim 

At the same end by pathways not the same ; 

Our means, our birth, our nation, and our name, 

Our fortune, temper, even our outward frame. 

Are far more potent o'er our yielding clay 

Than aught we know beyond our little day. 

Yet still there whispers the small voice within. 

Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's 

din: 
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, 
Man's conscience is the oracle of God. 

YII. 

The launch is crowded with the faithful few 
Who wait their chief, a melancholy crew : 



* " Just before sunrise, while I was yet asleep, Mr. Chris- 
tian, with the master-at-arms, gunner's mate, and Thomas 
Burkitt, seaman, came into my cabin, and, seizing me, tied 
my hands with a cord behind my back, threatening me with 
instant death, if I spoke or made the least noise. 1 neverthe- 
less called out as loud as I could, in hopes of assistance ; but 
the officers not of their party were already secured by sen- 
tinels at their doors. At my own cabin door were three men, 
besides the four within : all except Christian had muskets and 
bayonets ; he had only a cutlass. I was dragged out of bed, 
and forced on deck in my shirt. On demanding the reason 
of such violence, the only answer was abuse for not holding 
my tongue. The boatswain was then ordered to hoist out the 
launch, accompanied by a threat, if he did not do it instantly, 
to take care of himself. The boat being hoisted out, Mr. 



But some remain'd reluctant on the deck 

Of that proud vessel' — now a moral wreck — 

And view'd their captain's fate with piteous eyes : 

While others scoff 'd his augur'd miseries, 

Sneer 'd at the prospect of his pigmy sail. 

And the slight bark so laden and so frail. 

The tender nautilus, who steers his prow, 

The sea-born sailor of his shell canoe, 

The ocean Mab, the fairy of the sea. 

Seems far less fragile, and, alas ! more free. 

He, when the lightning-win g'd tornadoes sweep 

The surge, is safe — his port is in the deep — 

And triumphs o'er the armadas of mankind, 

Which shake the world, yet crumble in the wind. 

yiii. 

When all was now prepared, the vessel clear, 
Which hail'd lier master in the mutineer, 
A seaman, less obdurate than his mates, 
Show'd the vain pity which but irritates ; 
Watch'd his late chieftain with exploring eye, 
And told, in signs, repentant sympathy ; 
Held the moist shaddock to his parched mouth. 
Which felt exhaustion's deep and bitter drouth : 
But soon observed, this guardian was withdrawn, 
Nor further mercy clouds rebellion's dawn. 
Then forward stepp'd the bold and froward boy 
His chief had cherish 'd only to destroy, 
And, pointing to the helpless prow beneath, 
Exclaim'd, " Depart at once ! delay is death ! " 
Yet then, even then, his feelings ceased not all : 
In that last moment could a w^ord recall 
Eemorse for the black deed as yet half done. 
And what he hid from many show'd to one : 
When Bligh in stern reproach demanded where 
Was now his grateful sense of former care ? 
Wliere all his hopes to see his name aspire. 
And blazon Britain's thousand glories higher ? 
His feverish lips thus broke their gloomy spell, 
" 'Tis that ! 't is that ! I am in hell ! in hell ! " 
No more he said ; but urging to the bark 
llis chief, commits him to his fragile ark ; 
These the sole accents from his tongue that fell, 
But volumes lurk'd below his fierce farewell. 

IX. 

The arctic sun rose broad above the wave ; 
The breeze now sank, now whisper'd from his cave ; 
As on the ^olian harp, his fitful wings 
Now swell'd, now flutter'd o'er his ocean strings. 
With slow, despairing oar, the abandon'd skiff 
Ploughs its drear progress to the scarce-seen cliff, 
Which lifts its peak a cloud above the main : 
Tliat boat and ship shall never meet again ! 
But 't is not mine to tell their tale of grief. 
Their constant peril, and their scant relief ; 
Their days of danger, and their nights of pain ; 
Their manly courage even when deem'd in vain; 
The sapping famine, rendering scarce a son 
Known to his mother in the skeleton ; 
The ills that lessen'd still their little store. 
And starved even Hunger till he wrung no more ; 



Heyward and Mr. Hallet, two of the midshipmen, and Mr. 
Samuel, the clerk, were ordered into it. I demanded the in- 
tention of giving this order, and endeavored to persuade the 
people near me not to persist in such acts of violence ; but it 
was to no effect : for the constant answer was, ' Hold your 
tongue, or you are dead this moment ! ' " 

+ " The boatsAvain and those seamen who were to be put 
into the boat were allowed to collect twine, canvas, lines, 
sails, cordage, an eight-and-twenty gallon caslc of water ; and 
Mr. Samuel got one hundred and fifty pounds of bread, with 
a small quantity of rum and wine ; also a quadrant and com- 
pass." 

% " The mutineers having thus forced those of the seamen 
whom they wished to get rid of into the boat. Christian di- 
rected a di-am to be served to each of his crew."— Bligh. 
131 



CANTO II. 



THE ISLAND, 



I.-IY. 



The varying frowns and favors of the deep, 
That now almost ingulfs, then leaves to creep 
With crazy oar and shatter'd strength along 
The tide that yields reluctant to the strong ; 
The incessant fever of that arid thirst 
A\^hich welcomes, as a well, the clouds that burst 
Above their naked bones, and feels delight 
In the cold drenching of the stormy night, 
And from the outspread canvas gladly wrings 
A drop to moisten life's all-gasping springs ; 
The savage foe escaped, to seek again 
More hospitable shelter fi'om the main ; 
The gliastly spectres which were doom'd at last 
To tell as true a tale of dangers past, 
As ever the dark annals of the deep 
Disclosed for man to dread or woman weep. 

X. 

We leave them to their fate, but not unknowTi 
Xor unredress'd. Revenge may have her own : 
lioused discipline aloud proclaims their cause, 
And injured navies urge their broken laws. 
Pursue we on his track the mutineer, 
AVhom distant vengeance had not taught to fear. 
Wide o'er the wave — away! away ! away ! 
Once more his eyes shall hail the welcome bay ; 
Once more the liappy shores without a law 
Receive the outlaws whom they lately sav/ : 
Xature, and Nature's goddess — woman— woos 
To lands where, save their conscience, none accuse ; 
Where all partake the earth without dispute. 
And bread itself is gather'd as a fruit ; * 
Where none contest the fields, the woods, the 

streams : — 
The goldless age, where gold disturbs no dreams. 
Inhabits or inhabited the shore. 
Till Europe taught them better than before : 
Bestow'd her customs, and amended theirs, 
But left her vices also to their heirs. 
Away with this ! behold them as they were, 
Do good with Nature, or with Nature err. 
" Huzza ! for Otaheite ! " was the cry, 
As stately swept the gallant vessel by. 
Tiie breeze springs up ; the lately flapping sail 
Extends its arch before the growing gale; 
In swifter ripples stream aside the seas, 
Which her bold bow flings oif with dashing ease, 
Thus Argo t plough 'd the Euxine's virgin foam, 
]>ut those she wafted still look'd back to home : 
These spurn their country with their rebel bark. 
And fly her as the raven fled the ark ; 
And yet they seek to nestle with the dove. 
And tame their fiery spirits down to love. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



How pleasant were the songs of Toobonai,t 
When summer's sun went down the coral bay ! 
Come, let us to the islet's softest shade. 
And hear the warbling birds ! the damsels said 
The wood-dove from the forest depth shall coo, 
Like voices of the gods from Bolotoo ; 



* The now celebrated bread-fruit, to transplant ■which Caj)- 
taia Bligh's expedition was undertaken. 

+ The vessel in which Jason embarked in quest of the 
golden fleece. 

t The fli-st three sections are taken from an actual song of 
132 



We '11 cull the flowers that grow above the dead, 
Eor these most bloom where rests the warrior's head ; 
And we will sit in twilight's face, and see 
The sweet moon glancing through the tooa tree, 
The lofty accents of whose sighing bough 
Shall sadly please us as we lean below ; 
Or climb the steep, and view the surf in vain 
Wrestle with rocky giants o'er the main, 
Which spurn in columns back the baffled spray. 
How beautiful are these ! how happy they. 
Who, from the toil and tumult of their lives. 
Steal to look down where nought but ocean strives 1 
Even he too loves at times the blue lagoon. 
And smooths his ruffled mane beneath the moon. 

II. 

Yes— from the sepulchre we '11 gather flowers, 
Then feast like spirits in their promised bowers. 
Then plunge and revel in the rolling surf. 
Then lay our limbs along the tender turf. 
And, wet and shining from the sportive toil. 
Anoint our bodies with tlie fragrant oil. 
And plait our garlands gather'd from tlie grave, 
And wear the wreaths that sprung from out the 

brave. 
But lo ! night comes, the Mooa woos us back. 
The sound of mats are heard along our track ; 
Anon the torchlight dance shall fling its sheen 
In flashing mazes o'er the Marly 's green ; 
And we too will be there ; we too recall 
Tlie memory bright v^^ith many a festival. 
Ere Fiji blew the shell of war, when foes 
For the first time w^ere wafted in canoes. 
Alas ! for them the flower of mankind bleeds ; 
Alas ! for them our fields are rank with weeds : 
Forgotten is the rapture, or unknown. 
Of wandering with the moon and love alone. 
But be it so : — they taught us how to wield 
The club, and rain our arrows o'er the field : 
Now let them reap the harvest of their art I 
But feast to-night! to-morrow we depart. 
Strike up the dance I the cava bowd fill high I 
Drain every drop ! — ^to-morrow we may die. 
In summer garments be our limbs array'd ; 
Around our waists the tappa's white display 'd; 
Thick wreaths shall form our coronal, like spring's. 
And round our necks shall glance the hooni strings ; 
So shall their brighter hues contrast the glow 
Of the dusk bosoms that beat high below. 

III. 

But now^ the dance is o'er — yet stay awhile; 
Ah, pause ! nor yet put out the social smile. 
To-inorrow for the Mooa we dei)art, ' 
But not to-night— to-night is for the heart. 
Again bestow the wreaths we gently woo, 
Ye young enchantresses of gay Licoo ! 
How lovely are your forms ! how every sense 
Bows to your beauties, softeu'd, but intense. 
Like to the flowers on Mataloco's steep. 
Which fling their fragrance far athwart the deep !— 
We too will see Licoo ; but— oh ! my heart !— 
What do I say ? — to-morrow we depart ! 

IV. 

Thus rose a song— the harmony of tim.es 

Before the winds blew Europe o'er these climes. 

True, tliey had vices — such are Nature's growth— 

But only the barbarian's— we have both : 

The sordor of civilization, mix'd 

With aU the savage which man's fall hath fix'd. 



the Tonga Islanders, of which a prose translation is given in 
" Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands." Toobonai is nut, 
however, one of them ; but was one of those where Christian 
and the mutineers took refuge. I have altered and added, 
but have retained as much as possible of the original. 



CANTO IT. 



THE ISLAND, 



v.-viir. 



Who hath not seen Dissimulation's reign, 
The prayers of Abel liuk'd to deeds of Cain ? 
Who such would see may from his lattice view 
The Old World more degraded than the Xew, — 
Now neio no more, save where Columbia rears 
Twin giants, born by Freedom to her spheres, 
Wliere Chimborazo, over air, earth, wave. 
Glares with his Titan eye, and sees no slave. 

y. 

Such was this ditty of Tradition's days. 
Which to the dead a lingering fame conveys 
In song, where fame as yet hath left no sign 
Beyond the sound whose charm is half divine; 
Whicli leaves no record to the skeptic eye, 
But yields young history all to harmony ; 
A boy Achilles, with the centaur's lyre 
In hand, to teach him to surpass his sire. 
For one long-cherish 'd ballad's simple stave. 
Bung from the rock, or mingled with the wave, 
Or from the bubbling streamlet's grassy side, 
Or gathering mountain echoes as they glide, 
Hath greater power o'er each true heart and ear, 
Than all the columns Conquest's minions rear ; 
Invites, when hieroglj^phics are a theme 
For sages' labors or the student's dream ; 
Attracts, when History's volumes are a toil,— 
The first, the freshest bud of Feeling's soil. 
Such was this rude rhyme — ^rhyme is of the rude — 
But such inspired the Norseman's solitude, 
Who came and conquer 'd ; such, wherever rise 
Lands which no foes destroy or civilize, 
Exist : and what can our accomplish 'd art 
Of verse do more than reach the awaken'd heart ? 

VI. 

And sweetly now those untaught melodies 

Broke the luxurious silence of the skies, 

The sweet siesta of a summer day, 

The tropic afternoon of Toobonai, 

Y»^hen every flower was bloom, aud air was balm, 

And the first breath began to stir the palm, 

Tlie first yet voiceless wind to urge the wave 

All gently to refresh the thirsty cave, 

"Where sate the songstress with the stranger boy. 

Who taught her passion's desolating joy. 

Too powerful over every heart, but most 

O'er those who know not how it may be lost ; 

O'er those who, burning in the new-born fire, 

Like m.artyrs revel in their funeral pyre, 

With such devotion to their ecstasy. 

That life knows no such rapture as to die : 

And die they do ; for earthly life has nought 

ZSIatch'd with that burst of nature, even in thought 

And all our dreams of better life above 

But close in one eternal gush of love. 

YII. 

There sate the gentle savage of the wild. 
In growth a woman, though in years a child, 
As childhood dates within our colder clime. 
Where nought is ripen'd rapidly save crime ; 
The infant of an infant world, as pure 
From nature — lovely, warm, and prema,ture; 
Dusky like night, but night with all her stars ; 
Or cavern sparkling with its native spars ; 
With eyes that were a language and a spell, 
A form like Aphrodite's in her shell. 



*Tlie "ship of the desert" is the Oriental figure for the 
camel or dromedary ; and they deserve the metaphor -well,— 
the former for his endurance, the latter for his swiftness. 

+ "Lucullus, when frugality could charm, 
Had roasted turnips in the Sabine farm."— Pope. 

t The consul Nero, who made the unequalled march which 
deceived Hannibal, and defeated Asdrubal ; therebv accom- 
plishing an achievement almost unrivalled in military an- 



With all her loves around her on the deep. 

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep ; 

Yet full of life— for through her tropic cheek 

The blush would make its way, and all but speak ; 

The sun-born blood suffused her neck, and threw 

O'er her clear nut-bro^^TL skin a lucid hue, 

Like coral reddening through the darken'd wave. 

Which draws the diver to the crimson cave. 

Such was this daughter of the southern seas. 

Herself a billow in her energies, 

To bear the bark of others' happiness, 

Xor feel a sorrow till their joy grev/ less : 

Her wild and warm yet faithful bosom knev*^ 

Xo joy like what it gave ; her hopes ne'er drew 

Aught from experience, that chill touchstone, 

whose 
Sad proof reduces all things from their hues : 
She fear'd no ill, because she knew it not. 
Or what she knew was soon — too soon — forgot : 
Her smiles and tears had pass'd, as light winds pass 
O'er lakes to ruffie, not destroy, their glass, 
Whose depths unsearch'd, and fountains from the 

hill. 
Restore their surface, in itself so still. 
Until the earthquake tear the naiad's cave. 
Root up the spring, and trample on the wave, 
And crush the living waters to a mass, 
The amphibious desert of the dank morass ! 
And must their fate be hers ? The eternal change 
But grasps humanity with quicker range ; 
And they who fall but fall as worlds will fall, 
To rise, if just, a spirit o'er them all. 

VIII. 

And who is he ? the blue-eyed northern child 

Of isles more known to man, but^scarce less wild; 

The fair-hair'd offspring of the Hebrides 

Where roars the Fentland with its whirling seas ; 

Rock'd in his cradle by the roaring wind. 

The tempest-born in body and in mind, 

His young eyes opening on the ocean foam, 

Had from that moment deem'd the deep his hon:e. 

The giant comrade of his pensive moods, 

The sharer of his craggy solitudes. 

The only Mentor of his youth, where'er 

His bark was borne ; the sport of wave and air ; 

A careless thing, v/ho placed hi& choice in chance, 

Cursed by the legends of his land's romance ; 

Eager to hope, but not less firm to bear. 

Acquainted with all feelings save despair. 

Placed in the Arab's clime, he would have been 

As bold a rover as the sands have seen, 

And braved their thirst with as enduring lip 

As Ishmael, wafted on his desert-ship ; * 

Fix'd upon Chili's shore, a proud cacique; 

On Hellas' mountains, a rebellious Greek ; 

Born in a tent, perhaps a Tamerlane ; 

Bred to a throne, perhaps unfit to reign. 

For the same soul that rends its path to sway, 

If rear'd to such, can find no further prey 

Beyond itself, and must retrace its way,t 

Plunging for pleasure into pain : the same 

Spirit which made a iS'ero, Rome's worst shame, 

A humbler state and discipline of heart. 

Had form'd his glorious namesake's counterpart;! 

But grant his vices, grant them all his own. 

How small their theatre without a throne ! 



nals. The first intelligence of his return, to Hannibal, was 
the sight of Asdrubal' s head thrown into his camp. When 
Hannibal saw this, he exclaimed with a sigh, that "Rome 
would now be the mistress of the world." And yet to this 
victory of Nero's it might be owing that his imperial name- 
sake reigned at all. But the infamy of the one has eclipsed 
the glory of the other. When the name of " Nero " is heai-d, 
who thinks of the consul?— But such are human things! 

133 



CANTO II. 



THE ISLAND, 



IX.-XIII. 



IX. 

Thou smilest : — these comparisons seem high 

To those who scan all things with dazzled eye ; 

Link'd with tlie unknown name of one whose doom 

Has nought to do with glory or with Kome, 

With Clnli, Hellas, or with Araby ; — 

Thou smilest ?— Smile ; 't is better thus than sigh ; 

Yet such he might have been ; he was a man, 

A soaring spirit, ever in the van, 

A patriot hero or despotic chief. 

To form a nation's glory or its grief, 

Born under auspices which make us more 

Or less than we delight to ponder o'er. 

But these are visions ; say, what was he here ? 

A blooming boy, a truant mutineer. 

The fair-hair'd'Torquil, free as ocean's spray, 

The husband of the bride of Toobonai. 

X. 

By Xeuha's side he sate, and watch 'd the waters,— 
,Neuha, the sun-tlower of the island daughters. 
High-born (a birtli at which the herald smiles. 
Without a scutcheon for these secret isles). 
Of a long race, the valiant and the free, 
Tiie naked knights of savage chivalry, 
Whose grassy cairns ascend along the shore ; 
And thine — I 've seen — Achilles ! do rio more. 
She, when the thunder-bearing strangers came. 
In vast canoes, begirt with bolts of flame, 
Topp'd with tall trees, which, loftier tlian the palm, 
Seem'd rooted in the deep amidst its calm : 
But wdien the winds awaken'd, shot forth wings 
Broad as the cloud along the horizon flings, 
And sway'd the waves like cities of the sea. 
Making the very billows look less free ; — 
She, with her paddling oar and dancing prow, 
Shot through the surf, like reindeer through the 

snow. 
Swift gliding o'er the breaker's whitening edge. 
Like as a nereid in her ocean sledge. 
And gazed and wonder \1 at the giant liulk. 
Which heaved from wave to w^ave its trampling 

bulk: 
The anchor dropp'd ; it lay along the deep, 
Like a huge lion in the sun asleep. 
While round it swarm'd the proas' flitting chain. 
Like summer bees that hum around his mane. 

XI. 

The white man landed I— need tlie rest be told ? 
The iSTew World stretch 'd its dusk hand to the 

Old; 
Each was to each a marvel, and the tie 
Of wonder warm'd to better sympathy. 
Kind was the welcome of the sun-born sires. 
And kinder still their daughters' gentler flres. 
Their union grew : the children of the storm 
Found beauty link'd with many a dusky form ; 
While these in turn admired the paler glow, 
Which seem'd so white in climes that knew no snow. 
The chase, the race, the liberty to roam, 
Tlie soil where every cottage show'd a home ; 
The sea-spread net, the lightly-launcli'd canoe, 
Which stemm'd the studded archipelago. 
O'er whose blue bosom rose the starry isles ; 
The healthy slumber, earn'd by sportive toils; 
The palm, the loftiest dryad of the woods. 
Within whose bosom infant Bacchus broods, 
While eagles scarce build higher than the crest 
Which shadows o'er tlie vineyard in her breast ; 



* When very young-, about eig-ht years of age, after an 
attack of tlie scarlet-fever at Aberdeen, I was removed by 
medical ad\^ce into the Highlands. Here I passed occasion- 
ally some summers, and from this period I date my love of 
mountainous countries. I can never forget the effect, a few 
joiirs afterwards, in England, of the only thing I had long 
134 



The cava feast, the yam, the cocoa's root, 
AV^hicli bears at once the cup, and milk, and fruit ; 
The bread-tree, which, without the ploughshare, 

yields 
The unieap'd harvest of unfurrow'd fields, 
And bakes its unadulterated loaves 
Without a furnace in unpurchased groves. 
And flings otf famine from its fertile breast, 
A priceless market for the gathering guest ;— 
These, with tlie luxuries of seas and woods. 
The airy joys of social solitudes, 
Tamed each rude wanderer to the sympatliies 
Of those who were more hcippy, if less wise. 
Did more than Europe's discipline had done, 
And civilized Civilization's son ! 

XII. 

Of these, and there was many a willing pair, 
Neulia and Torquil were not the least fair : 
Both children of the isles, though distant far; 
Both born beneath a sea-presiding star ; 
Both nourish 'd amidst nature's native scenes. 
Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
Between us and our childhood's sympathy. 
Which still reverts to what first caught tlie eye. 
He wlio first met the Highlands' swelling blue 
Will love each peak tliat shows a kindred hue, 
Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face, 
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
Long have I roam'd through lands which are not 

mine. 
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine, 
Eevered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep: 
But 't was not all long ages' lore, nor all 
Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall; 
The infant rapture still survived the boy. 
And Loch-na-gar with Ida look'd o'er Troy,- 
Mix'd Celtic memories with the Plirygian mount, 
And Highland linns with Castalie's clear fount. 
Forgive'me, Homer's universal shade ! 
Forgive me, Phoebus ! that my fancy stray 'd ; 
The north and nature taught me to adore 
Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 

XIII. 

The love which maketh all things fond and fair. 
The youth which makes one rainbow of tlie air. 
The dangers p^ast, that make even man enjoy 
The pause in which he ceases to destroy, 
The mutual beauty, which the sternest feel 
Strike to their hearts -like lightning to the steel, 
United the half savage and the whole, 
The maid and boy, in one absorbing soul. 
No more the thundering memory of the figlit 
Wrapp'd his wean'd bosom in its dark delight; 
No more the irksome restlessness of rest 
Disturb'd him like the eagle in her nest. 
Whose whetted beak and far-pervading e5^e 
Darts for a victim over all the sky : 
His heart was tamed to that voluptuous state. 
At once Elysian and effeminate. 
Which leaves no laurels o'er the hero's urn ;— 
These wither when for aught save blood they burn ; 
Yet when their ashes in their nook are laid. 
Doth not the myrtle leave as sweet a shade ? 
Had Cfesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Home had been free, tlie world had not been his. 
And what have Ciesar's deeds and Csesar's fame 
Done for the earth ? We feel them in our shame : 



seen, even in miniature, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. 
After I returned to Cheltenham, I used to watch them every 
afternoon, at sunset, with a sensation which I cannot de- 
scribe. This was boyish enough; but I was then only thir- 
teen years of age, and it was in the holidays. 



CANTO II. 



THE ISLAND. 



XIV.-XIX. 



Tiie gory sanction of his glory stains 
The rust which tyrants cherish on our chains. 
Though Glory, Nature, Reason, Freedom, bid 
Housed millions do what single Brutus did,— 
Sweep these mere mock-birds of the despot's song 
From the tall bough where they have perch'd so 

long,— 
Still are we hawk'd at by such mousing owls, 
And take for falcons those ignoble fowls, 
^Vhen but a word of freedom would dispel 
These bugbears, as their terrors show too well. 

XIY. 

Rapt in the fond forgetfulness of life, 
Neuha, the South Sea girl, was all a wife, 
With no distracting world to call her off 
From love ; with no society to scoff 
At the new transient flame ; no babbling crowd 
Of coxcombry in admiration loud, 
Or with adulterous whisper to alloy 
Her duty, and her glory, and her joy: 
With faith and feelings naked as her form, 
She stood as stands a rainbow in a storm, 
Changing its hues with bright variety. 
But still expanding lovelier o'er the sky, 
Ilowe'er its arch may swell, its colors move. 
The cloud-compelling harbinger of love. 

XY. 

Here, in this grotto of the wave-worn shore. 
They pass'd the tropic's red meridian o'er; 
Nor long the hours — they never paused o'er time, 
Unbroken by the clock's funereal chime, 
Which deals the daily pittance of our si>an. 
And points and mocks with iron laugh at man. 
What deem'd they of the future or the past ? 
The present, like a tyrant, held them fast : 
Their hour-glass was the sea-sand, and the tide. 
Like her smooth billow, saw their moments glide : 
Tlieir clock the sun, in his unbounded tow'r ; 
They reckon'd not, whose day was but an hour ; 
The niglitingale, their only vesper-bell. 
Sung sweetly to the rose the day's farewell ; ^ 
The broad sun set, but not with lingering sweep, 
As in the north he mellows o'er the deep ; 
But fiery, full, and fierce, as if he left 
The world for ever, earth of light bereft, 
Plunged with red forehead down along the wave, 
As dives a hero headlong to his grave. 
Then rose they, looking first along the skies. 
And then for light into each other's eyes, 
Wondering that summer show'd so brief a sun, 
And asking if indeed the day were done. 

XYI. 

And let not this seem strange : the devotee 

Lives not in earth, but in his ecstasy ; 

Around him days and worlds are heedless driven, 

His soul is gone before his dust to iieaven. 

Is love less potent ? No— his path is trod. 

Alike, uplifted gloriously to God ; 

Or link'd to all we know of heaven below. 

The other better self, whose joy or woe 

Is more than ours; the all-absorbing flame 

Which, kindled by another, grov,^s the same, 

A\^rapt in one blaze ; the pure, yet funeral pile. 

Where gentle hearts, like Bramins, sit and smile. 

How often we forget all time, wlien lone. 

Admiring Nature's universal throne, 

Her woods, her wilds, her waters, the intense 

Reply of hers to our intelligence ! 



* The now •well-known story of the loves of the nighting-ale 
and rose need not be more than alluded to, being- sufficiently 
familiar to the western as to the eastern reader. 

t If the reader will apply to his ear the sea-shell on his 
chimney-piece, he will be aware of what is alluded to. If the 



Live not the stars and mountains ? Are the waves 
Without a spirit ? Are the dropping caves 
Without a feeling in their silent tears ? 
No, no ; — they woo and clasp us to their spheres, 
Dissolve this clog and clod of clay before 
Its hour, and merge our soul in the great shore. 
Strip oJff this fond and false identity ! — 
Wiio thinks of self, when gazing on the sky ? 
And who, though gazing lower, ever thought. 
In the young moments ere the heart is taught 
Time's lesson, of man's baseness or his own ? 
All nature is his realm, and love his throne. 

XYII. 

Neuha arose, and Torquil : twilight's hour 
Came sad and softly to their rocky bower. 
Which, kindling by degrees its dewy spars, 
Echo'd their dim light to the mustering stars. 
Slowly the pair, partaking nature's calm. 
Sought out their cottage, built beneath the palm ; 
Now smiling and now silent, as the scene ; 
Lovely as Love — the spirit !— when serene. 
The Ocean scarce spoke louder witli his swell, 
Than breathes his mimic murmurer in the sliell,t. 
As, far divided from his parent deep. 
The sea-born infant cries, and will not sleep, 
Raising his little plaint in vain, to rave 
For the broad bosom of his nursing wave : 
The vroods droop'd darkly, as inclined to rest, 
The tropic bird v/heel'd rockward to his nest. 
And the blue sky spread round them like a lake 
Of peace, where Piety her thirst might slake. 

XYTII. 

But through the palm and plantain, hark, a voice!' 

Not such as would have been a lover's clioice. 

In such an hour, to break the air so still ; 

No dying night-breeze, harping o'er the hill. 

Striking the strings of nature, rock and tree. 

Those best and earliest lyres of harmony. 

With Echo for their chorus ; nor tlie alarm 

Of the loud war-wlioop to dispel the cliarm ; 

Nor the soliloquy of the hermit owl, 

Exhaling all his solitary soul, 

The dim though large-eyed v.inged anchorite, 

Who peals his dreary paean o'er the night ; 

But a loud, long, and naval whistle, shrill 

As ever started through a sea-bird's bill ; 

And then a pause, and then a hoarse " Hillo ! 

Torquil ! my boy ! what cheer ? Ho ! brother, ho ! " 

''Who hails?" cried Torquil, following with his 

eye 
The sound. " Here 's one," was all the brief reply. 

XIX. 

But here the herald of the self -same mouth 

Came breathing o'er the aromatic south. 

Not like a " bed of violets " on the gale, 

But such as wafts its cloud o'er grog or ale. 

Borne from a short frail pipe, which yet had blown 

Its gentle odors over either zone. 

And, puff 'd v/here'er winds rise or waters roll, 

Had wafted smoke from Portsmouth to the Pole, 

Opposed its vapor as the lightning flash'd, 

And reek'd, 'midst mountain-billows, unabash'd, 

To ^olus a constant sacrifice. 

Through every change of all the varying skies* 

And what was he Avho bore it ? — I may err, 

But deem him sailor or philosopher. J 

Sublime tobacco ! which from east to west 

Cheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest ;. 



text should appear obscure, he will find in " Gebir " tbe same 
idea better expressed in two lines. 

% Hobbes, the father of Locke's and other philosophy, 
was an inveterate smoker,— even to pipes beyond computa- 
tion. 

135 



CAIn^TO III. 



THE ISLAND, 



i.-ir. 



Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides 

His hours, and rivals opium and his brides ; 

Magniiicent in Stamboul, but less grand, 

Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand ; 

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe. 

When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe ; 

Like other charmers, woomg the carets 

More dazzlingly when daring in full dress : 

Yet thy true lovers more admire by far 

Thy naked beauties— Give me a cigar ! 

XX. 

Through the approaching darkness of the wood 
A human figure broke tlie solitude, 
Fantastically, it may be, array'd, 
A seaman in a savage masquerade ; 
Such as appears to rise out from the deep 
Yv^hen o'er the line the merry vessels sweep, 
And the rough saturnalia of the tar 
Flock o'er the deck, in Keptune's borrow'd car ; ^" 
And, pleased, the god of ocean sees his name 
IieviA^e once more, though but in mimic game 
Of his true sons, who riot in the breeze 
Undreamt of in his native Cyclades. 
Still the old god delights, from out the main. 
To snatch some glimpses of his ancient reign. 
Our sailor's jacket, though in ragged trim, 
Ilis constant pipe, wliich never yet burn'd dim, 
His foremast air, and somewhat rolling gait, 
Like his dear vessel, spoke his former state ; 
But then a sort of kerchief round his head, 
Xot over-tightly bound, nor nicely spread ; 
And, 'stead of trowsers (ah ! too early torn ! 
For even the mildest Y»^oods will have their thorn), 
A curious sort of somewhat scanty mat 
Xow served for inexpressibles and hat ; 
His naked feet and neck, and sunburnt face. 
Perchance might suit alike with either race. 
His arms were all his own, our Europe's growth, 
Which two worlds bless for civilizing both ; 
The musket swung behind his shoulders broad. 
And somewhat stoop'd by his marine abode, 
But brawny as the boar's ; and hung beneath. 
His cutlass droop'd, unconscious of a sheath, 
Or lost or worn away ; his pistols were 
Link'd to his belt, a matrimonial pair — 
(Let not this metaphor appear a scoff, 
Though one miss'd fire, the other would go off ) ; 
These, Avith a bayonet, not so free from rust 
As when the arm-chest held its brighter trust. 
Completed his accoutrements, as Kight 
Survey 'd him in his garb heteroclite. 

XXI. 

" What cheer, Ben Bunting ? " cried (when in full 

view 
Our new acquaintance) Torquil. "Aught of new ? " 
'' Ey, ey ! " quoth Ben, " not new, but news enow: 
A strange sail in the offing,"—" Sail ! and how V 
What! could you make her out ? It cannot be; 
I 've seen no rag of canvas on the sea." 
" Belike," said Ben, " you might not from the bay, 
But from the bluff-head, wliere I watch'd to-day, 
I saw her in the doldrums ; for the wind 
Was light and baffling."—'- Wlien tlie sun declined 
Where lay she? had she anchor'd?"— "Xo, but 

still 
She bore dowTi on us, till the wind grew still." 
" Her flag ? "— " I had no glass : but fore and aft, 
Egad ! she seem'd a wicked-looking craft." 
"Arm'd? "— " I expect so:— sent on the look-out: 
'T is time, belike, to put our helm about." 



* This rough hut jovial ceremony, used in crossing- the line, 
has been so often and so well described, that it need not be 
jnore than alluded to. 

+ " That will do for the marines, but the sailors won't be- 
136 



"About ?— Whate'er may have us now in chase. 
We '11 make no running tight, for tliat were base ; 
We will die at our quarters, like true men." 
" Ey, ey ? for that 't is all the same to Ben." 
" Does Christian know this ? "—"Ay ; he has piped 

all hands 
To quarters. They are furbishing the stands 
Of arms ; and we have got some guns to bear, 
And scaled them. You are wanted."— " That 's 

but fair; 
And if it were not, mine is not the soul 
To leave my comrades helpless on the shoal. 
My Xeuha ! ah ! and must my fate pursue 
Xot me alone, but one so sweet and true ? 
But whatsoe'er betide, ah, Xeuha ! now 
Unman me not ; the hour will not allow 
A tear ; I am thine whatever intervenes ! " 
"Right," quoth Ben, "that will do for the 

marines."! 



CANTO THE THIRD, 



I. 

The fight was o'er ; the flashing through the gloom, 
AVhich robes the cannon as he wings a tomb. 
Had ceased ; and sulphury vapors "upward driven 
Had left the earth, and but polluted heaven: 
The rattling roar which rung in every volley 
Had left the echoes to their melancholy ; 
Xomore they shriek 'dthek horror, boom for boom ; 
The strife was done, the vanquish 'd had their doom ; 
The mutineers were crush 'd, dispersed, or ta'en. 
Or lived to deem the happiest were the slain. 
Few, few escaped, and these were Imnted o'er 
The isle they loved beyond their native shore. 
Xo further home was theirs, it seem'd, on eartli. 
Once renegades to that which gave them birth ; 
Track 'd like wild beasts, like them they sought the 

wild. 
As to a mother's bosom flies the child ; 
But vainly wolves and lions seek their den, 
And still more vainly men escape from men. 

II. 

Beneath a rock whose jutting base protrudes 

Far over ocean in his fiercest moods. 

When scaling his enormous crag the wave 

Is hurl'd down headlong like the foremost brave, 

And falls back on the foaming crowd behind. 

Which fight beneath the banners of the wind. 

But now at rest, a little remnant drew 

Together, bleeding, thksty, faint, and few; 

But still their weapons in their hands, and still 

With something of the pride of former will. 

As men not all unused to meditate. 

And strive much more than wonder at their fate. 

Their present lot was what they had foreseen. 

And dared as what was likely to have been : 

Yet still the lingering liope, which deem'd their iot 

Xot pardon 'd, but unsought for or forgot. 

Or trusted tliat, if sought, their distant caves 

Might still be miss'd amidst the world of waves. 

Had wean'd their thoughts in part from what tLcy 

saw 
And felt, the vengeance of their country's law. 



lieve it," is an old saying ; and one of the few fragments of 
former .iealousies which still survive (in jest onij) between 
these gallant services. 



CANTO III. 



THE ISLAND. 



TTI.-VTI. 



Their sea-green isle, their guilt-won paradise, 
Xo more could shield their virtue or their Adce : 
Their better feeliugs, if such were, were thrown 
Back on themselves, — their sins remain'd alone. 
Proscribed even in their second countr}^ they 
AVere lost ; in vain the world before them lay ; 
All outlets seem-d secured. Their new allies 
Had fought and bled in mutual sacrifice ; 
But what avail'd the club and spear, and arm 
Of Hercules, against the sulphury charm. 
The magic of the thunder, which destroy'd 
The warrior ere his strength could be employ 'd ? 
Dug, like a spreading pestilence, the grave 
Xo less of human bravery than the brave ! * 
Their o^ai scant numbers acted all the few 
Against the many oft will dare and do : 
But though the choice seems native to die free, 
Even Greece can boast but one Thermopylae, 
Till now^ when she has forged her broken chain 
Back to a sword, and dies and lives again ! 

III. 

Beside the jutting rock the few appear'd, 

Like the last remnant of the red-deer's herd ; 

Their eyes were feverish, and their aspect worn, 

But still the hunter's blood was on their horn. 

A little stream came tumbling from the height, 

And straggling into ocean as it might, 

Its bounding crystal frolick'd in the ray. 

And gush'd from cliff to crag with saltless spray ; 

Close on the wild, wide ocean, yet as pnre 

And fresh as innocence, and more secure, 

Its silver torrent glitter 'd o'er the deep. 

As the shy chamois' eye o'erlooks the steep, 

While far below the vast and sullen swell 

Of ocean's alpine azure rose and fell. 

To this young spring they rush'd, — all feelings first 

Absorb'd in passion's and in nature's thirst,— 

Drank as they do who drink their last, and threw 

Their arms aside to revel in its dew ; 

Cool'd their scorch'd throats, and wash'd the gory 

stains 
From wounds wliose only bandage might be chains ; 
Then, when their drought was quench 'd, look'd 

sadly round. 
As wondering how so many still were found 
Alive and fetterless :— but silent all, 
Each sought his fellow's eyes, as if to call 
On him for language which his lips denied. 
As though their voices with their cause had died. 

lY. 

Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, 
Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. 
The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread 
Along his cheek was livid now as lead ; 
His light-brown locks, so graceful in their flow, 
Xow rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. 
Still as a statue, with his lips comprest 
To stifle even the breath within his breast, 
East by the rock, all menacing, but mute. 
He stood ; and, save a slight beat of his foot, 
"Which deepen 'd now and then the sandy dint 
Beneath his heel, his form seem'd turn'd to flint. 
Some paces further Torquil lean'd his head 
Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled,— 
Xot mortally : — ^his worst wound was within ; 
His brow was pa,le, his blue eyes sunken in, 
And blood-drops, sprinkled o'er his yellow hair, 
Show'd that his faintness came not from despair, 
But nature's ebb. Beside him was another. 
Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, — 



* Archidamus, king of Sparta, and son of Ag-esilaus, when 
he saw a machine invented for the casting- of stones and 
darts, exclaimed, that it was the "grave of valor." The 



Ben Bunting, who essay'd to wash, and wipe, 
And bind his wound — then calmly lit his pipe, 
A trophy which survived a hundred fights, 
A beacon which had cheer'd ten thousand nights. 
The fourth and last of th_is deserted group 
"Walk'd up and down— at times would stand, then 

stoop 
To pick a pebble up — then let it drop- 
Then hurry as in haste— then quickly stop — 
Then cast his eyes on his companions — then 
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again — 
And then his former movements woukl redoul)le, 
With something between carelessness and trouble. 
This is a long description, but applies 
To scarce five minutes pass'd before tlie eyes : 
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these 
Rend men's lives into immortalities. 

Y. 

At length Jack Skyscrape. a mercurial man. 
Who flutter 'd over all things like a fan, 
]More brave than firm, and more disposed to dare 
And die at once than wrestle with despair, 
Exclaim'd, "G— d damn!"— those syllables in- 
tense, — 
Nucleus of England's native eloquence, 
As the Turk's "Allah ! " or the Roman's more 
Pagan " Proh Jupiter !" was wont of yore 
To give tlieir first impressions such a vent, 
By way of echo to embarrassment. 
Jack was embarrass'd, — ^never hero more. 
And as he knew not what to say, he swore : 
Nor swore in vain ; the long-congenial sound 
Revived Ben Bunting from his pipe profound ; 
He drew it from his mouth, and look'd full wise, 
But merely added to the oath his eyes ; 
Thus renderhig the imperfect phrase complete, 
A peroration I need not repeat. 

YI. 

But Christian, of a higher order, stood 
Like an extinct volcano in his mood ; : 

Silent, and sad, and savage,— with the trace 
Of passion reeking from his clouded face ; 
Till lifting np again his sombre eye. 
It glanced on Torquil, who lean'd faintly by. 
"And is it thus ? " he cried, " unhappy \joy\ 
And thee, too, tliee—vnj madness must destroy ! " 
He said, and strode to where young Torquil stood. 
Yet dabbled with his lately flowmg blood ; 
Seized his hand wistfully, but did not press, 
And shrunk as fearful of his own caress ; 
Inquired into liis state ; and wlien he heard 
The wound was slighter than he deem'd or fear'd, 
A moment's brightness pass'd along his brow. 
As much as such a moment would allow. 
" Yes," he exclaim'd, " we ar« taken in the toil. 
But not a coward or a common spoil ; 
Dearly they 've bought us— dearly still may buy,— 
And I must fall ; but have you strength to fly V 
'T would be some comfort still, could you sur- 
vive; 
Our dwindled band is now too few to strive. 
Oh, for a sole canoe ! though but a shell. 
To bear yon hence to where a hope m.ay dwell I 
For me, my lot is what I sought ; to be. 
In life or death, the fearless and the free." 

YII. 

Even as he spoke, around the promontory, 
Which nodded o'er tlie billows high and hoary, 
A dark speck dotted ocean : on it flew 
Like to the shadow of a roused sea-mew : 



same story has been told of some knights on the first ap- 
plication of gunpowder ; Lut the original anecdote is in Plu- 
tarch. 

137 



CAXTO IV 



THE ISLAND. 



i.-iii. 



Onward it came— and, lo ! a second follow'd— 
Xow seen— now hid — where ocean's vale was hol- 
low 'd; 
And near, and nearer, till their dusky crew 
Presented well-known aspects to the view, 
Till on the surf their skimming paddles play. 
Buoyant as wings, and flitting through the spray; — 
Now perching on the wave's high curl, and now 
Dash'd downvv^ard in the thundering foam below, 
Which flings it broad and boiling sheet on slieet, 
And slings'its high flakes, shiver'd into sleet ; 
But floating stiirthrough surf and swell, drew nigh 
The barks, like small birds through a lowering 

sky. 
Their art seem'd nature— such the skill to sweep 
The wave of these born playmates of the deep. 

Yin. 

And who the first that, springing on the strand, 
Leap'd like a nereid from her shell to land, 
With dark but brilliant skin, and dewy eye 
Shining with love, and hope, and constancy ? 
Neuha— the fond, the faithful, the adored— 
Her heart on Torquil's like a torrent pour'd: 
And smiled, and wept, and near, and nearer clasp'd, 
As if to be assured 'twas him she grasp'd ; 
Shudder'd to see his yet warm wound, and then, 
To find it trivial, smiled and wept again. 
She was a warrior's daughter, and could bear 
Such sights, and feel, and mourn, but not despair. 
Her lover lived, — nor foes nor fears could blight 
That full-blown moment in its all delight T 
Joy trickled in her tears, joy fill'd the sob 
Tiiat rock'd her heart till almost heard to throb ; 
And paradise was breathing in the sigh 
Of nature's child in nature's ecstasy. 

IX. 

Tlie sterner spirits who beheld that meeting 
Were not unmoved : who are, when hearts are 

greeting ? 
Even Christian gazed upon the maid and boy 
With tearless eye, but yet a gloomy joy 
Mix'd with those bitter thoughts the soul arrays 
In hopeless visions of our better days. 
When all 's gone — to the rainbow's latest ray. 
"And but for me ! " he said, and turn'd away; 
Tlien gazed upon the pair, as in his den 
A lion looks upon his cubs again ; 
And then relapsed into his sullen guise, 
As heedless of his further destinies. 

X. 

But brief their time for good or evil thought ; 
The billow^s round the promontory brouglit 
The plash of hostile oars. — Alas ! wiio made 
That sound a dread V All around them seem'd 

array 'd 
Against them, save the bride of Toobonai : 
Slie, as she caught the first glimpse o'er the bay 
Of the arm'd boats, wiiich hurried to complete 
Tlie remnant's ruin with their flying feet, 
Beckon'd the natives round her to their prows, 
Embark'd their guests and launch'd their light 

canoes ; 
In one placed Ciiristian and his comrades twain ; 
But she and Torquil must not part again. 
She fix'd him in her own.— Away ! away ! 
They clear the breakers, dart along the bay. 
And towards a group of islets, such as bear 
The sea-bird's nest and seal's surf-hollow'd lair, 
They skim the blue tops of the billows ; fast 
They flew, and fast their fierce pursuers chased. 
They gain upon them — now they lose again, — 
Again make M'ay and menace o'er the main ; 
And now" tlie two canoes in chase divide, 
And follow different courses o'er the tide, 
138 



To bafile the pursuit.— Aw^ay ! away 1 
As life is on each paddle's flight to-day. 
And more than life or lives to Neuha: Love 
Freights the frail bark and urges to the cove— 
And now the refuge and the foe are nigh— 
Yet, 5^et a moment ! Fly, thou light ark, fly ! 







CANTO THE FOURTH. 



I. 

White as a white sail on a dusky sea, 
When half the horizon 's clouded and half free, 
Fluttering betv/een the dun wave and the sky. 
Is hope's last gleam in man's extremity. 
Her anchor parts ! but still her snowy sail 
Attracts our eye amidst the rudest gale : 
Though every wave she climbs divides us more. 
The heart still follows from the loneliest shore. 

II. 

ISTot distant from the isle of Toobonai, 

A black rock rears its bosom o'er the spray, 

The haunt of birds, a desert to mankind. 

Where the rough seal reposes from the wind, 

And sleeps unv/ieldy in his cavern dun, 

Or gambols vs^ith huge frolic in the sun : 

Tliere shrilly to the passing oar is heard 

The startled echo of the ocean bird, 

Who rears on its bare breast her callow brood. 

The feather'd fishers of the solitude. 

A narrow segment of the yellow sand 

On one side forms the outline of a strand ; 

Here the young turtle, crawling from his shell, 

Steals to the deep wherein his parents dwell ; 

Chipp'd by the beam, a nursling of the day. 

But hatch 'd for ocean by the fostering ray ; 

The rest was one bleak precipice, as e'er 

Gave mariners a shelter and despair ; 

A spot to make the saved regret the deck • 

Which late went down, and envy the lost wreck. 

Such w^as the stern asylum Neuha chose 

To shield her lover from liis following foes ; 

But all its secret was not told ; she knew 

In this a treasure hidden from the view. 

III. 

Ere the canoes divided, near the spot. 

The men that mann'd wdiat held her Torquil's lot. 

By her command removed, to strengthen more 

The skiff which wafted Christian from the shore. 

This he would have opposed ; but with a smile 

She pointed calmly to the craggy isle. 

And bade him " speed and prosper." She would take 

The rest upon herself for Torquil's sake. 

They parted w-ith this added aid ; afar 

The proa darted like a shooting star. 

And gain'd on the pursuers, who now steer'd 

Right on the rock which she and Torquil near'd. 

They imll'd; her arm, tliough delicate, was free 

And firm as ever grappled with the sea. 

And yielded scarce to Torquil's manlier streugth. 

The prow now almost lay within its length 

Of the crag's steep, inexorable face. 

With nought but soundless waters for its base ; 

Within a hundred boats' length was the foe, 

And now what refuge but their frail canoe ? 

This Torquil ask'd with half-upbraiding eye. 

Which said—" Has Xeuha brought me here to die ? 



CANTO IV. 



THE ISLAND. 



IV.-YIII. 



Is this a place of safety, or a grave, 

And yon huge rock the tombstone of the;v^'ave ? "' 

TV. 

They rested on their paddles, and uprose 
Xeuha, and pointhig to tlie approaclnng foes, 
Cried, "Torquil, follow me, and fearless follow I " 
Then plunged at once into the ocean's hollow. 
There was no time to pause — the foes were near- 
Chains in his eye, and loenace in his ear; 
AVith vigor they pull'd on, and as they came, 
Haird him to yield, and by his forfeit name. 
Headlong he leapt— to him the swimmer's skill 
Was native, and now all his hope from ill : 
But how, or wliere ? He dived, and rose no more ; 
The boat's crew look'd amazed o'er sea and shore. 
There was no landing on that precipice. 
Steep, harsh, and slippery as a berg of ice. 
They watch'd awhile to see him float again, 
But not a trace rebubbled from the main : 
The wave roll'd on, no rii)ple on its face. 
Since their first plunge recall'd a single trace; 
The little whirl whicli eddied, and slight foam. 
That whiten'd o'er what seemed their latest home, 
White as a sepulchre above the pair 
Who left no marble (mournful as an heu") 
The quiet proa wavering o"er the tide 
Was all that told of Torquil and his bride ; 
And but for this alone the whole might seem 
The vanish 'd phantom of a seaman's dream. 
They paused and search'd in vain, then pull'd away ; 
Even superstition now forbade their stay. 
Some said he had not plunged into the wave. 
But vanish 'd like a corpse-light from a grave ; 
Others, that something supernatural 
Glared in his figure, more than mortal tall; 
While all agreed that in his cheek and eye 
There was a dead hue of eternity. 
Still as their oars receded from the crag. 
Round every weed a moment would they lag, 
Expectant of some token of tiieir prey ; 
But no — he had melted from them like the spray. 

Y. 

And where was he, the pilgrim of the deep. 
Following the nereid ? Had they ceased to weep 
Eor ever ? or, received in coral caves, 
Wrung life and pity from the softening waves ? 
Did they with ocean's hidden sovereigns dwell. 
And sound Avith mermen the fantastic shell ? 
Did Xeuha with the mermaids comb her hair 
Flowing o'er ocean as it stream 'd in air y 
Or had they perish 'd, and in silence slept 
Beneath the gulf wherein they boldly leapt ? 

YI. 

Young Xeuha plunged into the deep, and he 

Follow'd : her track beneath her native sea 

AVas as a native's of the element, 

So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went, 

Leaving a streak of ligkt behind her heel. 

Which struck and flash'd like an amphibious steel. 

Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace 

The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, 

Torquil, the nursling of the northern seas. 

Pursued her liquid steps with lieart and ease. 

Deep— deeper for an instant Xeuha led 

The vray— then upvrard soar'd — and as she spread 

Her arms, and hung the foam from off her locks, 

Laugh'd, and the sound was answered by the rocks. 



Tliey had gam'd a central realm of earth again. 

But look'd for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. 

Around she pointed to a spacious cave, 

Whose only portal was the keyless wave * 

(A hollow archway by the sun unseen, 

Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, 

In some transparent ocean holiday. 

When all the finny people are at play), 

Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, 

And clapp'd her hands with joy at his surprise ; 

Led him to where the rock appear 'd to jut, 

And form a something like a Triton's hut ; 

For all Avas darkness for a space, till day 

Through clefts above let in a sober 'd ray; 

As in some old cathedral's glimmering aisle 

I The dusty monuments from"^ light recoil, 

I Thus sadly in their refuge submarine 
The vault drew halt her shadow from the scene. 

YII. 

Forth from her bosom the young savage drew 

A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; 

A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep 

Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. 

This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook 

Of the same plantain leaf a flint she took, 

A few shrunk withered twigs, and from the blade 

Of Torquil's knife struck tire, and thus array'd 

The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high, 

And show'd a self-born G-othic canopy ; 

The arch uprear'd by nature's architect. 

The architrave some earthquake might erect: 

The buttress from some mountain's' bosom liurlVl, 

When the Poles crash 'd, and water vras the workl ; 

Or liarden'd from some eaith-absorbing fire, 

While }^et the globe reek'd from its funeral p}Te ; 

The fretted pinnacle, the aisle, the nave.t 

Were there, all scoop'd by Darkness from her cave. 

There, with a little tinge of phantasy, 

Fantastic faces mop'd and mow"d on high. 

And then a mitre or a shrine would fix 

Tlie eye upon its seeming crucifix. 

Thus Xature play Yl with the stalactites, 

And buiit herself a chapel of the seas. 

YIII. 

And Xeuha took her Torquil by the hand. 
And waved along the vault her kindled brand, 
And led him into each recess, and siiow'd 
The secret places of their new abode. 
Xor these alone, for all had been prepared 
Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared : 
The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatoo. 
And sandal oil to fence against the dew ; 
For food the cocoa-nut, the j^am, the bread 
Born of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread 
With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore 
A banquet in the flesh it cover xl o'er; 
The gourd with water recent from the rill, 
The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; 
A pine-torch pile to keep undying light, 
And she herself, as beautiful as night. 
To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene. 
And make their subterranean world serene. 
Slie had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail 
Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail. 
And form'd a refuge of the rocky den 
For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. 
Each dawn had wafted there her lig'ht canoe, 
Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; 



* Of this cave (which is no fiction) the original will be 
found in the ninth chapter of "Mariner's Account of the 
Tong-a Islands." I have taken the poetical liberty to trans- 
plant it to Toobonai, the last island where any distinct ac- 
count is left of Christian and his comrades. 

+ This may seem too minute for the g-eneral o-utlines (in 



Mariner's Account) from which it is taken. But few men 
have travelled without seeing something of the kind— on land, 
■ that is. Without adverting to Ellora. in Mungo Park's last 
journal, he mentions having met with a rock or mountain so 
exactly resembling a Gothic cathedral, that only minute in- 
spection could convince him that it was a work of nature. 
139 



CAXTO IV. 



THE islaxd: 



IX.-XTI. 



Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour 
With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower; 
And now she spread her little store witli smiles, 
The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 

IX. 

She. as he gazed with grateful wonder, press 'd 
Her shelter 'd love to her impassion \i breast : 
And suited to her soft caresses, told 
An olden tale of love.— for love is old, 
Old as eternity, but not outworn 
"With each new toeing bom or to be bom : 
How a young chief, a thousand moons ago, 
Diving for turtle in the depths below. 
Had risen, in tracking fast his ocean prey. 
Into the cave which round and o'er theni lay : 
How iu some desperate feud of after-time 
He shelter "d there a daughter of the clime, 
A foe t»elovei. and offspring of a fc»e. 
Saved by liis tribe but for a captive's woe : 
How. when the storm of war was stiU'd, he led 
His island clan to where the waters spread 
Their deei>-green shadow o'er the rocky door. 
Then dived— it seem'd as if to rise no more : 
His wonderiug mates, amazed within their l\irk. 
Or deem'd him mad. or prey to the blue sh?j-k ; 
Eow'd roimd in son-ow the* sea-girded rock. 
Then paused u]:»on their p«addles"froDi the shock : 
TVhen. fresh and springuig from the deep, they 

saw 
A goddess rise — so deem'd they in their awe : 
And their companion, glorious by her side. 
Proud and exulting in his mermaid bride ; 
And how. when imdeceived. the pair they tiore 
With soundingconchs and joyous shouts to shore : 
How they had gladly lived and calmly died. 
And why not also Torquil and his bride r 
Xot mine to tell the rapturous caress 
'^N hich follow 'd wildly in that wild recess 
This tale : enough that all within that cave 
Was love, though biu'ied strong as in the grave 
Where Abelard. through twenty years of ueath, 
When Eloisa's form was lower'd beneath 
Their nuptial vault, his arms outstretch 'd, and 

press'd 
The kindling ashes to his kindled breast.* 
The waves without sang round their conch, their 

roar 
As much unheeded as if life were o'er ; 
Within, their hearts made all their harmony, 
Love's broken murmur and more broken siyh. 



And they, the cause and sharers of the shock 
Which left them exiles of the hollow rock. 
Where were they :- O'er the sea for life they plied, 
To seek from Heaven the shelter men denie«1. 
Another course had been their choice — ^but where ? 
The wave which bore them still their foes would 

bear. 
Who. disappointed of their former chase. 
In search of Christian now renew'd tl eir race. 
Eager with anger, their strong arms made way, 
Like vultures baffled of their preAious prey. 
They gain'd upon them, all whose safety lay 
In some bleak crag or deeply-hidden bay : 
Xo further chance or choice remain'd: and right 
For the first further rock which met their sight 
They steer'd. to take their latest view of lazid, 
And yield as victims, or die sword in hand : 
Dismiss 'd the natives and their shallop, who 
AYould still have battled for that scanty crew : 
But Christian bade them seek their shore again. 
Xor add a sacrifice whicli were in vain : 



For what were simple bow and savage spear 
Against the arms which must be wielded here ? 

XI. 

They landed on a wHd but narrow scene, 
Wliere few but Xature's footsteps yet 1 ad been : 
Prepared their arms, and with that gl<x»my eye. 
Stem and sustain'd. of man^s extremity. 
^Yhen hope is gone, nor glory's self remains 
To cheer resistance against death or chains, — 

I They stood, the three, as the three Imndred stood 
Wlio dyed Thermopyhp with holy blo*>d. 

j But. ah ! how different ! *t is the cnw^ makes all. 

! Degrades or hallows courage in its fall. 
O'er them no fame, eternal and intense. 
Blazed through the clouds of death and beckon 'd 

j ^ hence : 

I X o grateful country, smiling through her tears, 

■ Began the praises of a thousand years : 
Xo Xation's eyes would on their tomb be bent, 
Xo heroes envy them their monument : 
However boldly their warm blood was spilt. 
Their life was sliame. tlietr epitaph was guilt. 
Ar.d this they knew and felt, at least the one. 
Tie leader of the band he had undone: 
Wl.o. \yOTJi perchance for tetter things, had set 
His life uiM3n a cast whic-li lin^rer'd yet : 
But now the die was to l-e tijown. and all 

j The chances were in favor of Lis fall : 

! And such a fall ! But still he faced the shock. 
C»'t'dura.te as a p»ortion of the rock 
Wnerecn he stood, and nx'd his levell'd gim, 
Dark as a sullen cloud before the sim. 

xn. 

Tlie boat drew nigh, well arm'd. and firm the crew 
io act whatever duty bade them do : 

j Careless of dansrer. as the onward wind 

i Is of the leaves it strews, nor looks behind. 

'\ And yet perhaps they rather wish'd to go 

; Against a nation's than a native foe. 
And felt that this p^xir victim of self-will. 
Briton no more, had once been Britain's stilL 
They hail'd him to surrender — ^no reply : 

j Their arms were p<?ised. and glitter'd in the sky. 
They hail'd again — ^no answer : yet once more 
They oSer'd quarter louder than l:>efore. 

I Theechoes only, from the rocks rebotmd. 
Took their hist' farewell of the dying sound. 
Then aash'd the flint, and blazed the volleying f.ame. 
And the smoke rose between them and their iiim. 
While the rock rattled with the biJlets* knell. 
Wliich peal'd in vain, and flatten 'd as they fell : 
Then flew the only answer to be given 
By those who had lost all hop«e in earth or heaven. 

j After the first fierce p»eal. as they puU'd nigher. 

j They heard the voice of Christian shout.^'*Xow. 

fire!" 
And ere the word upon the echo died. 
Two fell: the rest assail'd the rock's rough side. 
And. furious at the madness of their foes, 
Disdain 'd all further efforts, save to close. 

' But steep the crag, and all without a path, 

I Each step opposed a bastion to their wrath, 

\ While, placed midst clefts the least accessible, 
Which Christian's eye was train 'd to mark full well, 
The three maintain "d a strife which must not yield. 
In spc'ts where eagles might have chosen to build. 
Th^eir every shot told : while the assailant feU, 
Dasird onthe shimrles like the limpet shell: 
But still enough survived, and mounted still. 

I Scattering their numbers here and there, until 

' Surrounded and commanded, though not nigh 
Enough for seizure, near enough to die. 



*The tradition is attached to the story of E!.-»isa. ih.^t had been buried twenty yeai^, he opened his arzDS to reeeive 
when her body was iower^ into the grave of Abelard .who . her. 
140 



CANTO IV 



THE ISLAND. 



XIIT.-XV. 



The desperate trio liekl aloof their fate 

But by a thread, like sliarks who have gorged the 

bait; 
Yet to the very last they battled well, 
And not a groan inforni'd their foes v:ho fell. 
Christian died last— twice wounded; and once more 
^lercv was offer'd when they saw his gore ; 
Too late for life, but not too late to die. 
"With, though a hostile hand, to close his eye. 
A limb wasbroken, and lie droop'd along 
The crag, as doth a falcon reft of young. 
The sound revived him, or appear'd to wake 
Some passion which a weakly gesture spake: 
Ke beckon -d to the foremost, who drew nigh. 
But, as they near"d, he rear'd his weapon high — 
His last bail had been aim'd, but fi'om his breast 
He tore the topmost button from his vest,"* 
Down the tube dash'd it, leveird, fired, and smiled 
As his foe fell; then, like a sei-pent, coll'd 
His wonnded, weary form, to where the steep 
Look'd desperate as himself along the deep ; 
Cast one glance back, and clench'd his hand, and 

shook 
His last rage 'gainst the earth which he forsook ; 
Then plmiged : the rock below received like glass 
His body crusli'd into one gory mars, 
"With scarce a shred to tell of human form, 
Or fragment for the sea-bird or the worm ; 
A fair-hair'd scalp, besmear"d with blood and 

weeds. 
Yet reek'd, the remnant of himself and deeds; 
Some splinters of his vv'eapons (to the last. 
As long as hand could hold, he held them fast) 
Yet glitter xl, but at distance— hurrd away 
To rust beneath the dew and dashing spray. 
The rest was nothing — save a life misspent, 
And soul — but who shall answer wliere it went ? 
'T is ours to bear, not judge the dead ; and they 
Who doom to hell, themselves are on the way. 
Unless these bullies of eternal pains 
Are pardon'd their bad hearts for their vrorse 

brains. 

XIII. 
The deed was over ! All were gone or ta'en, 
The fugitive, the captive, or the slain. 
Chained on the deck, where once, a gallant crew. 
They stood with honor, were the vsTetched few 
Survivors of the skirmish on the isle ; 
But the last rock left no surviving spoil. 
Cold lay they where they fell, and weltering, 
While o'er them flapp'd'the sea-birds' dewy wing, 
Xow wheeling nearer from the neighboring surge, 
And screaming high their harsh and hungry dirge : 
But calm and careless heaved the wave below, 
Eternal 'witli unsympathetic flow ; 
Far o'er its face the dolphins sported on. 
And sprung the flying-fish against the sun, 

* In Thibault's account of Frederic the Second of Prussia, 
there is a singular relation of a young Frenchman, who -with 
his mistress appeared to he of some rank. He enlisted and 
deserted at Schweidnitz; and after a desperate resistance 
was retaken, having killed an officer, who attempted to seize 
him after he was wounded, by the discharge of his musket 
loaded with a button of his uniform. Some circumstances on 



Till its dried wing relapsed from its brief height, 
To gather moisture for another flight. 

XIT. 
'Twas mom ; and Xeuha. who by dawn of day 
Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray, 
And watch if aught approach 'd the amphibious 

lair 
"Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : 
It flappxL it fill'd, and to the growing gale 
Bent its broad arch : her breatli began to fail 
With fluttering fear, lier heart beat' thick and high. 
While yet a doubt sprung Avhere its coiu'se might 

lie. 
But no ! it came not ; fast and far away 
The shadow lessen 'd as it clear "d the bay. 
Siie gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes, 
To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. 
On the horizon verged the distant deck, 
Diminished, dwindled to a ver^- speck- 
Then vanish 'd. All was ocean, all was joy ! 
Down plunged she through the cave to rouse her 

boy; 
Told all she had seen, and all she hoped, and all 
That happy love could augur or recall ; 
Sprung forth again, with Torquil following free 
His bounding nereid over the broad sea : 
Swam round the rock, to where a shallow cleft 
Hid the canoe that Xeuha there had left 
Drifting along the tide, without an oar. 
That eve the strangers chased them from the shore ; 
But when these vanish 'd, she pursued her prow. 
Begain'd, and urged to where they found it now : 
Xor ever did more love and joy embark, 
Than now were wafted in that slender ark. 

XY. 

Again their ovra shore rises on the view, 

Xo more polluted with a hostile hue ; 

^ o sullen ship lay bristling o'er the foam, 

A floating dungeon :— all was hope and home! 

A thousand proas darted o'er the bay, 

With sounding shells, and heralded their way: 

The chiefs came doT\m, around the people pour'd, 

And welcomed Torquil as a son restored ; 

The women throng'd, embracing and embraced 

By Xeuha, asking where they had been chased, 

And how escaped ? The tale was told ; and thicn 

One acclamation rent the sky again ; 

And from that hour a new tradition gave 

Their sanctuary the name of "Xeuha"s Cave." 

A hundred fires, far flickering from the height. 

Blazed o'er the general revel of the night. 

The feast in honor of the guest, return 'd 

To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd; 

A night succeeded by such happy days 

As only the yet infant world displays. 

his court-martial raised a great interest amongst his judges, 
who wished to discover his real situation in life, which he 
offered to disclose, but to the Tcing only, to whom he i^equested 
permission to write. This was refused, and Frederic was 
filled with the greatest indignation, from baffled curiosity or 
some other motive, when he understood that his request had 
been denied. 




^^ 








141 



MAN FRED: 

% gramdtc |om.* 



"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



Manfred. 
Chamois Hunter. 
Abbot of St. Maurice. 
Manuel. 



DBAMATIS PEESOX^. 

Herman. 

Witch of the Alps. 

Arimanes. 



Nemesis. 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, etc. 



The SCENE oftJie Drama is amongst the Higher Alps— partly in the Castle of JIanfred, and partly in the 3Ioiiniains. 



ACT I. 



SCENE I.— Manfred alone.— Scene, a Gothic Gal- 
lery. — Time, Midnight. 

Man. The lamp must be replenish'cl, but even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watcli : 
My slumbers— if I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring tliought, 
Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
T]ie aspect and the form of breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay 'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself — 
But they avail not : I have done men good. 
And I have met with good even among men — 
But this avaird not : I have had my foes. 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not :— Good, or evil, life, 
Povrers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
Xor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or 

wishes, 
Or lurking love of something on the earth. 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have souglit in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things— 
I call upon ye by the written charm 

* March 3, 1817, Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Murray, "I sent 
you the other day, in two covers, the first act of ' Manfred,' 
a drama as mad as Nat Lee's Bedlam tragedy, which was in 
142 



Which gives me power upon you Else ! Appear I 

[Axjause. 
They come not yet. — Xow^ by the voice of him 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 

Who is undying,— Else I Appear ! Appear ! 

[A pause. 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air. 
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power, 
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn 'd, 
The burning wreck of a demolished world, 
A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought which is within me and around me, 
1 do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 
[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery : it 
is stationary; and a voice is heard singing. 

First Spirit. 

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
AVhicli the breath of twilight builds. 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Y\'hich is mix'd for my pavilion; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden: 
To thine adjuration bow'd. 
Mortal— be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; 

Thev crown *d him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

With a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand; 



twenty-five acts and some odd scenes : mine is but in three 
acts."— 3Iarch 9, 1817. " You must not pubhsh it (if it ever is 
publishedj without g-iAing- me previous notice." 



ACT I. 



31 AN FRED. 



SCENE I. 



But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day ; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Could make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd base — 

And what with me wouldst Thou? 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters, 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger. 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells. 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy spells ; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd^ 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes imf old ! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire. 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 
Where the roots of the Andes 

Strike deep in the earth, 
As their summits to heaven 

Shoot soaringly forth ; 
I have quitted my birthplace, 

Thy bidding to bide— 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 
I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm ; 
To speed to thee, o'er sliore and sea 

I swept upon the blast: 
Tlie fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'Twill sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 
My dwelling is the shadow of the nlpht. 
Why doth thy magic torture me with light? 

Seventh Spirit. 

The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air; 
Its course was free and regular, 
Simce bosom 'd not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless name, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe; 
Still rolling on with innate force. 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn- 
Forced by a power (which is not thine. 
And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend. 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thee — 
What woiildst thou, Child of Clay! with 
me? 



The Seven Spirits. 

Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy star, 
Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay ! 

Before thee at thy quest their spirits are— 
What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals— say? 

Man. Forgetfulness 

First Spirit. Of w^hat— of whom— and why? 

Man. Of that which is within me ; read it there — 
Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Spirit. We can but give thee that which we pos- 
sess: 
Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth— the whole, or portion — or a s;.gn 
Which shall control the elements, wiiereof 
We are the dominators, each and all. 
These shall be thine. 

Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But— thou mayst die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
We are eternal ; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 

Man. Ye mock me— but the power which brought 
ye here 
Hath made you mine. Slaves, scolf not at my 

will ! 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright. 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay ! 
Ansv/er, or I will teach you what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply 
Is even in thine own words. 

3fan. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou sayst, thine essence be as 
ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. 1 then have call'd ye from your realms in 
vain ; 
Ye cannot, or ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say ; 

Wliat w^e possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again— 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of 
days 

Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
They are too long already.— Hence — begone ! 

SpArit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do 
thee service ; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes ? 

Man. No, none; yet stay— one moment, eie Vv^e 
part— 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
As music on the waters ; and I see 
The steady aspect of a clear large star ; 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are. 
Or one, or all, in your accustom 'd forms. 

Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
Of which we are the niind and principle : 
But choose a form— in that we wiU appear. 

Man. 1 have no choice; there is no form en 
earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him. 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
As unto him may seem most fitting— Come ! 

Seventh Spirit [appearing in the shapie of a beauti- 
ful female fiqure). Behold! 

Man. Oh God! if ic be thus, and thou 
Art not a madness and a mockery, 
143 



ACT I. 



MANFRED. 



SCENE IT. 



I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 

And we again will be {The figure vanishes. 

My heart is crush 'd ! 
[Manfred falls senseless. 

{A Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) 

When the moon is on the w^ave, 
And the glow^-worm in the grass, 

And the meteor on the grave, 
And the wisp on the morass; 

When the falling stars are shooting, 

And the answer 'd owls are hooting, 

And the silent leaves are still 

In the shadow^ of the hill, 

Shall my soul be upon thine, 

With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep. 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 

There are shades which will not vanish. 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud. 

Thou art gather'd in a cloud; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by. 
Thou Shalt feel me with thine eye 
As a thing that, though unseen, 
Must be near tliee, and hath been; 
And when in that secret dread 
Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
Tliou Shalt marvel I am not 
As thy sliadow on the spot, 
And the powder which thou dost feel 
Shall be w^hat thou must conceal. 

And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice; 

And to thee shall ISTight deny 

All the quiet of her sky; 

And the day shall have a sun. 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From thy false tears I did distill 

An essence wiiich hath strength to kill; 

From thy ow^n heart I tlien did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring; 

From thy own smile I snatch 'd the snake, 

For there it coil'd as in a brake; 

From thy ow^n lip I drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm; 

In proving every poison know^l, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile. 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous e3^e. 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heart; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 
Which doth devote thee to this trial; 
Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
Shall be in thy destiny ; 
Though thy death shall still seem near 
To thy wish, but as a fear; 
144 



Lo ! the spell now works around thee. 
And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 
O'er thy heart and brain together 
Hath the w^ord been pass'd-»-now wither ! 

SCENB II. — The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time., 
Morning. — Manfred alone ui)on the Cliffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
Tlie remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid ; 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf 'd in darkness. 
It is not of my search.— My mother Earth ! 
And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Moun- 
tains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the rmiverse, 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, je crags, upon whose extreme edge 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever— wiierefore do I pause ? 
I feel the im}3ulse— yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
And my brain reels— and yet my foot is firm : 
There is a pow^r upon me wiiich withholds. 
And makes it my fatality to live ; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
^ly own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou Avinged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

[An eagle passes. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven. 
Well mayst thou swoop so near me — I should be 
Tljy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
Wliere the eye cannot follow thee; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onw^ard, or above. 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we. 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride. 
Contending with low wants and lofty will. 
Till our mortality predominates. 
And men are — what they name not to themselves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 

[The ShepherdPs pi]}e in the distance is heard. 
The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable— pipes in the liberal air, 
>rix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd ; 
My soul would drink those echoes. Oh, that I were 
The viewiess spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice, a breathing liarmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment— born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me ! 

Enter from helow a Chamois Hunter. 
Chamois Hunter. Even so 

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet 
Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
Eepay my break-neck travail. — What is here ? "" 
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reacli'd 
A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 



ACT II. 



.31 AN FRED. 



SCEN^E I. 



Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

ManAnot perceiving the other). To be thus — 
Gray-hair'd with anguish,* like these blasted pines. 
Wrecks of a sinoie winter, barkless, branchless, 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root. 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay— 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been other^^ise ! Xow furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, ploughed by moments, not by years 
And honrs — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws do^^^l 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Crash with a freqnent conflict ; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still woiild live ; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the 
valley ; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 

Man. The mists boll up around the glaciers; 
clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles.— I am giddy. 

C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
A sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Man. Mountains have fallen, 

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crush 'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — thus, 
Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg — 
Why stood I not beneath it V 



C. Hun. Friend! have a care, 

Your next step may be fatal !— f or the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
Man.{not hearing him). Such would have been for 
me a fitting'tomb ; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depth ; 
They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
For the wind's pastime— as thus— thus thev shall 

be— 
In this one plunge. — Fare well, ye opening heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me— Earth! take these 
atoms! 

[As Manfred is in act to spring from the cliff, 
the Chamois Hunter seizes and retains him 
with a sudden grasp. 

C. Hun. Hold, madman! — though aweary of thy 
life. 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood : 

Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

3Ian. I am most sick at heart— nay, grasp me 
not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 

Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art 

thou ? 
C. Hun. I '11 answer that anon. — Away with 

me 

The clouds grow thicker there— now lean on 

me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
And hold fast by my girdle— softly— well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour : 
Come on, we '11 quickly find a surer footing. 
And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
Hath wash'd since winter.— Come, 'tis bravely 

done — 
You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 

[As they descend the rocks with difficulty, the 
scene closes. 



J^CT IT. 



SCENE I. — A Cottage amongst the Bernese Aljis. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 

C. Hun. No, no— yet pause— thou must not vet 
go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
To trust each other, for some hours, at least; 
AYhen thou art better, I will be thv guide- 
But whither H 

Man. It imports not : I do know 

My route full well, and need no furtlier guidance. 

C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high 
lineage— 
One of the many cliiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower vallevs— wliich of these 
May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To bask by tlie huge hearths of those old halls, 
Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths. 
Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
I know from childhood— which of these is thine? 

Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir. pardon me the question. 

And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
'T is of an ancient vintage : many a day 
'T has thaw'd my veins among oiir glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine.— Come, pledge me fairly. 

Man. Away, away ! there 's blood upon the b^iin ! 
Will it then never— never sink in the earth ? 

* See foot-note, page 112. 
10 



C. Hun. Wliat dost thou mean? thy senses wander 
from thee. 

3fan. I say 'tis blood— my blood! the pure warm 
stream 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
When we were in our youth, and liad one heart. 
And loved each other as we should not love. 
And this was shed : but still it rises up. 
Coloring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I sliall never be. 

C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half- 
maddening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there 's comfort yet— 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience— 

3ian. Patience and patience ! Hence— that word 
was made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — ^ 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to lieaven! 

I would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 

Man. Do I not bear it '?— Look on me— I live. 

C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful life. 

Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
Many long j^ears, but they are nothing now" 
To those which I must number: ages— ages- 
Space and eternity— and consciousness, 
With the fierce thirst of death— and still unslaked! 
145 



ACT TT. 



MANFRED. 



SCEjS^E II. 



C. Hun. AVhy, on thy brow the seal of middle age 
Hath scarce been set \ I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on 
time ? 
It doth ; but actions are our epochs: mine 
Have made mv davs and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
Innumerable atoms; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on winch the wild waves break, 
l>ut nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C. Hun. Alas ! he 's mad— but yet I must not leave 
him. 

3[an. I would I were— for then the things I see 
Would be but a distempered dream. 

C. Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or tliink thou look'st upon V 

Man. Mvself, and thee— a peasant of the Alps— 
Tliv humble virtues, hospitable home. 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 
Tliy daj^s of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils, 
Bv'danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do" I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not— my soul was scorch 'd already ! 

('. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot 
for mine ? 

Man. Xo, friend! I would not WTong thee, nor 
exchange 
]My lot with living being : I can bear- 
However wretchedly, 't is still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream, 
But perish in their slumber. 

C. Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be blackVitli evil ?— say not so. 
Can one of gentle thougbts have Avreak'd revenge 
Upon his enemies ? 



Man. 



Oh! no, no, no! 



My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
On those whom I best loved : I never quell'd 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But mv embrace was fatal. 

C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 

And penitence restore thee to thyself ; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

^Man. I need them not, 

But can endure thv pity. I depart— 
'T is time— farewell ! —i-Iere 's gold, and thanks for 

thee — 
No words— it is thy due.— Follow me not— 
I know my path— the mountain peril 's past :— 
And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 

[Exit Manfred. 



SCENE II. 



-A lower Valley in the A^ps. 
Cataract. 



Enter Manfred. 
It is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along. 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail. 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse. Xo ejTS 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
I should be sole in this sweet solitude. 
And with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 

[Manfred talces some of the water into the jjolra 
of his hand., and flings it in the air. mutter ing 
£he adjuration. After a paiLse^ the "Witcli of 
146 



the Alps rises beneath the arch of the sunhow 
of the torrent. 
Beautiiul Spirit I with thy hair of liglit. 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
! Rock'd by the beating of her mother's lieart, 
! Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
I Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow. 
The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven,— 
I Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
j The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
I Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
i AVherein is glass'd serenity of soul. 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
\ Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
I At times to commune with them— if that he 
Avail him of his spells— to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment. 

witch. Son of Earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts. 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both. 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what wouldst thou with me ? 
Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those wiio govern her— 
But they can jiothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestov/, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 

Wiiich is not in the power of the most powerful, 
The rulers of the invisible ? 

Man. A boon; 

But why should I repeat it ? 't were in vain. 
Witch. 1 know not that ; let thy lips utter it. 
3Ian. Well, though it torture foe, 'tis but the 
same ; 
My pang shall find a voice. From my youth up- 
wards 
My spirit walk'd not witli the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
Tlie thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
The aim of their existence was not mine; 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
' Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, 
i I had ho sympathy with breathing flesh, 
! Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

j yras there but one who but of her anon. 

i I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
' I held but slight communion; but instead. 
My joy was in the wilderness, — to breathe 
: The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
I Where the birds dare not build, nor insc ct's wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
In these my early strength exulted ; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon. 
The stars and their development ; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
Or to look, iist'ning, on the scatter 'd leaves. 
While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one. — 
Hating to be so, — cross'd me in my path, 
I felt inyself degraded back to them. 
And wa"s all clay again. And then I dived, _. 
In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
From \^ ither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd-up dust, 




Witch. Son of earth ! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee power : 
What would'st thou with me? 
Man. To look upon thy beauty— nothing further. 



MANFRED,— Page 146. 



ACT IT. 



31 AN FRED, 



SCENE III. 



Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 

The nights of years in sciences nntaught, 

Save in the old tin^e ; and with time and toil, 

And terrihle ordeal, and such penance 

As in itself hath power upon the air, 

And spirits that do compass air and earth, 

Si)ace, and the pe'^pl^'^l infinite, I made 

Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 

Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 

He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 

Eros and Anteros,- at Gadara, 

As I do thee;— and with my knowledge grew 

The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 

Of this most bright intelligence, until, 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh I I but thus prolonged my Y%'ord3, 

Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my heart's grief — 
But to my task. I liaA'e not named to'thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chsain of human ties; 
If I had such, tliey seem'd not such to me; 
Yet there was one — — 

WitcJi. Spare not th>^elf — proceed. 

3Ian. She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, tliey said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd al], and temper'd into beauty: 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe :"nor these 
Alone, but witli ti-em gentler i)Owers tlian mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — wliich I had not ; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — lier virtues were her OT^m— 
I loved her, and destroj^'d her I 

Witch. With thy hand? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke 
her heart ; 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers— and yet her blood vras sh.ed ; 
I saw— and could not stanch it. 

Witch . And for tl i is — 

A being of the race thou dost. despise. 
The order which thine own would rise above, 
]\[ingling with us and ours. — thou dost foiv^go 
The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink 'st back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

3Ian. Daughter of Air I I tell thee, since that 
hour— 
But w^ords are breath— look on me in mv sleep. 
Or watch my watchings— Come and sit by me ! 
ISIy solitude is solitude no more. 
But peopled with the Furies;— I have gnash 'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning morn. 
Then cursed myself till sunset : — I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing— 'tis denied me. 
I have affronted death— but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
And fatal things pass'd harmless; the cold hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back", 
Back by a single hair, which would not break. 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
But. like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thouglit. 
i plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfuluess 
I sought in all, save where 't is to be found, 
And that I have to learn : my sciences, 
My long-pursued and superhuman art, 



* The philosopher Jamblicus. The storv of the raising of 
Eros and Anteros maj^ he found in his life by Eunapius. It 
is well told. 

+ The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who commanded 



Is m^ortal here : I dwell in my despair — 
And live— and live for ever. 

WiicJi. It may be 

That I can aid thee. 

3fa.n. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so— in any shape— in any hour — 
Witli any torture— so it be the last. 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
Wilt svv^ar obedience to mV vvill, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
Man. I will not swear — Obey! and whom? the 
spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
: Of those who served me — ISfever I 
; WUch. Is this all ? 

I Hast thou no gentler answer?— Yet bethink tiiee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 
Man. I have said it. 

Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
Man. "^ Eetire ! 

f The 'Witch climppears. 
Mai-u [alone). We are the fools of time and terror: 
Days 
Steal on us and steal from us : yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
In all the days of this detested yoke— 
This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few— how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
As from a stream in winter, though tlie chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
i Still in my science— I can call the dead, 
i And ask them what it is v;e dread to be: 
I The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 

I And that is nothing. If they answer not • 

i Th.e buried Prophet answer'cl to the Hag 
I Of Endor; and th.e Spartan ]Monarch drew 
j From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
I An answer and his destiny — he slew 
i That which he loved, unknowing vrhat he slew, 
I And died unpardon'd— though lie calFd in aid 
; The Ph^'xian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
Ti^.e Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance— she reiilied 
In words of dubious import, but fulfilFd.f 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living ; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful — 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon— or nothing. 
Within fev/ hours I shall not call in vain — 
Yet in this hour I dread the tiling I dare: 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble. 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what 1 most abhor. 
And chapjpion human fears. — Th e ni gh t approa ch es. 

[ITxU. 

SCENE in.— TJie Summit r.f the Jungfrau M)im- 
tmn. 

Enter First Destiny. 
The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 



the Greeks at the battle of Plataea, and afterwards perished 
for an attempt to betray the LacedsemoniansV and Cleonice, 
J3 told in Plutarch'? life of Cimon; and in the Laconics of 
Pausanias the Sophist, in his description of Greece. 

147 



ACT II. 



31 AN FRED, 



SCENE IV. 



Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 

And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 

Tiie glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 

We skim "its rugged breakers, wliich put on 

The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 

Frozen in a moment— a dead whirlpool's image : 

And this most steep fantastic pinnacle. 

The fretwork of some earthquake — where the clouds 

Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 

Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils; 

Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 

To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 

Is our great festival — 't is strange they come not. 

A Voice without, singing. 
The Captive Usurper, 

Hurl'd down from the throne, 
Lay buried in torpor, 
Forgotten and lone; 
I broke through his slumbers, 

I shiver'd his chain, 
I leagued him with numbers — 
He 's Tyrant again ! 
With the blood of a million he '11 answer mv care, 
With a nation's destruction— his flight and despair. 

Second Voice, without. 
Tiie ship saird on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck ; 
Save one, whom I held, as lie swam, by the hair, 
And he was a subject well worthy my care; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me ! 

First Destiny, answering. 
The city lies sleeping ; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping: 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it — 

Thousands lie lowly; 
Tens of thousands shall perish — 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they should cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and angifish, 
And evil and dread, 

Envelope a nation; 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation; 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm— this deed of my doing— 
For ages I 've done, and shall still be renewing ! 

Unter the Second and Third Destinies. 
TJie TJiree. 
Our hands contain the hearts of men, 

Our footsteps are their graves; 
We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves! 

First Des. Welcome !— Where 's N'emesis ? 
Second Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 
First Des. Say, where hast thou been ? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies. 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
148 



Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
xYnd mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away! 
We have outstay 'd the hour— mount we our clouds ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE TV. — The Hall of Arwmnes — Arimanes mi 

his Throne, a Globe of Fire, surrounded by the 

Sinrits. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 
Hail to our Master.! — Prince of Earth and Air! 

Who walks the clouds and waters— in his hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
Tlie comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 

To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his, 
With all its infinite of agonies— 

And his the spirit of whatever is ! 

Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
His power increaseth — ^both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his throne! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we await 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns ! we are thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our care. 
And we are vigilant. Thy late commands 
Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 

Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal !— Thou most rash and fatal wretch. 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 

Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, slave ! — 
What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign V— Tremble, and obey! 

All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy con- 
demned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it ; 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 

3Ian. 'T is taught already ;— many .a night on the 
earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
And strew'd my head with ashes ; I have known 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain, despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
AVhat the whole earth accords, beholding not 
The terror of his glory ?— Crouch! I say. 

Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above 
him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Yv^ho made him not for worship— let him kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 



ACT II. 



MANFRED, 



SCENE IV. 



The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 

Tear him in pieces !— 

First Bes. Hence! Avaunt! — he 's mine. 

Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like 
Our own ; his knowledge and his powers and will. 
As far as is compatible with clay. 
Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taught him what we know — 
That knowledge is* not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor 

being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their consequence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be ; be it so, or not, 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

JS^em. What doth he here then ? 

First Bes. Let liim answer that. 

3£an. Ye know what I have known ; and without 
power 
I could not be amongst ye : but tl^ere are 
Powers deeper still beyond— I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What wouldst thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead— my question is for them. 

JSfem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal V 

Ari. Yoa. 

Aem. Whom wouldst thou 

Uncharnel ? 

Man. One without a tomb -call up 

Astarte. 

Nemesis. 

Shadow! or Spirit! 

Whatever thou art. 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth. 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return'd to the earth, 

Keappear to the day! 
Bear what thou borest, 

The heart and the form. 
And the aspect thou worest 

Redeem from the worm. 
Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
[The Phantom of Astarte rises and stands 
in the midst. 
Man. Can this be death ? there 's bloom upon her 
cheek ; 
But now I see it is no living hue, 
But a strange hectic— like the mniatural red 
AVliich Autumn plants upon the perish 'd leaf. 
It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should dread 
To look upon the same— Astarte !— No, 
I cannot speak to her— but bid her speak— 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
Tlie grave which enthrall'd thee. 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have calPd thee! 



Man. She is silent, 

And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of 
Air! 
It rests with thee alone— command her voice. 

Ari. Spirit— obey this sceptre ! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

Slie is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain. 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured— so much endure — 
Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee 

more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that tliou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both— that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence— in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortalitj^— 
A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
I know not what I ask, nor wiiat I seek: 
1 feel but what thou art— and w4iat I am ; 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
For I have call'd on thee in the still night. 
Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd 

boughs, 
And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name, 
Wliich answer'd me — many things answer'd me— 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Yet speak to me ! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me ! I have wander 'd o'er the earth, 
And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ;— but say — 
I reck not what— but let me hear thee once— 
Tliis once— once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 

Man. Say on, say on — 

I live but in the sound— it is thy voice ! 

Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly 
ills. 
Farewell ! 

Man. Yet one word more— am I forgiven ? 

Phan. Farew^ell! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell! 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 

Phan. Manfred ! • 

[ The Spirit of Astarte disappears. 

Nem. She 's gone, and will not be recalPd ; 

Her words will be fulfill'd. Retm^n to the earth. 

A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, 
and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An aw^ful spirit. 

A'ewi. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

■ 3fan. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ? — 
Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 

[Exit Manfred. 
(>S'cene closes.) 
149 



ACT III. 



3IANFRED. 



SCENE r. 



ACT III. 



SCENE l.—A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Mmi. What is the hour ? 

Her. It wants but one till sunset. 

And promises a lovely twilight. 

Man. Say, 

A re all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directecl ? 

Bcr. All, my lord, are ready: 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man . It is well : 

Thou mayst retire. 

\Exit Herman. 

3[an. {alone). There is a calm upon me— 

Inexplicable stillness! wiiich till no^v 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know philosophy 
To be of all our vanities the motiiest, 
The merest Avord that ever fool'd tlie ear 
From out tlie schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, tlie sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to haA'e known it, though but once: 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
And I within my tablets would note down 
That there is such a feeling. Who is thei'e ? 

lie- enter Her m. an. 
Her. My lord, the abbot of St. Maurice craves 
To greet your presence. 

Unter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Ahhot. Peace be wdth Count Manfred ! 

Man. Thanks, holy fatlier! welcome to these 
walls ; 
Thy presence honors them, and blesseth those 
Who dwell within them. 

Ahhot. Would it were so, Count !— 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

3Ian. Herman, retire.— Wliat would my reverend 
guest ? 

Ahhot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my 
office. 
And good intent, m.ust plead my privilege: 
Our near, tliough not acquainted neighborhood, 
May also be my lierald. Kumors strange. 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy Avith thy name ; a noble name 
For centuries : may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpaired ! 

3ian. Proceed, — I listen. 

Ahhot. 'T is said thou boldest converse with the 
. things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Whicli walk the valley of the shade of death, 
Thou connnunest. I know that with mankind. 
Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
Is as an ancliorite's, were it but holy. 

Man. And what are they who do avouch these 
things ? 

Ahhot. My pious brethren— the scared peasantry- 
Even thy own vassals— who do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life 's in peril. 

Man. Take it. 



* Otho, being' defeated in a g-enei-al engag'ement near Brix- 
ellum, stabbed himself. Plutarch saj^s, that, thoug-h he 
lived full as badly as Nero, his last moments were those of 
a philosopher. He comforted his soldiers who lamented his 
fortune, and expressed his concern for their safety, when 
150 



Ahhot. I come to save, and not destro)^— 

I would not pry into thy secret soul; 
Put if these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church to 
heaven. 

3Ian. I hear thee. This is my reply : wiiate'er 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I sl.iall not choose a mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 

Ahhot. "^My son! I did not speak of punishment, 
But penitence and pardon ;— with thyself 
The choice of such remains— and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief 
Have given m.e power to smooth tlie path from sin 
To higher hope and better thoughts; the first 
I leave to heaven, — "Yengeance is mine alone ! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful w^ord. 

3fan. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
Xor cliarm in prayer— nor purifying form 
Of penitence— nor outward look — nor fast — 
Xor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
But all in all sufficient to itself 
Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
Upon itself ; there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self -condemn 'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

A hhot. All this is well ; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned: 
And the commencement of atonement is 
Tlie sense of its necessity.— Say on— 
And all our church can teach thee isliall be taught; 
And all we cjin absolve thee shall be pardon 'd. 

3£an. When Pome's sixth cm.peror* was near his 
last. 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound. 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
With show of loyal pity, would liave stanch 'd 
The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
The dying Roman thrust him back, and said — 
Some empire still in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late— is this fidelity ? " 

Ahhot. And what of this ? 

3Ian. I answer with the Poman— 

" It is too late ! " 

Ahhot. It never can be so. 

To reconcile thyself with thy ovm soul. 
And thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no 

hope ? 
'T is strange — even those who do despair above, 
Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth. 
To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 

3Ian. Ay— father! I have had those earthly 
visions 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my own the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 



they solicited to pay him the last friendly offices. Martird 
says : 

"Sit Cato, dum vivlt, sane vel Coesare major, 
Duui moritur, numquid major Othone fait?" 



ACT III. 



MANFRED, 



SCENE III. 



I knew not whither— it might be to fall ; 
But fall, even as the mountain cataract, 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the reascended skies). 
Lies low but mighty still.— But this is past. 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wlierefore so ? 

3Ian, I could not tam.e my nature down; for he 
Must serve who fain would sway— and soothe— and 

sue— 
And watch all time— and pry into all place— 
And be a living lie— who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are ; I disdain 'd to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader— and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And wliy not live and act with other men ? 

Maji. Because my nature was averse from life; 
And yet not cruel; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation : — like the wind, 
The red-hot breath of tlie most lone simoom, 
Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs toblast, 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves. 
And seeketti not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hatii been 
The course of my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

MfUK Look on me ! there is an order 

Of mortals on tlie earth, who do become 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike deatli ;^ 
8ome perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Some worn with toil— some of mere weariness- 
Some of disease — and some insanity * — 
And some of wither'd or of broken hearts ; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these tilings, 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am wliat I am, but tliat I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am^ still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still 

3fan. Old man! T do respect 

Thine order, and revere tliine years ; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself. 
Far m.ore than me, in shunning at this time 
All further colloquv— and so— farewell. t 

[JExit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a noble creature ; he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements, 

* This speech has been quoted in more than one of the 
sketches of the poet's own life. Much earlier, when only 
twenty-three years of ag-e, he had thus prophesied :— " It seems 
as if I were to experience in my youth the greatest misery 
of old ag-e. My friends fall around me, and I shall be left a 
lonely tree bef oi-e I am withered. Other men can always take 
refug-e in their families. I have no resource but my own re- 
flections, and they present no prospect, here or bei'eafter, ex- 
cept the selfish satisfaction of surviving' my betters. I am, 
indeed, very wretched. My days are listless, and my nig-hts 
restless. I have vQvy seldom any society ; and when I have, I 
run out of it. I don't knowthatlsha'n't end with insanity." 
—Byron Letters, 1811. 

+ '' Of the immortality of the soul, it appears to me that 
there can be little doubt— if we attend for a moment to the 
action of mind. It is in perpetual activity. I used to doubt 



Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 

It is an awful chaos— light and darkness — 

And mind and dust — and passions and pure 

thoughts, 
Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive : he will perish, 
And yet he must not; I will try once more. 
For such are worth redemption; and my duty 
Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I '11 follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 

[Exit Abbot. 

SCENE II.— Another Chamber. 
Manfred and Herman. 

Her. My lord, you bade me wait on yoxx at sunset : 
He sinks behind the mountain. 

Man. Doth he so ? 

I will look on him. 

[Manfred advances to the Window of the Hall. 
Glorious orb! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons % 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw^ down 
The erring spirits who can ne'er return. 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal 'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, the hearts 
Of the Chaldean sheplierds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
And representative of the Unknown— 
Who chose thee for his shadow^! Thou cliief star! 
Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all v»dio walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes. 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee. 
Even as our outward aspects ;— thou clost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
Of love and wonder w^as for tliee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone: 
I follow. 

[Exit Manfred. 

SCENE III. - The Mountains— The Castle of 3Ian- 
fred at some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. 
Time.^ Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependents of 
Manfred. 
Her. 'T is strange enough ; night after night, for 
years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
So have we all been oft-times : but from it, 



it— but reflection has taug-ht me better. How far our future 
state will be Individual ; or, rather, how far it wiii at all re- 
semble our present existence, is another question ; but that 
the mind is eternal seems as probable as that the body is not 
so."— Byron Diary, 1821,— " I have no wish to reject Chrls- 
tianitj' without investig'ation ; on the contrary, I am very 
desirous of believing ; for I have no happiness in my pres- 
ent unsettled notions on religion."— Bi/?'on Conversations with 
Kennedy, 1823. 

$''And it came to pass, that the Sons of God saw the 
daughters of men, that the%' were fair," etc.— "There wero 
g-iants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when 
the Sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and 
they bare childi-en to them, the same became mighty mea 
which were of old, men of renown."— Genes-is, ch. vi., vei'sea 
2 and 4. 

151 



ACT III. 



MANFRED. 



SCENE IV. 



Or its contents, it were impossible 

To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 

His studies tend to. To be sure, tliexe is 

One cliamber where none enter : I would give 

The fee of what I liave to come these three years, 

To pore upon its mysteries. 

Ma nuel. 'T were dangerou s ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 

Her. Ah, Manuel! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the 

castle- 
How many years is 't ? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do tliey differ ? 

Mamiel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Count Sigismund was proud,— but gay and free, — 
A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
[Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times! I would that such 
Would visit the old wails again; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have 

seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. Come, be friendly ; 

Kelate me some to while away our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
Which liappen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed! I do remem- 
ber 
'T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ;— yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then,— 
So like that it might be the same ; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and tlie mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watchings— her, whom of all earthly things 
That lived, the only thing he seem'd to love, — 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The Lady Astarte, his 

Hush ! who comes here ? 

Miter the Abbot. 

Allot. Where is your master ? 

Her. Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speak with him. 

Manuel. 'T is impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 

Abbot. Upon myself I take 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be- 
But I must see him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 

Her. We dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 

Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 

I prav you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way, 

And I will tell you furtlier. {Exeunt. 

152 



SCENE IV.— Interior of the Tower. 
Manfred alone. 
Tlie stars are fortli, the moon above the tops 
Of the snow-shining mountams. — Beautiful ! 
I linger yet with JS^ature, for the Night 
Hath been to me a more familiar face 
Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn 'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering,— upon such a night 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall. 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Eome ; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
The watcli-dog bay'd bej^ond the Tiber; and 
More near from out the Caesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
Began and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot. Where the Csesars dwelt. 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growtli ; 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection. 
While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
All this, and cast a wide and tender light. 
Which soften 'd down the hoar austerity 
Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up. 
As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
With silent worship of the great of old, — 
The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
Our spirits from their urns. 

'T was such a night ! 
'T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord ! 

I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it liath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
May light upon your head — could 1 say heart — 
Couid I touch that, with Avords or prayers, I should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd ; 
But is not yet all lost. 

3Ian. Thou know'st me not ; 

My days are number'd, and my deeds recorded : 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous— Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 

Man. Not I; 

I simply tell thee peril is at hand. 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost mean ? 

Man. Look there! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say. 

And steadfastly ;— now tell me what thou seest. 

Abbot. That which should shake me,— but I fear 
it not : 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise. 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 



ACT III. 



3IANFRED. 



SCENE lY. 



His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds : he stands between 
Thyself and me— but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause— he shall not harm thee 
—but 
His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
I say to thee— Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply- 

Never— till I have battled with this fiend : — 
What doth he here ? 

Man. Why— ay— what doth he here ? 

I did not send for him,— he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas! lost mortal! what Avith guests like 
these 
Hast thou to do ? I tremble for tliy sake : 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
Ah ! he unveils his aspect : on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell— 
Avaunt ! — « 

3fan. Pronounce— what is thy mission? 

Spirit. Come ! 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! 
—speak ! 

Sjjirit. The genius of this mortal.— Come ! 'tis 
time. 

Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. AVho sent thee 
here ? 

Spirit. Thou 'It know anon— Come ! come ! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far tlian tliine, 
And striven with thy masters. Get tiiee hence ! 

Spirit. Mortal! thine hour is come — Away! I say. 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but 
not 
To render up my soul to such as thee: 
Away ! I '11 die as I have lived— alone. 

Spirit. Then I must suumion up my brethren. — 
Rise ! [Other Spirits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt! ye evil ones! — Avaunt! Isay; 
Ye have no power where piety iiath power, 
And I do cliarge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man ! 

We know ourselves, our mission, and tliine order; 
AVaste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 

Man. I do defy ye,— though I feel my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye; 
Xor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — eartlily strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 

Is this the Magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 



Almost our equal ? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
AVhich made thee wretched ! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest ! 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
iS^or would redeem a moment of that hour; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crev/. 
But by superior science— penance — daring — 
And length of watching— strength of mind — and 

skill 
In knowledge of our fathers— when the earth 
Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
Upon my strength— I do defy— deny — 
Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

3fan. What are they to such as thee ? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals ? — Back to thy hell ! 
Tliou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know: 
AVhat I have done is done ; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine; 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
Is its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time : its innate sense, 
AYhen stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
N^o color from the fleeting things without, 
But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy. 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
J/iow didst not tempt me"^, and thou couldst not tempt 

me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter.— Back, ye baflled fiends! 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 

[llie Demons disappear. 

Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art— thy lips are 
white — 
And thy breast heaves— and in thy gasping throat 
The accents rattle: Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 

il/an. 'T is over— my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
But all things swim around me, and the earth 
Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well — 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold— cold— even to the lieart— 

But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 

Man. Old man ! 't is not so difficult to die. 

[Manfred expires. 

Abbot. He 's gone— his soul hath ta'en his earth- 
less flight- 
Whither ? I dread to think— but he is gone. 




w:^m^jmz^^'^-^^ 



" Night after night, for years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness." 

Act III., Scene III. 



153 



MAKINO FALIEEO, DOGE OF YENIOE 

^n Itstomal irajgdg, in 4^ve Jicts.* 



" Dux inquieti turbidiis AdriEe."— Horace. 



PBEFACK 



THE conspiracy of the Doge IMarino Faliero is one of 
the most remarkable events in the annals of the most 
sinscular government, city, and people of modern history. 
It occurred in the year 1355. Everything about Venice 
is, or was, extraordinary — her aspect is like a dream, and 
her history is like a romance. The story of this doge is 
to be found in all her Chronicles, and particularly detailed | 
in the " Lives of the Doges," by Marin Sanuto, which is 
given in the Appendix. (See Appendix, Notes 43 and j 
44.) It is sim.ply and clearly related, and is perhaps more ' 
dramatic in itself than any scenes which can be founded ; 
upon the subject. l 

Marino Faliero appears to have been a man of talents ; 
and of courage. I find him comm,ander-in-chief of the | 
land forces at the siege of Zara, where he beat the king ! 
of Hunarary and his army of eighty thousand men, killing ] 
eight thousand men, and keeping the besieged at the same j 
time in check ; an exploit to ^Yhich I know none similar i 
in history, except that of Caesar at Alesia, and of Prince ; 
Eugene at Belgrade. He was afterwards commander of | 
the fleet in the same war. He took Capo d'lstria. He \ 
was ambassadbr at Genoa and Kome,— at Avhicli last he ' 
received the news of his election to the dukedom; his 
absence being a proof that he sought it by no intrigue, 
since he was apprised of his predecessor's death and his 
own succession at the same moment. But he appears to 
have been of an ungovernable temper. A story is told 
by Sanuto of his having, many years before, when podesta 
and captain at Treviso, boxed the ears of the bishop, 
who was somewhat tardy in bringing the Host. For 
this, honest Sanuto " saddles him Avith a judgment," as 
Thwackum did Square ; but he does not tell us w^hether 
he was punished or rebuked by the senate for this outrage 
at the time of its commission. He seems, indeed, to have 
been afterw^ards at peace wdth the church, for we find him 
ambassador at Eome, and invested w-ith the fief of Val di 
Marino, in the march of Treviso, and wdth the title of 
count, by Lorenzo, Count-bishop of Ceneda. For these 
facts my authorities are Sanuto, Vettor Sandi, Andrea 
Navagero, and the account of the siege of Zara, first 
published by the indefatigable Abate ISIorelli, in his 
" Monument! Veneziani di varia Letteratura," printed in 
1796, all of Avhich I have looked over in the original lan- 



* On the original MS. sent from Ravenna, Lord Byron has 
written:— "Begun April 4, 1820— completed July 16, 1S20— 
finished copying August 16, 17, 1820. It was published in the 
154 



guage. The moderns, Dar'^, Sismondi, and Laugler, nearly 
agree with the ancient chroniclers. Sismondi attributes 
the conspiracy to his jealousy ; but I find this nowhere 
asserted by the national historians. Vettor Sandi, indeed, 

says, that " Altri scrissero che dalla gelosa sus- 

pizion di esso doge siasi fatto (Michel Steno) staccar con 
violenza," etc., etc. ; but this appears to have been by no 
means the general opinion, nor is it alluded to by Sanuto, 
or by Navagero ; and Sandi himself adds, a moment after, 
that " per altre Veneziane memorie traspiri, che nou il 
solo desiderio di vendetta lo dispose alia congiura ma anche 
la innata abituale ambizion sua, per cui anelava a farsi 
principe independente." The first motive appears to have 
been excited by the gross afiront of the words written by 
]Slicliel Steno on the ducal chair, and by the light and 
inadequate sentence of the Forty on the offender, who 
was one of their "tre Capi." The attentions of Steno 
himself appear to have been directed towards one of her 
damsels, and not to the " dogaressa" herself, against whose 
fame not the slightest insinuation appears, while she is 
praised for her beauty, and remarked for her youth. 
Neither do I find it asserted (unless the hint of Sandi be 
an assertion), that the doge was actuated by jealousy of 
his wife ; but rather by respect for her, and for his own 
honor, warranted by his past services and present dignity. 
I know not that the historical facts are alluded to in 
English, unless by Dr. IVIoore in his View of Italy. His 
account is false and flippant, full of stale jests about old 
men and young wives, and wondering at so great an effect 
from so slight a cause. How so acute and severe an ob- 
server of mankind as the author of Zeluco could wonder 
at this is inconceivable. He knew that a basin of water 
spilt on Mrs. Masham's gown deprived the Duke of Marl- 
borough of his command, and led to the inglorious peace 
of Utrecht — that Louis XiV. was plunged into the most 
desolating Avars, because his minister Avas nettled at his 
finding fault Avith a AvindoAv, and washed to give him an- 
other occupation — that Helen lost Troy— that Lucretia 
expelled the Tarquins from Eome — and that Cava brought 
the Moors to Spain— that an insulted husband led the 
Gauls to Clusium, and thence to Kome— that a single verse 
of Frederic IL of Prussia on the Abbe de Bernis, and a 
jest on Madame de Pompadour, led to the battle of 

end of the same year ; and, to the poet's great disgust, and in 
spiteof his urgent and repeated remonstrances, was r.roduced 
on the stage of Drury Lane Theatre early in 1831. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



Rosbach* — that the elopement of Dearbhorgil with 
Mac Murchad conducted the English to the slavery of 
Ireland — that a personal pique between Marie Antoinette 
and the Duke of Orleans precipitated the first e^sipul^^ion 
of the Bourbons— and, not to multiply instances, that 
Commodns, Domitian, and Caligula fell victims not to 
their public tyranny, but to private vengeance — and that 
an order to make Cromwell disembark from the ship in 
which he would have sailed to America destroyed both 
king and commonwealth. After these instances, on the 
least reflection, it is indeed extraordinary in Dr. Moore 
to seem surprised that a man used to command, who had 
served and swayed in the most important offices, should 
fiercely resent, in a fierce age, an unpunished affront, the 
grossest that can be offered to a man, be he prince or 
peasant. The age of Faliero is little to the purpose, uu- 
less to favor it — 

"The young man's wrath is like straw on fire, 
But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire:' 

"Young men soon give and soon forget affronts, 
Old age is slow at both." 

Laugier's reflections are more philosophical :—" Tale 
fii il fine ignominioso di nn' uomo, che la sua nascita, la 
sua eta, il suo carattere dovevano tener lontano dalle pas- 
sioni produttrici di grandi deliiti. I suoi talenti per lungo 
tempo esercitati ne' maggiori impieghi, la sua capacita 
sperimentata ne' governi e nelle ambasciate, gli avevano 
acquistato la stima e la fiducia de' cittadini, ed avevano 
uniti i suffragj per coUocarlo alia testa della republica. 
Innalzato ad un grado che terminava gloriosamente la 
sua vita, il risentimento di un' ingiuria leggiera insinuo 
nel suo cuore tal veleno che basto a corrompere le antiche 
sue qualita, e a condurlo al termine del scellerati ; serio 
esempio, che prova non esservi eta, in cui la prudenza umana 
sia sicura, e che neW uomo restano sempre passioni capaci a 
disonorarh, qvando non invigili sopra se stesso.^^ f 

"Where did Dr. Moore find that Marino Faliero begged 
his life ? I have searched the chroniclers, and find nothing 
of the kind ; it is true that he avowed all. He was con- 
ducted to the place of torture, but there is no mention 
made of any application for mercy on his part ; and the 
very circumstance of their having taken him to the rack 
seems to argue anything but his having shown a want of 
firmness, which would doubtless have been also mentioned 
by those minute historians, who, by no means, favor him: 
such, indeed, would be contrary to his character as a soldier, 
to the age in which he lived, and at which he died, as it 
is to the truth of history. I know no justification, at any 
distance of time, for calumniating an historical character : 
surely truth belongs to the dead, and to the unfortunate ; 
and they who have died upon a scaffold have generally 
had faults enough of their own, without attributing to 
them that Avhich the very incurring of the perils which 
conducted them to their violent death renders, of all others, 
the most improbable. The black veil which is painted 
over tlie place of Marino Faliero amongst the doges, and 
the Giants' Staircase where he was crowned, and dis- 
crowned, and decapitated, struck forcibly upon my imagi- 
nation ; as did his fiery character and strange story. I 
went, in 1819, in search of his tomb more than once to 



♦ The abba's biographer denies the correctness of this state- 
ment. 

+ Laugier. Hist, de la Repub. de Venise, Italian translation, 
vol. IV., p. 30. 

■t While T was in the sub-committee of Drury Lane Theatre, 
1 can vouch for my colleagues, and I hope for myself, that 
we did our best to bring back the legitimate drama. I tried 



the church San Giovanni e San Paolo ; and, as I was stand- 
ing before the monument of another family, a priest came 
up to me and said, " I can show you finer monuments than 
that." I told him that I was in search of that of the 
Faliero family, and particularly of the Doge Marino's. 
" Oh," said he, " I will show it you ; " and conducting me 
to the outside, pointed out a sarcophagus in the wall with 
an illegible inscription. He said that it had been in a 
convent adjoining, but Avas removed after the French came, 
and placed in its present situation ; that he had seen the 
tomb opened at its removal ; there were still some bones 
remaining, but no positive vestige of the decapitation. 
The equestrian statue of which I have made mention in 
the third act as before that church is not however of a 
Faliero, but of some other now obsolete warrior, although 
of a later date. There were two other doges of this family 
prior to Marino : Ordelafo, who fell in battle at Zara in 
1117 (where his descendant afterwards conquered the 
Huns), and Vital Faliero, 'Avho reigned in 1082. The 
family, originally from Fano, was of tlie most illustrious 
in blood and wealth in the city of once the most wealthy 
and still the most ancient families in Europe. The length 
I have gone into on this subject will show the interest I 
have taken in it. Whether I have succeeded or not in 
the tragedy, I have at least transferred into our language 
an historical fact worthy of commemoration. 

It is now four years that I have meditated this work ; 
and before I had sufficiently examined the records, I was 
rather disposed to have made it turn on a jealousy in 
Faliero. But, perceiving no foundation for this in his- 
torical truth, and aware that jealousy is an exhausted 
passion in the drama, I have given it a more historical 
form. I was, besides, well advised by the late jNIatthew 
Lewis on that point, in talking with him of my intention 
at Venice in 1817. "If you make him jealous," said he, 
"recollect that you have to contend with established 
writers, to say nothing of Shakspeare, and an exliausted 
subject : — stick to the old fiery doge's natural character, 
which will bear you out, if properly drawn ; and make 
your plot as regular as you can." Sir AVilliam Drum- 
mond gave me nearly the same counsel. How far I have 
followed these instructions, or whether they have availed 
me, is not for me to decide. I have had no view to the 
stage fin its present state it is, perhaps, not a very exalted 
object of ambition ; besides, I have been too much behind 
the scenes to have thought it so at any time. And I 
cannot conceive any man of irritable feeling putting him- 
self at the mercies of an audience. The sneering reader, 
and the loud critic, and the tart review, are scattered and 
distant calamities ; but the trampling of an intelligent or 
of an ignorant audience on a production which, be it good 
or bad, has been a mental labor to the writer, is a palpable 
and immediate grievance, heightened by a man's doubt 
of their competency to judge, and his certainty of his 
own imprudence in electing them his judges. Were I 
capable of writing a play which could be deem_ed stage- 
I worthy, success would give me no pleasure, and failure 
I great pain. It is for this reason that, even during the 
j time of being one of the committee of one of the theatres, 
I never made the attempt, and never wilLj But surely 



what I could to get "De Montfort" revived, but in vain, and 
equally in vam in favor of Sotheby's "Ivan," which was 
thought an acting play ; and I endeavored also to wake Mr. 
Coleridge to write a tragedy. Those who are not in the secret 
will hardly believe that the " School for Scandal " is the play 
which has brought least money, averaging the number of times 
jt has been acted since its production ; so Manager Dibdea 
155 



ACT I. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE T. 



there is dramatic power somewhere, where Joanna Baillie, 
and Milman, and John Wilson exist. The " City of the 
Plague," and the " Fall of Jerusalem," are full of the 
best materiel for tragedy that has been seen since Horace 
Walpole, except passages of Ethwald and De Montfort. 
It is the fashion to underrate Horace Walpole; firstly, 
because he was a nobleman ; and secondly, because he was 
a gentleman ; but, to say nothing of the composition of 
his incomparable letters, and of the Castle of Otranto, he 
is the " Ultimus Eomanorum," the author of the Mys- 
terious Mother, a tragedy of the highest order, and not a 
puling love-play. He is the father of the first romance, 
and of the last tragedy, in our language, and surely worthy 
of a higher place than any living writer, be he who he may. 
In speaking of the drama of Marino Faliero, I forgot 



to mention, that the desire of preserving, though still too 
remote, a nearer approach to unity than the irregularity, 
which is the reproach of the English theatrical composi- 
tions, permits, 'has induced me to represent the conspiracy 
as already formed, and the doge acceding to it ; whereas, 
in fact, it was of his own preparation, and that of Israel 
Bertuccio. The other characters (except that of the 
duchess), incidents, and almost the time, which was won- 
derfully short for such a design in real life, are strictly 
historical, except that all the consultations took place in 
the palace. Had I followed this, the unity would have 
been better preserved ; but I wished to produce the dcge 
in the full assembly of the conspirators, instead of mo- 
notonously placing him always in dialogue with the same 
individuals. For the real facts, I refer to the Appendix. 



DRAMATIS PEBSON^. 



MEN. 



Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Bertuccio Faliero, Nephew of the Doge. 
Lioni, a Patrician and Senator. 
Benintende, Chief of the Council of Ten. 
Michel Steno, One of the Three Capi of the Forty. 
Israel Bertuccio, Chief of the 1 

Arsenal, I 

Philip Calendaro, I- Conspirators. 

Dag-olino, 
Bertram, 
Signor of the Night ("Signore di Notte"), one of 

the Officers belonging to the Republic. 
First Citizen. 



Second Citizen. 
Third Citizen. 
Vincenzo, -j 

Pietro, > Officers belonging to the Ducal Palace. 
Battista, J 

Secretary of the Council of Ten. 
Guards, Conspirators, Citizens, The Council of Ten, 
The Giunta, etc., etc. 

WOMEN. 

Angiolina, Wife to the Doge. 
Marianna, her Friend. 

Female Attendants, etc. 

SCENE— Venice, in the year 1355. 



^CT I. 



SOENS l.—An Antechamher in the Ducal Palace. 

Pietro speaks, in entering, to Battista. 

Pie. Is not the messenger return 'd ? 

Bat. Not yet ; 

I have sent frequently, as you commanded, 
But still the Signory is deep in council 
And long debate on Steno's accusation. 

Pie. Too long — at least so thinks the Doge. 

Bat. How bears he 

These moments of suspense ? 

Pie. With struggling patience. 

Placed at the ducal table, cover 'd o'er 
With all the apparel of the state ; petitions, 
Despatches, judgments, acts, reprieves, reports. 
He sits as rapt in duty ; but whene'er 
He hears the jarring of a distant door. 
Or aught that intimates a coming step. 
Or murmur of a voice, his quick eye wanders, 



assured me. Of what has occurred since Maturin's "Ber- 
tram," I ara not aware ; so that I maj^ be traducing-, through 
ignorance, some excellent new writers: if so, I beg their 
pardon. I have been absent from England nearly Ave j^ears, 
and, till last year, I never read an English newspaper since 
ray departure, and am now only aware of theatrical matters 
through the medium of the Parisian Gazette of Galignani, 
and only for the last twelve months. Let me then deprecate 
all offence to tragic or comic writers, to whom I wish well, 
and of whom I know nothing. The long complaints of the 
actual state of the drama arise, however, from no fault of 
the performers. I can conceive nothing better than Kemble, 
Cooke, and Kean in their very different mannei'S, or than 
Eiiiston in geiitleman's comedy, and in some parts of tragedy. 
156 



And he will start up from his chair, then pause, 
And seat himself again, and fix his gaze 
Upon some edict ; but I have observed 
For the last hour he has not turn'd a leaf. 

Bat. 'T is said he is much moved,— and doubtless 
't w^as 
Foul scorn in Steno to offend so grossly. 

Pie. Ay, if a poor man : Steno 's a patrician, 
Young, galliard, gay, and haughty. 

Bat. Then you think 

He will not be judged hardly ? 

Pie. 'T were enough 

He be judged justly ; but 't is not for us 
To anticipate the sentence of the Forty. 

Bat. And here it comes.— What news, Vincenzo? 

Enter Vincenzo. 
Vin. 'T is 

Decided; but as yet his doom 's unknown: 
I saw the president in act to seal 



Miss O'Neill I never saw, having made and kept a determi- 
nation to see nothing which should divide or disturb my recol- 
lection of Siddons. Siddons and Kemble were the ideal of 
tragic action ; I never saw any thing at all resembling them 
even in person : for this reason, we shall never see again Corio- 
lanus or Macbeth. When Kean is blamed for want of dignity, 
we should remember that it is a grace, and not an aii:, and 
not to be attained by study. In all, not suPER-naturai parts, 
he is perfect ; even his very defects belong, or seem to belong, 
to the parts themselves, and appear truer to nature. But of 
Kemble we may say, with reference to his acting, what the 
Cardinal de Retz said of the Marquis of Montrose, "that he 
was the only m.an he ever saw who reminded him of the heroes 
of Plutarch." 



ACT T. 



MARINO FALIEEO. 



SCENE ir. 



The parchment which will bear the Forty's judg- 
ment 
Unto the Doge, and hasten to inform him. {^Exeunt. 

SCENE U.—The Ducal Chamber. 

Marino Faliero, Doge; and his Nephew^ 
Bertuccio Faliero. 

Ber. F. It cannot be but they will do jou justice. 

Moge. Ay, such as the Avogadori '^ did, 
Who sent up my appeal unto the Forty 
To try him by his peers, his own tribunal. 

Ber. F. His peers will scarce protect him ; such 
an act 
Would bring contempt on all authority. 

Doge. Know you not Yenice ? Know you not the 
Forty V 
But we shall see anon. 

Ber. F. [addressing Vincenzo, then entering). 

How now — what tidhigs? 

Vin. I am charged to tell his highness that the 
court 
Has pass'd its resolution, and that, soou 
As the due forms of judgment are gone through, 
The sentence will be sent up to the Doge ; 
In the meantime the Forty doth salute 
The Prince of the Republic, and entreat 
His acceptation of their duty. 

Doge. Yes— 

They are wondrous dutiful, and ever humble. 
Sentence is pass'd, you say V 

Vin. It is, your highness : 

The president was sealing it, when 1 
Was caird in, that no moment might be lost 
In forwarding the intimation due 
Not only to the Chief of the Republic, 
But the complainant, both in one united. 

Ber. F. Are you a^vare, from aught you have per- 
ceived, 
Of their decision ? 

Vin. No, my lord ; you know 

The secret custom of the courts in Yenice. 

Ber. F. True ; but there still is something given 
to guess. 
Which a shrewd gleaner and quick eye would catch 

at; 
A whisper, or a murmur, or an air 
More or less solemn spread o'er the tribunal. 
The Forty are but men— most worthy men. 
And wise, and just, and cautious— this I grant— 
And secret as the grave to which they doom 
The guilty: but with all this, in their aspects— 
At least in some, the juniors of the number — 
A searching eye, an eye like yours, Yincenzo, 
Would read the sentence ere it was pronounced. 

Vin. My lord, I came away upon the moment, 
And had no leisure to take note of that 
Which passed among the Judges, even in seeming: 
My station near the accused too, Michel Steno, 
Made me— 

Doge [abruptJii). And how looked hef deliver 
.that. 

Vin. Calm, but not overcast, he stood resign 'd 
To the decree, whate'er it were;— but lo ! 
It comes, for the perusal of his highness. 

Enter the Secretary of the Forty. 

Sec. The high tribunal of the Forty sends 
Health and respect to the Doge Faliero, 
Chief magistrate of Yenice, and requests 
His highness to peruse and to approve 
The sentence pass'd on Michel Steno, born 
Patrician, and arraigned upon the charge 

* The Avogadori, three in number, were the conductors of 
criminal prosecutions on the part of the state ; and no act of 



Contain 'd, together with its penalty, 
Within the rescript which I now present. 

Doge. Retire, and wait without. 

[Exeunt Secretary and Vincenzo. 
Take thou this paper : 
The misty letters vanish from my eyes ; 
I cannot fix them. 

Ber. F. Patience, my dear uncle : 

Why do you tremble thus ? — nay, doubt not, all 
Will be as could be wish'd. 

Doge. Say on. 

Ber. F. [reading). "Decreed 

In council, without one dissenting voice, 
That Michel Steno, by his own confession, 
Guilty on the last night of Carnival 
Of having graven on the ducal throne 
The following words " 

Doge. Wouldst thou repeat them ? 

Wouldst thou repeat them — thou, a Faliero, 
Harp on the deep dishonor of our house, 
Dishonor'd in its chief— that chief the prince 
Of Yenice, first of cities ?— To the sentence. 

Ber. F. Forgive me, my good lord; I will obey— 
(Reads) " That Michel Steno be detain'd a month 
In close arrest." , 

Doge. Proceed. 

Ber. F. My lord, 't is finish 'd. 

Doge. How say you ?— finish'd ! Do I dream ? — 
't is false — 
Give me the ^ai^ev— [Snatches the paper and reaxls) 

— " 'T is decreed in council 
That Michel Steno " Nephew, thine arm! 

Ber. F. Nay. 

Cheer up, be calm; this transport is uncall'd for— 
Let me seek some assistance. 

Doge. Stop, sir— Stir not— 

'T is past. 

Ber. F. I cannot but agree with you 
The sentence is too slight for the offence ; 
It is not honorable in the Forty 
To afiix so slight a penalty to that 
Which was a foul affront to you, and even 
To them, as being your subjects; but 't is not 
Yet without remedy : you can appeal 
To them once more, or to the Avogadori, 
AVho, seeing that true justice is withheld, 
Will now take up the cause they once declined^ 
And do you right upon the bold delinquent. 
Think you not thus, good uncle ? Vv^hy do you stand 
So fix'd ? You heed me not ;— I pray you, hear me ! 

Doge [dashing down the ducal bonnet, and offering 
to trample upon it, exclaims, as he is withheld by 
his nephew) 
Oh, that the Saracen were in Saint Mark's ! 
Thus would I do him homage. 

Ber. F. For the sake 
Of Heaven and all its saints, my lord 

Doge. Away ! 

Oh, that the Genoese were in the port ! 
Oh, that the Huns v^iiom I o'erthrew at Zara 
AVere ranged around the palace ! 

Ber. F. 'T is not weU 

In Yenice' Duke to say so. 

Doge. Yenice' Duke ! 

AVho now is Duke in Yenice ? let me see him, 
That he may do me right. 

Ber. F. If you forget 

Your ofllce, and its dignity and duty, 
Remember that of man, and curb this passion. 
The Duke of Yenice 

Doge [interrupting him). There is no such thing — 
It is a word — nay, worse— a worthless by-word : 
The most despised, wrong'd, outraged, helpless 
wretch. 



the councils was valid, unless sanctioned by the presence of 
one of them. 

157 



CT I. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE II, 



Who begs his bread, if 't is refused by one, 
May will it from another kinder heart : 
But he, who is denied his right by those 
Wliose place it is to do no wrong, is poorer 
Than the rejected beggar— he 's a slave — 
And that am I, and thou, and all oiu: house, 
Even from this hour ; the meanest artisan 
Will point the finger, and the haughty noble 
Yiwy spit upon us : — w^here is our redress ? 

Ber. F. The law, my prince 

L>oge {interrupting him). You see what it has 
done — 
I ask'd no remedy but from the law — 
I sought no vengeance but redress by law — 
I call'd no judges but tliose named by law^— 
As sovereign, I appeal'd unto my subjects. 
The very subjects who had made me sovereign. 
And gave me tlms a double right to be so. 
Tiie rights of place and choice, of birth and service. 
Honors and years, these scars, these hoary hairs. 
The travel, toil, the perils, the fatigues. 
The blood and sweat of almost eighty years, 
AVere W'Cigh'd i' the balance, 'gainst the foulest 

stain, 
Tlie grossest insult, most contemptuous crim.e 
Of a rank, rash patrician— and found w^antingl 
And this is to be borne ! 

Ber. F. I say not that : — 

In case your fresh appeal should be rejected, 
We will find other means to make all even. 

Doge. Appeal again ! art thou my brother's son? 
A scion of the house of Faliero ? 
The nephew of a Doge ? and of that blood 
Which hath already given three dukes to Venice ? 
But thou sayst well — we must be humble now. 

Ber. F. My princely uncle! you are too much 
moved : 
I grant it was a gross offence, and grossly 
Left without fitting punishment : but still 
This fury doth exceed the provocation. 
Or any provocation : if we are WTong'd, 
We will ask justice ; if it be denied. 
We '11 take it ; but may do all this in calmness — 
Deep Vengeance is the daughter of deep Silence. 
I have yet scarce a third part of your years. 
I love our house, I honor you, its chief. 
The guardian of my youth, and its instructor — 
But though I understand your grief, and enter 
In part of your disdain, it doth appall me 
To see your anger, like our Adrian weaves, 
O'ersweep all bounds, and foam itself to air. 

Doge. I tell thee —m ust I teU thee— what thy father 
Would have required no words to comprehend ? 
Hast thou no feeling save the external sense 
Of torture from the touch ? hast thou no soul- 
No pride— no passion — no deep sense of honor ? 

Ber. F. 'T is the first time that honor has been 
doubted. 
And were the last, from any other skeptic. 

Doge. You know the full offence of this born vil- 
lain. 
This creeping, cowTa'd, rank, acquitted felon. 
Who threw^ his sting into a poisonous libel, 
And on the honor of —Oh, God ! — my wife. 
The nearest, dearest part of all men's honor, 
Left a base slur to pass from mouth to moutli 
Of loose mechanics, with all coarse foul comments. 
And villainous jests, and blasphemies obscene ; 
Wliile sneering nobles, in more polish'd guise, 
Whisper'd the tale, and smiled upon the lie 
Which made me look like them— a courteous wittol , 
Patient — ay, proud, it may be, of dishonor. 

Ber. F. But still it was a lie— you knew it false. 
And so did all men. 

Doge. Nephew, the high Koman 

Said, " Caesar's wife must not even be suspected," 
And put her from him. 

158 



Ber. F. True — ^but in those days 

Doge. What is it that a lioman would not suffer. 
That a Venetian prince must bear ? Old Dandoio 
Refused the diadem of all the Csesars, 
And wore the ducal cap 1 1 rami pie on, 
Because 'tis now degraded. 

Ber. F. 'T is even so. 

Doge. It is — it is : — I did not visit on 
The innocent creature thus most vilely slander 'd 
Because she took an old man for her lord. 
For that he had been long her father's friend 
And patron of her house, as if there were 
No love in woman's heart but lust of youth 
And beardless faces ; — I did not for this 
Visit the villain's infamy on her. 
But craved my country's justice on his head, 
The justice due unto the humblest being 
"\v^ho liath a wife whose faith is sweet to him. 
Who hath a home wdiose hearth is dear to him. 
Who hath a name whose honor 's all to him, 
When these are tainted by tlie accursing breat!i 
Of calumny and scorn. 

Ber. F. And what redress 

Did you expect as his fib p-uiiishment ? 

Doge. Death! Was I not the sovereign of the 
state — 
Insulted on his very throne, and made 
A mockery to the men w-ho should obey me ?. 
Was I not injured as a husband ? scorii'd 
As man ? reviled, degraded, as a prince ? 
Was not offence like his a complication 
Of insult and of treason V — and he lives ! 
Had he instead of on tlie Doge's throne 
Stamp'd the same brand upon a peasant's stool. 
His blood had gilt the threshold ; for the carle 
Had stabb'd him on the instant. 

Ber. F. Do not doubt it. 

He shall not live till sunset— leave to me 
The means, and calm yourself. 

Doge. Hold, nephew : this 

Would have sufficed but yesterday ; at present 
I have no further WTath against this man. 

Ber. F. What mean you ? is not the offence re- 
doubled 
By this most rank — I will not say' — acquittal ; 
For it is worse, being full acknowdedgment 
Of the offence, and leaving it unpunish'd ? 

Doge. It is redovMed, but not now by him : 
T]ie Forty hath decreed a month's arrest — 
We must obey the Forty. 

Ber. F. Obey them! 

Who have forgot their duty to the sovereign ? 

Doge. Why, yes ;— boy , you perceive it then at last : 
Whether as fellow-citizen wlio sues 
For justice, or as sovereign w^ho commands it, 
They have defrauded me of both my rights 
(For here the sovereign is a citizen) ; 
But, notwithstanding, harm not thou a hair 
Of Steno's head— he shall not vv ear it long. 

Ber. F. Not tw^elve hours longer, had you left to 
me 
The mode and means : if you had calmly heard me, 
I never meant this m.iscreant should escape. 
But wish'd you to repress such gusts of passion. 
That we more surely might devise together 
His taking off. 

Doge. No, nephew^ he must live ; 

At least, just now^— a life so vile as his 
Were nothing at this hour; in th' olden time 
Some sacrifices ask'd a single victim, 
Great expiations had a hecatomb. 

Ber. F. Your wishes are my lavf, and yet I fain 
Would prove to you how near unto my heart 
The honor of our house must ever be. 

Doge. Fear not ; you shall have time and place of 
proof ; 
But be not thou too rash, as I have been. 



ACT I. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCEI^E 11. 



I am ashamed of my own anger now; 
1 pray you, pardon me. 

Ber. F. Why, that 's my uncle ! 

Tiie leader, and the statesman, and the chief 
Of commonwealths, and sovereign of himself! 
1 wonder'd to perceive you so forget 
All prudence in your fury at these years, 
Although the cause 

Doge. Ay, think upon the cause — 

Forget it not : — When you lie down to rest, 
Let it be black among your dreams ; and when 
The morn returns, so let it stand between 
The sun and you, as an ill-omen'd cloud 
Upon a summer day of festival : 
So will it stand to me ; — bu.t speak not, stir not, — 
Leave all to me; — we shall have much to do. 
And you shall have a part.— But now retire, 
'T is fit I were alone. 

Ber. F. {taking up and placing the ducal bonnet on 
the table). 

Ere I depart, 
1 pray you to resume what you have spurn 'd. 
Till you can change it haply for a crown. 
And now I take my leave, imploring you 
In all things to rely upon my duty 
As doth become your near and faithful kinsman, 
And not less loyal citizen and subject. 

\_Exit Bertuccio Faliero, 

Doge [solus). Adieu, my worthy nephew. — 

Hollow bauble ! [Taldng up the ducal cap. 
Beset with all the thorns that line a crown. 
Without investing the insulted brow 
With the all-swaying majesty of kings ; 
Thou idle, gilded, and degraded toy. 
Let me resume thee as I would a vizor. [Puts it o?i. 
How my brain aches beneath thee ! and my temples 
Throb feverish under thy dishonest weight. 
Could I not turn thee to'a diadem ? 
Could I not shatter the Briarean sceptre 
Which in this hundred-handed Senate rules, 
Making the people nothing, and tlie prince 
A pageant ? In my life I have achieved 
Tasks not less difficult — achieved for them, 
Who thus repay me ! Can I not requite them ? 
Oh, for one year ! Oh, but for even a day 
Of my full youth, while yet my body served 
My soul as serves the generous steed his lord, 
1 would have dash'd amongst them, asking few 
In aid to overthrow these swoln patricians ; 
But now I must look round for other hands 
To serve this hoary head ; — but it shall plan 
In such a sort as will not leave the task 
Herculean, though as yet 'tis but a chaos 
Of darkly-brooding thoughts : my fancy is 
In her first work, more nearly to the light 
'Holding the sleeping images of things 
For the selection of the pausing judgment. — 
The troops are few in 

Enter Vincenzo. 

Vin. There is one without 

Craves audience of your highness. 

Doge. I 'm unwell— 

I can see no one, not even a patrician— 
Let him refer his business to the council. 

Vin. My lord, I will deliver your reply; 
It cannot much import — he -s a plebeian, 
The master of a galley, I believe. 

Doge. How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? 
That is— I mean — a servant of the state : 
Admit him, he may be on public service. 

[Exit Vincenzo. 

Doge [solus). This patron maybe sounded ; I will 
' try him. 



* An historical 
Doges. 



fact. See Marin Sanuto's Lives of the 



I know the people to be discontented : 
They have cause, since Sapienza's adverse day, 
When Genoa conquer'd : they have further cause, 
Since they are nothing in the state, and in 
The city worse than nothing — mere machines. 
To serve the nobles' most {^atrician pleasure. 
The troops have long arrears of pay, oft promised, 
And murmur deeply^any hope of change 
Will draw them forward : they shall pay themselves 
With plunder : — but the priests— I doubt the priest- 
hood 
Will not be with us; they have hated me 
Since that rash hour, when, madden 'd with the 

drone, 
I smote the tardy bishop at Treviso,^ 
Quickening his holy march ; yet, ne'ertheless, 
They may be won, at least their chief at Rome, 
By some well-timed concessions; but, above 
All things, I must be speedy: at my hour 
Of twilight little light of life remains. 
Could I free Venice, and avenge my wrongs, 
I had lived too long, and willingly would sleep 
ISText moment with my sires; and, wanting this, 
Better that sixty of my fourscore years 
Had been already where — how soon, I care not — 
The whole must be extinguish'd ; — better that 
They ne'er had been, than drag me on to be 
The thing these arch-oppressors fain would make 

me. 
Let me consider— of efficient troops 
There are three thousand posted at 

Enter Vincenzo and Israel Bertuccio. 

Vin. May it xjlease 

Your highness, the same patron that I spake of 
Is here to crave your patience. 

Doge. Leave the chamber, 

Vincenzo. — 

Exit Vincenzo. 
Sir, you may advance— what would you ? 

I. Ber. Eedress. 

Doge. Of whom ? 

I. Ber. Of God and of the Doge. 

Doge. Alas ! my friend, you seek it of the twain 
Of least respect and interest in Venice. 
You must address the council. 

/. Ber. 'T were in vain ; 

For he who injured me is one of them. 

Doge. There 's blood upon thy face — how came it 
there V 

I. Ber. 'T is mine, and not the first I 've shed for 
Venice, 
But the first shed by a Venetian h.and : 
A noble smote me. 

Doge. Doth he live ? 

I. Ber. ^ot long — 

But for the hope I had and have, that you. 
My prince, yourself a soldier, v/ill redress 
Him, whom the laws of discipline and Venice 
Permit not to protect himself ;— if not — 
I say no more. 

Doge. But something you would do — 

Is it hot so ? 

I. Ber. I am a man, my lord. 

Doge. Why, so is he who sniote you. 

I. Ber. " He is call'd so: 

Nay, more, a noble one— at least, in Venice : 
But since he hath forgotten that I am one. 
And treats me like a brute, the brute may turn — 
'T is said the worm will. 

Doge. Say— his name and lineage ? 

/. Ber. Barbaro. 

Doge. What was the cause ? or the pretext ? 

I. Ber. 1 am the chief of the arsenal, f employed 

+ "This officer was chief of the artisans of the arsenal, and 
commanded the Bucentaui-, for the safety of which, even if 
159 



ACT I. 



3IARIN0 FALIERO, 



SCENE TT. 



At present in repairing certain gallej^s 
But roughly used by the Genoese last year. 
This morning comes the noble Barbaro 
Full of reproof, because our artisans 
Had left some frivolous order of his house, 
To execute the state's decree : I dared 
To justify the men — he raised his hand;— 
Behold my blood ! the first time it e'er tiow'd 
Dishonorably. 

Doge. Have you long time served ? 

L Ber. So long as to remember Zara's siege, 
And fight beneath the chief who beat the Huns there, 
Sometime my general, now tlie Doge Faliero.— 

Doge. How ! are we comrades '?— the state's ducal 
robes 
Sit newly on me, and you w^ere appointed 
Chief of the arsenal ere I came from Rome ; 
So that I recognized you not. Who placed you ? 

I. Ber. Tlie late Doge; keeping still my old com- 
mand 
As patron of a galley : my new office 
Was given as the reward of certain scars 
(So was your predecessor pleased to say) : 
I little thought his bounty would conduct me 
To his successor as a helpless plaintiff ; 
At least, in such a cause. 

Doge. Are you much hurt ? 

/. Ber. Irreparably in my self-esteem. 

Doge. Speak out; fear nothing: being stung at 
heart. 
What would you do to be revenged on this man ? 

/. Ber. That which I dare not nam«, and yet will 
do. 

Doge. Then wherefore came you here ? 

I. Ber. I come for justice. 

Because my general is Doge, and will not 
See his old soldier trampled on. Had any, 
Save Faliero, fill'd the dncal throne. 
This blood had been wash'd out in other blood. 

Doge. You come to me for justice — unto me I 
Tlie Doge of Venice, and I cannot give it ; 
I cannot even obtain it — 't was denied 
To me most solemnly an hour ago ! 

/. Ber. How says your highness ? 

Doge. Steno is condemned 

To a month's confinement. 

I. Ber. What ! the same who dared 

To stain the ducal throne with those foul words, 
That have cried shame to every ear in Venice ? 

Doge. Ay, doubtless they have echo'd o'er the 
arsenal. 
Keeping due time with every hammer's chnk 
As a good jest to jolly artisans ; 
Or making chorus to the creaking oar, 
in the vile tune of every galley-slave. 
Who, as he sung the merry stave, exulted 
He w^as not a shamed dotard like the Doge. 

I. Ber. Is 't possible? a month's imprisonment ! 
Ko more for Steno ? 

Doge. You have heard th.e offence, 

And now you know his punishment ; and then 
You ask redress of me! Go to the Forty, 
Who pass'd the sentence upon Michel Steno ; 
They '11 do as much by Barbaro, no doul)t. 

J. Ber. Ah ! dared I speak my feelings ! 

Doge. Give them breath. 

Mine have no further outrage to endure. 

/. Ber. Then, in a w^ord, it rests but on yourw^ord 
To punish and avenge— I will not say 
My petty wrong, for Vv'hat is a mere blow, 
However vile, to such a thing as I am ?— 
But the base insult done your state and person. 



an accidental storm should arise, he was responsible Avith his 
life. He mounted guard at the ducal palace during- an in- 
terregnum, and bore the red standard before the new dog-e 
on his inaugruration ; for which service his perquisites were 
IGO 



Doge. You overrate my power, which is a pa- 
geant. 
This cap is not the monarch's crown ; these robes 
Might move compassion, like a beggar's rags ; 
Kay, more, a beggar's are his owm, and these 
But lent to the poor puppet, who must play 
Its part with all its empire in this ermine. 

1. Ber. Wouldst thou be king ? 

Doge. Yes— of a happy people. 

I. Ber. Wouldst thou be sovereign lord of Venice? 

Doge. Ay, 

If that the people shared that sovereignty, 
So that nor they nor I were further slaves 
To this o'ergro^^^l aristocratic Hydra, 
Tlie poisonous heads of whose envenomed body 
Have breathed a pestilence upon us all. 

I. Ber. Yet, thou w^ast born, and still hast lived, 
patrician. 

Doge. In evil hour was I so born ; my birth 
Hath made me Doge to be insulted : but 
I lived and toil'd a soldier and a servant 
Of Venice and her people, not the Senate ; 
Tlieir good and my own honor were my guerdon. 
I have fought and bled; commanded, ay, and con- 

quer'd ; 
Have made and marr'd peace oft in embassies, 
As it might chance to be our country's vantage ; 
Have traA^ersed land and sea in constant duty. 
Through almost sixty years, and still for Venice, 
My fathers' and my birthplace, whose dear spires, 
Rising at distance o'er the blue Lagoon, 
It was reward enough for me to view 
Once more ; but not for any knot of men, 
Xor sect, nor faction, did I bleed or sweat ! 
But would you know why I have done all this ? 
Ask of the bleeding pelican v*diy she 
Hath ripp'd her bosom ? Had the bird a voice. 
She 'd tell thee 't was for all her little ones, 

I. Ber. And yet they made thee Duke. 

Doge. Theij made me so ; 

I sought it not, the flattering fetters met me 
Returning from my Roman embassy. 
And never having hitherto refused 
Toil, charge, or duty for the state, I did not, 
At these late years, decline what was the higliest 
Of all in seeming, but of all most base 
In wdiat we have" to do and to endure : 
Bear witness for me thou, my injured subject, 
When I can neither right myself nor thee. 

/. Ber. You shall do both, 'if you possess the will ; 
And many thousands more not less oppress'd, 
Who w^ait but for a signal— will you give it ? 

Doge. You speak in riddles. 

I. Ber. Which shall soon be read 

At peril of my life, if you disdain not 
To lend a patient ear. 

Doge. Say on. 

/. Ber. Kot thou, 

jSTor I alone, are injured and abused, 
Contemn'd and trampled on ; but the wiiole peoiile 
Groan with the strong conception of their wrongs : 
The foreign soldiers in the Senate's pay 
Are discontented for their long arrears ; 
The native mariners, and civic troops. 
Feel with their friends ; for who is he amongst them 
Whose brethren, parents, children, wives, or sisters. 
Have not partook oppression, or pollution. 
From the patricians ? And the hopeless war 
Against the Genoese, which is still maintaiii'd 
With the plebeian blood, and treasure wrung 
From their hard earnings, has inflamed them 
further : 



the ducal mantle, and the two silver basins from Avhich the 
doge scattered the regulated pittance Avhich he was permit- 
ted to throw among the people."— Amelot de la Houssaye, 
79. 



ACT T. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE TT. 



Even now— but, I forget that speaking thus, 
Perhaps I pass the sentence of my death ! 

Doge. And suffering what thou hast done — fear'st 
thou death ? 
Be silent then, and live on, to be beaten 
By those for whom thou hast bled. 

I. Ber. 1^0, 1 will speak 

At every hazard : and if Venice' Doge 
Should turn delator, be the shame on him, 
And sorrow too ; for he will lose far more 
.Than I. 

Doge. From me fear nothing ; out with it ! 

I. Ber. Know then, that there are met and sworn 
in secret 
A band of brethren, valiant hearts and true; 
Men who have proved all fortunes, and have long 
Grieved over that of Venice, and have right 
To do so; having served her in all climes, 
And having ijescued her from foreign foes, 
Would do the same from those within her walls. 
They are not numerous, nor yet too few 
For their great purpose ; they have arms, and means, 
And hearts, and hopes, and faith, and patient cour- 
age. 

Doge. For what then do they pause ? 

/. Ber. An hour to strike. 

Doge {aside). Saint Mark's shall strike that hour ! * 

I. Ber. I nov/ have placed 

My life, my honor, all my earthly hopes 
Within thy power, but in the firm belief 
That injuries like ours, sprung from one cause, 
Will generate one vengeance : should it be so, 
Be our chief now— our sovereign hereafter. 

Doge. How many are ye ? 

I. Ber. I '11 not answer that 

Till I am answer'd. 

Doge. How, sir ! do you menace V 

I. Ber. No; I affirm. I have betray 'd myself; 
But there 's no torture in the mystic wells 
Which underm.ine your palace, nor in those 
Kot less appalling cells, the " leaden roofs," 
To force a single name from me of others. 
The Pozzi f and the Piombi were in vain ; 
They might wring blood from me, but treachery 

never. 
And I would pass the fearful " Bridge of Sighs," 
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er ' 
Would echo o'er the St^^gian wave which flows 
Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing 
The prison and the palace walls : there are 
Those who would live to think on 't, and avenge me. 

Doge. K such your power and purpose, why come 
here 
To sue for justice, being in the course 
To do yourself due right ? 

I. Ber. Because the man. 

Who claims protection from authority, 
Showing his confidence and his submission 
To that authority, can hardly be 
Suspected of combining to destroy it. 
Had I sate down too humbly with this blow, 
A moody brow and mutter'd threats had made me 
A mark'd man to the Forty's inquisition ; 
But loud complaint, however angrily 
It shapes its phrase, is little to be fear'd, 
And less distrusted. But, besides all this, 
I had another reason. 

* The bells of San Marco were never rung- but by order of 
the doge. One of the pretexts for ring-ing- this alarm was to 
have been an announcement of the appearance of a Genoese 
fleet off the Lagune. 

+ " The state dungeons, called Pozzi, or wells, were sunk in 
the thick walls of the palace ; and the prisoner, when taken 
out to die, was conducted across the gallery to the other side, 
and being then led back into the other compartment or cell, 
upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low mortal through 
which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up ; 
11 



Doge. What was that ? 

I. Ber. Some rumors that the Doge was greatly 
moved 
By the reference of the Avogadori 
Of Michel Steno's sentence to the Forty 
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honor'd j^ou. 
And felt that you were dangerously insulted. 
Being of an order of such spirits, as 
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 't was 
My wish to prove and urge you to redress. 
iSTowyou know all; and that I speak the truth. 
My peril be the proof. 

Doge. You have deeply ventured ; 

But all must do so who would greatly win: 
Thus far I '11 answer you — your secret 's safe. 

I. Ber. And is this all ? 

Doge. Unless with all intrusted, 

What would you have me answer ? 

I. Ber. I would have you 

Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you. 

Doge. But I must know your plan, your names, 
and numbers ; 
The last may then be doubled, and the former 
Matured and strengthen 'd. 

T. Ber. We 're enough already : 

You are the sole ally we covet now. 

Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your 
^ chiefs. 

I. Ber. That shall be done upon your formal 
pledge 
To keep the faith that we will pledge to you. 

Doge. When? where? 

I. Ber. This night I '11 bring to your apartment 
Two of the principals ; a greater number 
Were hazardous. 

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. 

What if I were to trust myself amongst you. 
And leave the palace ? ' 

/. Ber. You must come alone. 

Doge. With but my nephew. 

I. Ber. Not were he your son. 

Doge. Wretch ! darest thou name my son ? He 
died in arms 
At Sapienza for this faithless state. 
Oh ! that he were alive, and I in ashes ! 
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes ! 
I should not need the dubious aid of strangers. 

I. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou 
doubtest, 
But will regard thee with a filial feeling. 
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them. 

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of 
meeting ? 

I. Ber. At midnight T will be alone and mask'd 
Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, 
To wait your coming, and conduct you where 
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce 
Upon our project. 

Doge. At what hour arises 

The moon ? 

/. Ber. Late, but the atmosphere is thick and 
dusky ; 
'T IS a sirocco. 

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, 

Near to the church where sleep my sires ; % the 

same, 
Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul ; 

but the passage is open, and is still known by the name of the 
Bridge of Sighs." 

$ " The doges were all buried in St. Mark's 'before Faliero. 
It is singular that when his predecessor, Andrea Dandolo, 
died, the Ten made a law that all the future doges should be 
buried with their families in their own churches— one would 
think, by a kind of presentiment. So that all that is said 
of his ancestral doges, as buried at St. John's and Paul's, is 
altered from the fact, they ueing in St. Mark's.— JSj/ron Let- 
ters, Oct., 1820. 

161 



ACT IT. 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE I. 



A gondola,* with one oar only, will 

Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. 

Be there. 

/. Ber, I will not fail. 

Doge. And now retire 

/. Ber. In the full hope your highness will not 
faUer 
In your great purpose. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Israel Bcrtuccio. 

Doge {solus). At midnight, by the church Saints 
John and Paul, 
"Where sleep my noble fathers, I repair — 
To what ? to hold a council in the dark 
With common rutlians leagued to ruin states ! 
And will not my great sires leap from the vault, 



Where lie two doges who preceded me. 

And pluck me down amongst them ? Would they 

cculd ! 
For I should rest in honor with the honor'd. 
Alas ! I must not think of them, but those 
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name 
Noble and brave as aught of consular 
On Koman marbles ; but I will redeem it 
Back to its antique lustre in our annals, 
By sweet revenge on all that 's base in Venice, 
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black 
To all the growing calumnies of time, 
Which never spare the fame of him who fails, 
But try the Caesar, or the Catiline, 
By the true touchstone of desert — success. 



ACT II, 



SCENE I. — An Aioartment in the Ducal Palace. 

Angiolina. {wife of the Doge) and Marianna. 

Any. What was the Doge's answer ? 

Mar. That he was 

That m-oment summon'd to a conference; 
But 't is by this time ended. I perceived 
Not long ago the senators embarking; 
And the last gondola may now be seen 
Gliding into the throng of barks which stud 
The glittering waters. 

Ang. Would he were return'd ! 

He has been much disquieted of late ; 
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit, 
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame, 
Wliich seems to be more nourish 'd by a soul 
So quick and restless that it would consume 
Less hardy clay — Time has but little iw,rer 
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike 
To other spirits of his order, who, 
Tn the first burst of passion, pour away 
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him 
An aspect of eternity : his thoughts, 
His feelings, passion's, good or evil, all 
Have nothing of old age : and liis bold brow 
Bears but the scars of mind, the thouglits of years. 
Not their decrepitude : and he of late 
Has been more agitated than his wont. 
AVould he were come ! for I alone have power 
Upon his troubled spirit. 

Mar. It is true. 

His highness has of late been greatly moved 
By the affront of Steno, and with cause: 
But the offender doubtless even now 
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with 
Such chastisement as will enforce respect 
To female virtue, and to noble blood. 

Ang. 'T v/as a gross insult ; but I heed it not 
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself. 
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression 
AVhich it has made upon Faliero's soul. 
The proud, the fiery, the austere— austere 
To all save me : I tremble when I think 
To what it may conduct. 

3far. - Assuredly 

The Doge cannot suspect you ? 

Ang. Suspect me I 

Why Steno dared not : when he scrawl'd liis lie, 
Grovelling by stealth in the moon's glimmering 

light. 
His own still conscience smote him for the act. 
And every shadow on the walls frown 'd shame 
Upon his coward calumny. 



* A gondola is not like a common boat, but is as easily 
rowed with one oar as with two (though, of course, not so 
102 



Mar. 'T were fit 

He should be punish'd grievously. 

Ang, He is so. 

Jyfar. What ! is the sentence pass'd ? is he con- 
demn 'd ? ' 

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. 

Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul 
scorn ? 

Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, 
Nor do I know what sense of punishment 
May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno ; 
But if his insults sink no deeper in 
The minds of the inquisitors than they 
Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, 
Be left to his own shamelessness or shame. 

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue, 

Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim ? 
Or if it must depend upon men's words ? 
The dying Eoman said, " 't was but a name : " 
It were indeed no more, if human breatli 
Could make or mar it. 

Mar. Yet full many a dame. 

Stainless and faithful, would feel all the Avrong 
Of such a slander ; and less rigid ladies, 
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud 
And all-inexorable in their cry 
For justice. 

Ang. This but proves it is the name 

And not the quality they prize : the first 
Have found it a hard task to hold their honor, 
If they require it to be blazon 'd forth ; 
And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming 
As they would look out for an ornament 
Of wdiich they feel the want, but not because 
They think it so ; they live in others' thoughts, 
And would seem honest, as they must seem fair. 

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician 
dame. 

Ajig. And yet they were my father's; with his 
name. 
The sole inheritance he left. 

3Iar. You want none ; 

Wife to a prince, the chief of the Fvcpublic. 

Ang. I should have sought none though a peas- 
ant's bride, 
But feel not less the love and gratitude 
Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand 
Upon his early, tried, and trusted friend, 
The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. 

Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your 
heart? 

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. 

Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, 



swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy, and, since 
the decay of Venice, of economy. 



ACT IT. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE T. 



And, let me add, disparity of tempers, 

Might make the world doubt whether such an union 

Coiild make 3^011 wisely, permanently happy. 

Arag. The world w- ill think with worldlings; but 
my heart 
Has stili been in my duties, which are many, 
But never difficult. 

Mav. And do you love him ? 

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit 
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me 
To single out what we should love in others, 
And to subdue all tendency to lend 
The best and purest feelings of our nature 
To baser passions. He bestow'd m.y hand 
Lpon Faliero : he had known him no))ie, 
Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities 
Of soldier, citizen, and friend ; in all 
Such have I found him as my father said. 
His faults are those that dwell in the Ijigh bosoms 
Of men who have commanded ; too much pride, 
And the deep passions fiercely foster 'd by 
The uses of patricians, and a' life 
Spent in the storms of state and war; and also 
From the quick sense of honor, which becomes 
A duty to a certain sign, a vice 
When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him. 
And then he has been rash from his youth upwards. 
Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness 
In such sort, that the wariest of republics 
Has lavish 'd all its chief employs upon him. 
From his first fight to his last embassy, 
From which on his return the Dukedom met him. 

Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your 
heart 
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth, 
Such as in years had been more meet to match 
Beauty like yours ? or since have you ne'er seen 
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give. 
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter? 

Aug. I answer 'd your first question w^hen I said 
I married. 

Mar. And the second ? 

Aug. Needs no answer. 

Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have offended. 

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise : I knew 
not 
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves 
To ponder upon what they now might choose, 
Or aught save their past choice. 

Mar. 'T is their past choice 

That far too often makes them deem they would 
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it. 

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts. 

Mar. Here comes the Doge— shall I retire 'f 

Ang. It may 

Be better you should quit me; he seems wrapt 
In thought. — How pensively he takes his way I 

[Exit Marianne. 

Enter the Doge and Pietro. 

Doge [mumig). There is a certain Pliilip Calendaro 
Now in the arsenal, who holds command 
Of eighty men, and has great influence 
Besides on all the spirits of his comrades : 
This man, I hear, is bold and popular. 
Sudden and daring, and yet secret ; 't w^ould 
Be well that he were won : I needs must hope 
That Israel Bertuccio has secured him. 
But fain would be 

Pie. My lord, pray pardon 

For breaking in upon your meditation ; 
The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, 
Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure 
To fix an hour when he may speak with you. 

Doge. At sunset. — Stay a moment — let me see — 
Say in the second hour of night. 

{Exit Pietro. 



Ang. My lord ! 

Doge. My dearest child, forgive me— why delay 
So long approaching me ?— I saw you not. 

Ang. You were absorb 'd in thought, and he v/ho 
now 
Has parted from you might have w^ords of weight 
To bear you from the senate. 

Doge. From the senate ? 

Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty 
And theirs. 

Doge. The senate's duty ! you mistake; 

'T is we who owe all service to the senate. 

Ang. I tliought the Duke had held command in 
Venice. 

Doge. He shall. — But let that pass.— We will be 
jocund. 
How fares it with you ? have you been abroad ? 
Tlie day is overcast, biit the calm wave 
Favors the gondolier's light skimming oar; 
Or have you held a levee of your friends ? 
Or has your music made you solitary ? 
Say — is there aught that you would will within 
Tlie little sw^ay now left the Duke ? or aught 
Of fitting splendor, or of honest pleasure, 
Social or lonely, that would glad your heart. 
To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted 
On an old man oft moved with many cares ? 
Speak, and 't is done. 

Ang. You 're ever kind to me. 

I have nothing to desire, or to request, 
Except to see you oftener and calmer. 

Doge. Calmer? 

Ang. Ay, calmer, my good lord.— Ah, why 

Do you still keep apart, and walk alone, 
And let such strong emotions stam.p your brow. 
As not betraying their full import, yet 
Disclose too much ? 

Doge. Disclose too much !— of what ? , 

What is there to disclose ? 

Ang. A heart so ill 

At ease. 

Doge. 'Tis nothing, child. — But in the state 
You know what daily cares oppress all those 
Who govern this precarious commonwealth ; 
Now suffering from the Genoese without. 
And malcontents within— 't is this which makes me 
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont. 

Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never 
Till in these late days did I see you thus. 
Forgive me; there is something at your heart 
More than the mere discharge of public duties, 
Which long use and a talent like to yours 
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity, 
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'T is not 
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you ; 
You, w^ho have stood all storms and never sunk, 
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power 
And never fainted by the way, and stand 
Upon it, and can look down steadily 
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy. 
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port. 
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's, 
You are not to be wrought on, but would fall, 
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow : 
Your feelings now are of a different kind ; 
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism. 

Doge. Pride I Angiolina ? Alas ! none is left me. 

Ang. Yes — the same sin that overthrew the 
angels. 
And of all sins most easily besets 
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature : 
The vile are only vain ; the great are proud. 

Doge. I had the pride of honor, of your honor, 
Deep at my heart But let us change the theme. 

Ang. Ah, no ! — As I have ever shared your kind- 
ness 
In all things else, let me not be shut out 
163 



ACT IT. 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE I. 



From your distress: were it of public import, 
You know I never sought, would never seek 
To win a word from you ; but feeling now 
Your grief is private, it belongs to me 
To lighten or divide it. Since the day 
When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected 
Unfix'd your quiet, you are greatly changed. 
And I would soothe you back to what you were. 

Doge. To wiiat I was ! — have you heard Steno's 
sentence ? 

Aug. No. 

Doge. A month's arrest. 

Ang. Is it not enough ? 

Doge. Enough!— yes, for a drunken galley-slave. 
Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master ; 
But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, 
Who stains a lady^s and a prince's honor 
Even on the throne of liis authority. 

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction 
Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood : 
All other punishment were light mito 
His loss of honor. 

Doge. Such m.en have no honor ; 

They have but their vile lives— and these are spared. 

Ang. You would not have him die for this of- 
fence ? 

Doge. Not now :— being still alive, I 'd have him 
live 
Long as he can ; he has ceased to merit death ; 
The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges. 
Ami he is pure, for now his crime is theirs. 

Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant libeller 
Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon. 
Ne'er from that moment could this breast have 

known 
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. 

JDoge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for 
■ blood ? 
And he who tairds kills more than he who sheds it. 
Is it the jDmn of blows, or shame of blows, 
That make such deadly to the sense of man ? 
Do not the laws of man say blood for honor, — 
And, less than honor, for a little gold ? 
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason ? 
Is 't nothing to have filled these veins with poison 
For their once healthful current ? is it nothing 
To have stain 'd your name and mine — ^the noblest 

names ? 
Is 't nothing to have brought into contempt 
A prince before liis people ? to have fail'd 
In the respect accorded by mankind 
To youth in woman, and old age in man ? 
To virtue in your sex, and dignity 
In ours ?— But let them look to it who have saved 
him. 

Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies. 

Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her ot\ti ? Is Satan 
saved 
From wrath eternal ? 

Ang. Do not speak thus wildly— 

Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes. 

Doge. Amen ! May Heaven forgive them ! 

Ang. And will you ? 

Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven ! 

Ang. And not till then ? 

Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an old 
man's. 
Worn out, scom'd, spurn'd, abused; what matters 

then 
My pardon more than my resentment, both 
Being weak and wortlilessV I have lived too 

long.— 
But let us change the argument.— My child! 
My injured wife, the child of Loredano, 
The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd 
Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend. 
That he was linking thee to shame !— Alas ! 
164 



Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst 

thou 
But had a different husband, any husband 
In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, 
This blasphem.y had never fallen upon thee. 
So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
To suffer this, and yet be unavenged! 

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, 
And trust, and honor me; and all men know 
That you are just, and I am true : what more 
Could I require, or you command ? 

Doge. 'T is well. 

And may be better ; but whate'er betide, 
Be thou at least kind to my memory. 

Ang. Why speak you thus ? 

Doge. It is no matter why; 

But I would still, whatever others think. 
Have your respect both now and in my grave. 

Ang. Why should you doubt it ? has it ever fail'd ? 

Doge. Come hither, cliild ; I would a ward with 
you. 
Your father was my friend ; unequal fortune 
Made him my debtor for some courtesies 
Which bind the good more firmly: when, oppress 'd 
With his last' malady, he will'd our union, 
It was not to repay me, long repaid 
Before by his great loyalty in friendshi]) ; 
His object was to place your orphan beauty 
In honorable safety from the perils, 
Which, in tliis scorpion nest of vice, assail 
A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not 
Tliink with him, but would not oppose the thought 
Which soothed his death-bed. 

Ang. I have not forgotten 

Tlie nobleness with which you bade me speak, 
Tf my young heart held any preference 
AYliich would have made me happier : nor your offer 
To make my dowry equal to the rank 
Of aught in Yenice, and forego all claim 
INIy father's last injunction gave you. 

Doge. Thus, 

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice. 
Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
AVhich made me covetous of girlish beauty. 
And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
Infected with that leprosy of lust 
Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
Making them ransack to the very last 
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
Too helpless to refuse a state that 's honest, 
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
Our wedlock was not of this sort : you had 
Freedom from me to choose, and urged m answer 
Your father's choice. 

Ang. I did so : I would do so 

In face of earth and heaven ; for I have never 
Bepented for my sake ; sometimes for yours, 
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. 

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you 
liarshly ; 
I knew my days could not disturb you long : 
And then the daughter of my earliest friend, 
liis worthy daughter, free to choose again, 
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom 
Of womanhood, more skillful to select 
Bypassing these probationary years; 
Inheriting a prince's name and riches, 
Secured, by the short penance of enduring 
An old man for some summers, against ail 
That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might 
Have urged against her right ; my best friend's child 
Would choose more fitly in respect of years, 
And not less truly in a faithful heart. ' 

Ang. My lord, t look'd but to my father's wishes, 
Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart 



ACT II. 



3IARIN0 FALIERO. 



SCENE I. 



For doing all its duties, and replying 

With faith to him with whom 1 was affianced. 

Ambitious hopes ne'er crossed my dreams; and 

should 
The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. 

Doge. I do believe you ; and I know you true : 
For love, romantic love, which in my youth 
I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw 
Lasting, but often fatal, it had been 
No lure for me, in my most passionate days, 
And could not be so now, did such exist. 
But such respect, and mildly paid regard 
As a true feeling for your welfare, and 
A free compliance with all honest wishes ; 
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness 
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings 
As youth is apt in, so as not to check 
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew 
You had been won, but thought the change your 

choice ; 
A pride not in your beauty, but your condfict, — 
A trust in you — a patriarchal love. 
And not a doting homage — friendship, faith — 
Such estimation in your eyes as these 
Might claim, I hoped for. 

Ang. And have ever had. 

Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years 
You knew it, choosing me, and chose ; I trusted 
Not to my qualities, nor would have faith 
In such, nor outward ornaments of nature. 
Were I still in my five and twentieth spring ; 
I trusted to tlie blood of Loredano 
Pure in your veins ; I trusted to the soul 
God gave you — to the truths your father taught 

' you— 
To your belief in Heaven — ^to your mild virtues — 
To your own faith and honor, for my own. 

Ang. You have done w'ell.— I thaiik you for that 
trust. 
Which I have never for one moment ceased 
To honor you the more for. 

Doge. Where is honor, 

Innate and precept-strengthen 'd, 't is the rock 
Of faith connubial: where it is not — wliere 
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart. 
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know 
'T were hopeless for humanity to dream 
Of honesty in such infected blood, 
Although ^'t w^ere wed to him it covets most : 
An incarnation of the poet's god 
In all his marble-chisell'd beauty, or 
The demi-deity, Alcides, in 
His majesty of superhuman manhood, 
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not ; 
It is consistency which forms and proves it : 
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
The once fall'n woman must for ever fail ; 
For vice must have variety, wiiile virtue 
Stands like the sun, and all whicli rolls around 
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. 

Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in 
others, 
(I pray you pardon me;) but wherefore yield you 
To the most fierce of fatal passions, and 
Disquiet your great thoughts with restless hate 
Of such a thing as Steno ? 

• Doge. You mistake me. 
It is not Steno who could move me thus ; 
Had it been so, he should but let that pass. 

Ang. What is 't you feel so deeply, then, even 
nov/ ? 

Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, 
At once insulted in her lord and laws. 

Ang. Alas! why will you thus consider it? 

Doge. I have thought on 't till but let me lead 

you back 



To wiiat I urged ; all these things being noted, 
I wedded you ; the w^orld then did me justice 
Upon the motive, and my conduct proved 
They did me right, w^hile"^ yours was all to praise : 
You had all freedom — all respect — all trust 
From me and mine : and, born of those who made 
Princes at home, and swept kings from their thrones 
On foreign shores, in all things you appear'd 
Worthy to be our first of native^ dames. 

Ang. To w^hat does this conduct V 

Doge. To thus much — that 

A miscreant's angry breath may blast it all— 
A villain, wiiom for his unbridled bearing, 
Even in the midst of our great festival, 
I caused to be conducted forth, and taught 
How to demean himself in ducal chambers ; 
A wretch like this may leave upon the wall 
Tlie blighting venom of his sweltering heart, 
And this shall spread itself in general poison ; 
And woman's innocence, man's honor, pass 
Into a byword ; and the doubly felon 
(Who first insulted virgin modesty 
By a gross affront to your attendant damsels 
Amidst the noblest of our dames in public) 
Requite himself for his most just expulsion 
By blackening publicly his sovereign's consort, 
And be absolved by his upright compeers. 

Ang. But he has been condemn'd into captivity. 

Doge. For such as him a dungeon were acquittal ; 
And his brief term of mock arrest will pass 
Within a palace. But I 've done with him ; 
The rest must be with you. 

Ang. With me, my lord ? 

Doge. Yes, Angiolina. Do not marvel : I 
Have let this prey upon me till I feel 
My life can not be long ; and fain would have you 
i Regard the injunctions you will find within 

This scroll [giving her a paper) Fear not; they 

are for your advantage : 
Read them hereafter at the fitting hour. 

Ang. My lord, in life, and after life, you shall 
Be lionor'd still by me : but may your days 
Be many yet— and happier than the present ! 
This passion will give way, and you will be 
Serene, and wiiat you should be— wiiat you were. 

Doge. I will be what I should be, or be nothing ! 
But never more — oh ! never, never more. 
O'er the few days or hours wiiich yet await 
The blighted old age of Faliero, shall 
Sweet Quiet shed her sunset ! Never more 
Those summer shadows rising from the past 
Of a not ill-spent nor inglorious life. 
Mellowing the last hours as the night approaches, 
Shall soothe me to my moment of long rest. 
I had but little more to task, or hope. 
Save the regards due to the blood and sweat, 
And the soul's labor through w^hich I had toiPd 
To make my country honor'd. As her servant — 
Her servant, though her chief — I would have gone 
Down to my fathers with a name serene 
And pure as theirs ; but this has been denied me. — 
Would I had died at Zara ! 

Ang. There you saved 

The state ; tlien live to save her still. A day, 
Another day like that would be the best 
Reproof to them, and sole revenge for you. 

Doge. But one such day occurs within an age; 
My life is littje less than one, and 't is 
Enough for Fortune to have granted once., 
That w^hich scarce one more favor'd citizen 
May win in many states and years. But why 
Thus speak I ? Venice has forgot that da\- — 
Then why should I remember it ? — Farewell, 
Svv^eet Angiolina ! I must to my cabinet; 
There 's much for me to do — and the hour hastens. 

Ang. Remember wiiat you were. 

Loge. It were in vain ! 

165 



ACT IT. 



3IARIN0 FALIERO, 



SCENE TI. 



Joy's recollection is no lon.o-er joy, 
While Sorrow's memory is a sorrow still. 

A)\g. At least, wbateVr may urge, let me implore 
That'you will take some little pause of rest : 
Your sleep for many nights has been so turbid, 
That it had been relief to liave aAvaked you, 
Had I not hoped that Nature would o'erpower 
At length the thoughts which shook your slumbers 

thus. 
An hour of rest will give you to your toils 
AVith titter thoughts and freshen 'd strength. 

Doge. 1 cannot— 

I must not, if I could ; for never w^as 
Such reason to be watchful : yet a few- 
Yet a few days and dream-perturbed nights, 
And I shall slumber well— but where ?— no matter. 
Adieu, my Angioiina. 

Ancj. Let me be 

An instant— 5"et an instant your companion ! 
I cannot bear to leave you thus. 

hoge. Come then. 

My gentle child, forgive me ; thou wert made 
For better fortunes than to share in mine, 
ISTow darkling in their close toward the deep vale 
Where Death sits robed in his ali-swee]ung shadow. 
When I am gone— it may be sooner than 
Even these years warrant, for there is that stirring 
Within— above— around, that in this city 
Will make the cemeteries populous 
As e'er they were by pestilence or war, — 
AYhen I am nothing, let that which I was 
Be still sometimes a name on thy sweet lips, 
A shadow in thy fancy, of a thing 
Which would not have thee mourn it.but remember. 
Let us begone, my child — the tim.e is pressing. 

\)ilxeunt. 

SCENE II, — A Betired Spot near the Arsenal. 

Israel Bertuccio and Philip Calendaro. 

Cal. How sped you, Israel, in your late complaint? 

I. Ber. AYhy, well. 

Cal. Is 't possible ! will he be punish 'd ? 

I. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. With what ? a mulct or an arrest ? 

I. Ber. With death!— 

Cal. jSfow you rave, or must intend revenge. 
Such as I counsell'd you, with your own hand. 

I. Ber. Yes ; and for one sole draught of hate, 
forego 
The great redress we meditate for Venice, 
And change a life of hope for one of exile ; 
Leaving one scorpion crush 'd, and thousands sting- 
ing 
My friends, my family, my countrymen ! 
No. Calendaro ; these same drops of blood. 
Shed shamefully, shall have the whole of his 

For their requital But not only his ; 

We will not strike for private wrongs alone : 
Such are for selfish passions and rash men. 
But are unworthy a tyrannicide. 

CaL You have more patience than I care to boast. 
Had I been present when you bore this insult, 
1 nmst have slain him, or expired myself 
In the vain effort to repress my wrath. 

I. Ber. Thank Heaven, you were not— all had 
else been marr'd : 
As 'tis, our cause looks prosperous still. 

Cal: You saw 

The Doge— what answer gave he ? 

I. Ber. That there was 

No punishment for such as Barbaro. 

Cal. I told you so before, and that 'twas idle 
To tinnk of justice from such hands. 

I. Ber. At least, 

It luird suspicion, showing confidence. 
Had I been silent, not a sbirro but 
166 



Had kept me in his eye, as meditating 
A silent, solitary, deep revenge. 

Cal. But wherefore not address you to the Coun- 
cil ? 
The Doge is a mere puppet, Vviio can scarce 
Obtain right for himself. Why speak to him ? 

L Ber. You shall know that hereafter. 

CaL Why not now ? 

I. Ber. Be patient but till midnight. Get your 
musters, 
And bid our friends prepare their companies : 
Set all in readiness to strike the blow. 
Perhaps in a few hours; we have long waited 
For a fit time— that hour is on the dial, 
It-may be, of to-morrow's sun: delay 
Beyond may breed us double danger. See 
That all be punctual at our place of meeting, 
And arm'd, excepting those of the Sixteen, 
Who will remain among the troops to wait 
The signal. 

Cal. These brave word s h ave breathed new life 
Into mj veins ; I 'm sick of these protracted 
And hesitating councils : day on day 
Crawl 'd on, and added but another "link 
To our long fetters, and some fresher wrong 
Inflicted on our brethren or ourselves. 
Helping to swell our tyrants' bloated strength. 
Let us but deal upon them, and I care not 
For the result, which must be death or freedom ! 
I 'm weary to the heart of finding neither. 

J. Ber. We will be free in life or death ! the grave 
Is chainless. Have you all the musters ready ? 
And are the sixteen companies completed 
To sixty? 

Cal. All save two, in which there are 
Twenty-five wanting to make up the number. 

I. Ber. No matter ; we can do without. AVhose 
are they? 

Cal. Bertram's and old Soranzo's, both of whom 
Appear less forward in the cause than we are. 

I. B-er. Your fiery nature makes you deem all 
those 
Who are not restless, cold : but there exists 
Oft in concentred spirits not less daring 
Than in more loud avengers. Do not doubt them. 

Cal. I do not doubt the elder; but in Bertram 
There is a hesitating softness, fatal 
To enterprise like ours : I 've seen that man 
Weep like an infant o'er the misery 
Of others, heedless of his own, though greater ; 
And in a recent quarrel I beheld him 
Turn sick at sight of blood, although a villain's. 

J. Ber. The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, 
And feel for what their duty bids them do. 
I have known Bertram long ; there doth not breathe 
A soul more full of honor. 

Cal. It may be so : 

I apprehend less treachery than weakness ; 
Yet as he has no mistress, and no wife, 
To work upon his milkiness of spirit, 
He may go through the ordeal : it is well 
He is an orphan, friendless save in us : 
A woman or a child had made him less 
Than either in resolve, 

J. Ber. Such ties are not 

For those who are call'd to the high destinies 
Which purify corrupted commonwealths; 
We must forget all feelings save the one — 
We must resign all passions save our purpose — 
We must behold no object save our country— 
And only look on death as beautiful. 
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven. 
And draw down freedom on her evermore. 

Cal. But if we fail 

I. Ber. They never fail who die 

In a great cause : the block may soak their gore; 
Their heads may sodden in the "sun ; their limbs 



ACT III. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE I. 



Be strung to city gates and castle walls — 

But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years 

Elapse, and others share as dark a doom. 

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts 

Which overpower all others, and conduct 

The w^orld at last to freedom. What were w:e 

If Brutus had not lived ? He died in giving 

Rome liberty, but left a deathless lesson — 

A name which is a virtue, and a soul 

Which multiplies itself throughout all time. 

When wicked men wax mighty, and a state 

Turns servile. He and his high friend were styled 

" The last of Eomans ! " Let^us be the hrst 

Of true Yenetians, sprung from Roman sires. 

Cal. Our fathers did not fly from Attila 
Into tliese isles, where palaces liave sprung 
On banks redeem 'd from the rude ocean's ooze, 
To own a thousand despots in his place. 
Belter bow down before the Hun, and call 
A Tartar lord, than these swoln silkworms masters ! 
The first at least was man, and used his sword 
As sceptre : these unmanly creeping things 
Command our swords, and rule us with a w^ord 
As witli a spell. 

/. Ber. It shall be broken soon. 

You say that all things are in readiness ; 
To-day I have not been the usual round, 
And why thou knowTst ; but thy vigilance 
Will beller have supplied my care : these orders 
In recent council to redouble now 
Our efforts to repair the galleys, have 
Lent a fair color to the introduction 
Of many of our cause into the arsenal, 
As new artificers for their equipment. 
Or fresh recruits obtained in haste to man 
The hoped-for fleet.— Are all supplied with arms ? 

Cal. All who were deem'd trustworthy : tliere 
are some 
Whom it were well to keep in ignorance 
Till it be time to strike, and then supj/iy them ; 
When in the heat and hurry of the hour 
They have no opportunity to pause. 
But needs must on with those who will surround 
them. 

I. Ber. You have said well. Have you remarlv'd 
all such y 

Cal. I 've noted most ; and claused the other chiefs 
To use like caution in their companies. 
As far as I have seen, we are enough 
To make the enterprise secure, if 't is 
Commenced to-morrow; but, till 't is begun. 
Each hour is pregnant with a thousand perds. 

/. Ber. Let the Sixteen meet at the wonted hour. 
Except Soranzo, i!s icoletto Blondo, 
And Marco Giuda, who will keep their watch 
AVithin the arsenal, and hold all ready, 
Expectant of the signal w^e will fix on. 

Cal. We will not fail. 

/. Ber. Let all the rest be there ; 

I have a stranger to present to them. 



Cal. A stranger ! doth he know the secret ? 

I. Ber. Yes. 

Cal. And have you dared to peril your friends' 
lives 
On a rash confidence in one we know not ? 

/. Ber. I have risked no man's life except my own — 
Of that be certain : he is one who may 
Make our assurance doubly sure, according 
His aid : and if reluctant, he no less 
Is in our power : he comes alone with me. 
And cannot 'scape us : but he will not swerve. 

Cal. I cannot judge of this until I know him ; 
Is he one of our order Y 

I. Ber. Ay, in spirit, 

Although a child of greatness ; he is one 
Who w^ould become a throne, or overthrow one — 
One who has done great deeds, and seen great 

changes ; 
Ko tyrant,'though bred up to tyranny ; 
Valiant in war, and sage in council ; noble 
In nature, although haughty ; quick, yet wary : 
Yet for all this, so full of certain passions, 
That if once stirr'd and bafiled, as he has been 
Upon the tenderest points, there is no Tury 
In Grecian story like to that which wTings 
His vitals with her burning hands, till he 
Grovrs capable of all things for revenge ; 
And add too, that his mind is liberal, 
He sees and feels the people are oppress'd, 
And shares their sufferings. Take him all in all, 
AVe have need of such, and such have need of us. 

Cal. And w^hat part w^ould you have him take 
with us ? 

I. Ber. It may be, that of chief. 

Cal. AYhat ! and resign 

Your own command as leader ? 

T. Ber. Even so. 

My object is to make your cause end w'ell, 
And not to push myself to power. Experience, 
Some skill, and your own choice, had mark'd me 

out 
To act in trust as your commander, till 
Some worthier should appear : if I have found such 
As you yourselves shall own more worthy, think you 
That I would hesitate from selfishness. 
And, covetous of brief authority, 
Stake our deep interest on my single thoughts. 
Rather than yield to one above me in 
All leadmg qualities ? Xo, Calendaro, 
Know your friend better ; but you all shall judge. 
Aw^ay ! and let us meet at the fix'd hoar. 
Be vigilant, and all will yet go w^ell. 

Cal. AVorthy Bertuccio, I have known you ever 
Trusty and brave, with head and heart to plan 
What I have still been prompt to execute. 
For my owti part, I seek no other chief ; 
What the rest will decide I know- not, but 
I am with you, as I have ever been. 
In all our undertakings. oSTow farewell. 
Until the hour of midnight sees us meet. [Ex,eunt. 



ACT III. 



SCENE l.—TIie Space between the Canal and the 
Ci'iurch of San Giovanni e San Paolo. An eques- 
trian Statue before it. — A Gondola lies in the Canal 
at some distance. 

Enter the Doge alone^ disguised. 
Doge [solus). I am before the hour, the hour whose 
voice, 
Pealing into the arch of night, might strike 
These palaces with ominous tottering, 
And rock their marbles to the corner-stone, 
AVaking the sleepers from some hideous dream 



Of indistinct but awful augury 

Of that wiiich will befall them. Yes, proud city ! 

Thou must be cleansed of the black blood w^hich 

makes thee 
A lazar-house of tyranny : the task 
Is forced upon me, I have sought it not ; 
And therefore w^as I punish 'd, seeing this 
Patrician pestilence spread on and on. 
Until at length it smote me in my slumbers. 
And I am tainted, and must wash away 
The plague-spots in the healing wave. ' Tall fane ! 
Where sleep my fathers, wiiose dim statues shadow 
167 



ACT III. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE II. 



Tlio floor wliicli dotli divide us from tlie dead, 

Where all the pregnant hearts of our bold blood, 

Moulder'd into a uiit(; of ashes, liold 

Jn one shrunk lieap whnt once made many heroes, 

When what is now a liandful shook tlie earth — 

r^ine of the tutelar saints wlio ft'uard our iiouse ! 

A^ault wliere two doges rest — my sires ! who died 

The one of toil, the other in the field. 

With a long race of otlier lineal cliiefs 

And sages, wliose great labors, wounds, and state 

I hav<^ inherited, — let the graves gape. 

Till all thine aisles be peoi)led with the dead, 

And pour them from thy portals to gaze on me! 

I call them up, and them and thee to witness 

What it hath been which put me to this task — 

Their pure high blood, their blazon-roll of glories, 

Their mighty name dishonor'd all in me. 

Not h]i me, but by the ungrateful nobles 

W(^ fought to make our equals, not our lords : — 

And chiefly thou, Ordelafo the brave;, 

Who])erish'd in the held, wliere [ since conquer'd, 

Battling at Zara, did the hecatombs 

Of thine and Venice' foes, there offer'd up 

By thy descendant, merit such acquittance ? 

Spirits! smile down upon me; for my cause 

Is yours, in all life now can be of yours, — 

Your fame, your name, all mingled u]) in mine, 

And in the future fortunes of our race ! 

Let me but i)rosper, and I make this city 

Free and immortal, and our house's name 

Worthier of what you were, now^ and hereafter ! " 

Enter Israel Bertuccio. 

/. Ber. Who goes there ? 

Doqe. A friend to Yen ice. 

/. her. 'T is he. 

Welcome, my lord, — you are before the time. 

Doge. I am ready to proceed to your assembly. 

/. 'Ber. Have with you. — I am proud and pleased 
to see 
Such confldent alacrity. Your doubts 
Since our last meeting, then, are all dispell'd ? 

Doije. Not so— but I have set my little left 
Of life upon this cast : the die was thrown 
"When first I listen 'd to your treason— Start not! 
That is the word ; I cannot shape my tongue 
To syllable black deeds into smooth names, 
Though I be wrought on to commit them. AVhen 
1 heard you tempt your sovereign, and forbore 
To have you dragg'd to prison, I became 
Your guiltiest accomplice : now you may, 
If it so please you, do as much by. me. 

I. Ber. Strange words, my lord, and most un- 
merited ; 
I am no spy, and neither are we traitors. 

Doge. Wei— Wei — no matter — you have earn'd 
the right 
To talk of as.— But to the point.— If this 
Attempt succeeds, and Venice, render'd free 
And flourishing, tviien we are in our graves. 
Conducts her generations to our touibs, 
And makes her children with their little hands 
Strew flowers o'er lier deliverers' ashes, then 
The consequence will sanctify the deed, 
And we shall be like the two'Bruti in 
The annals of hereafter ; but if not. 
If we should fail, employing bloody means 
And secret i)lot, although to a good end. 
Still we are traitors, honest Israel ; — thou 
No less than he who was thy sovereign 
Six hours ago, and now thy brother rebel. 

I. Ber. 'T is not the moment to consider thus, 
Else I could answer. — Let us to the meeting, 
Or we may be observed in lingering here. 

Boge. We are observed, and have been. 

/. ner. We observed ! 

Let me discover — and this steel 

168 



Doge. Put up ; 

Here are no human witnesses : look there — 
What see you ? 

I. Ber. Only a tall w^arrior's statue 

Bestriding a proud steed, in the dim light 
Of the dull moon. 

Doge. That w^arrior was tlie sire 

Of my sire's fathers, and that statue was 
Decreed to him by tlie twice-rescued city: — 
Think you that he looks down on us or no ? 

/. Ber. My lord, these are mere fantasies ; there 
are 
No eyes in marble. 

Doge. But there are in Death. 

I tell" thee, man, there is a spiiit in 
Such things that acts and sees, unseen, though 

felt; 
And, if there be a spell to stir the dead, 
'T is in such deeds as we are now upon. 
Deem'st thou the souls of such a race as mine 
Can rest, when lie, their last descendant chief, 
Stands plotting on the brink of their pure graves 
With stung plebeians ? 

I. Ber. It had been as WTil 

To have ponder'd this before, — ere you embark'd 
In our great enterprise. — Do you rejjent? 

Doge. No — but l feel, and shall do to the last. 
I cannot quench a glorious life at once. 
Nor dwindle to the thing I now must be. 
And take men's lives by stealth, without some 

pause: 
Yet doubt me not; it is this very feeling. 
And knowing ivliat has wrung me to be thus, 
Which is your best security. There 's not 
A roused mechanic in your busy plot 
So wrong'd as I, so fall'n, so loudly call'd 
To his redress: the very means I am forced 
By these fell tyrants to adopt is such. 
That I abhor them doubly for the deeds 
Which I must do to pay them back for theirs. 

I. Ber. Let us away— hark — the hour strikes. 

Doge. On — On — 

It is our knell, or that of Venice— On ! 

/. Ber. Say rather, 'tis her freedom's rising 
peal 

Of triumph. This way— we are near the place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE II. — The House where the Conspirators meet. 

Dagolino, Doro, Bertram, Fedele Trevisano, 

Calendaro, Antonio delle Bende, etc., etc. 

Cal. {entering). Are all here? 

Dag. ' All with you ; except the three 

On duty, and our leader Israel, 
Who is expected momently. 

Cal. Where 's Bertram ? 

Ber. Here! 

Cal. Have you not been able to complete 

The number wanting in your company ? 

Ber. I had mark'd out some : but I have not dared 
To trust them with the secret, till assured. 
That they were Avorthy faith. 

Cal. ' There is no need 

Of trusting to their faith : who, save ourselves 
And our more chosen comrades, is aware 
Fully of our intent? they think themselves 
Engaged in secret to the Signoryj^^ 
To punish some more dissolute young nobles 
Who have defied the law in their excesses; 
But once drawn up, and their new swords well flesh 'd 
In the rank hearts of the more odious senators, 
They will not hesitate to follow up 
Their blow upon the others, when they see- 
The example of their chiefs; and I for one 
Will set them such, that they for very shame 
And safety will not pause till all have perish'd. 



ACT TIL 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE II. 



Ber, How say you ? all I 

Cat. Whom wouldst thou spare ? 

Ber. I spare ? 

I have no power to spare. I only question'd, 
Thinking that even amongst these vdcked men 
Tliere might he some, whose age and qualities 
Might mark them out for pity. 

Cal. Yes, such pity 

As wdien the viper hath been cut to pieces, 
The separate fragments quivering in the sun, 
In the last energy of venomous life, 
Deserve and have. Why, I should think as soon 
Of pitying some particular fang which made 
One in the jaw of the swoln serpent, as 
Of saving one of these : they form but links 
Of one long chain ; one mass, one breath, one body ; 
They eat, and drink, and live, and breed together, 
Revel, and lie, oppress, and kill in concert,— 
So let them die as oj^e / 

Bag. Should one survive, 

He would' be dangerous as the whole ; it is not 
Their number, be it tens or thousands, but 
The spirit of this aristocracy 
Which must be rooted out : and if there w^re 
A single shoot of the old tree in life, 
'T would fasten in the soil, and spring again 
To gloomy verdure and to bitter fruif. 
Bertram, we must be firm I 

Cal. Look to it well, 

Bertram ; I have an eye upon thee. 

Ber. AVho 

Distrusts me ? 

- Cal. ISiOi I; for if I did so, 

Thou wouldst not now^ be there to talk of trust: 
It is thy softness, not thy want of faith. 
Which makes thee to be doubted. 

Ber. You should know 

AVho hear me, who and w^hat I am. ; a man 
Roused like yourselves to overthrow oppression ; 
A kind man, I am apt to think, as some 
Of you have found me ; and if brave or no, 
You, Calendaro, can pronounce, who liave seen me 
Put to the proof ; or, if you should have doubts, 
I '11 clear them on your person ! 

Cal. You are welcome. 

When once our enterprise is o'er,w^hich must not 
Be interrupted by a private brawl. 

Ber. I am no brawler ; but can bear myself 
As far among the foe as any he 
Who hears me ; else why have I been selected 
To be of your chief comrades ? but no less 
I own my natural weakness ; I have not 
Yet learn 'd to think of indiscriminate murder 
Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight 
Of blood which spouts through lioary scalps is not 
To me a thing of triumph, nor the death 
Of men surprised a glory. Well— too well 
I know that we must do such things on those 
Whose acts have raised up such avengers ; but 
If tliere were some of these who could be saved 
From out this sweeping fate, for our own sakes 
And for our honor, to take olf some stain 
Of massacre, which else pollutes it wholly, 
I had been glad ; and see no cause in this 
For sneer, nor for suspicion I 

Bag. Calm thee, Bertram, 

For we suspect thee not, and take good Ijeart. 
It is the cause, and not our v/ill, which asks 
Such actions from our hands : we "11 wash away 
All stains in Freedom's fountain ! 

Enter Israel Bertuccio, and the Doge, disguised. 

Bag. Welcome, Israel. 

Consp. Most welcome.— Brave Bertuccio, thou 
art late— 
Wlio is this stranger ? 

Cal, It is time to name him. 



Our comrades are even now^ prepared to greet him 
In brotherhood, as I have made it known 
That tliou wouldst add a brother to our cause. 
Approved by thee, and thus approved by all. 
Such is our trust in all thine actions. Now 
Let him unfold himself. 
L Ber. Stranger, step forth ! 

[The Boge discovers him self. 
Consp. To arms !— we are betray 'd— it is the Doge I 
Dowm with them both ! our traitorous captain, and 
The tyrant he hath sold us to ! 

Cal. [drawing his svjord). Hold! hold! 

Who moves a step against them dies. Hold ! hear 
Bertuccio— What ! are you appall'd to see 
A lone, unguarded, weaponless old man 
Amongst you V— Israel, speak! what means this 
mystery ? 
/. Ber. Let them advance and strike at their own 
bosoms, 
Ungrateful suicides ! for on our lives 
Depend their own, th.eir fortunes, and their hopes. 
Boge. Strike I — If I dreaded death, a death more 
fearful 
Than any your rash weapons can inflict, 
I should not now be here :— Oh, noble Courage ! 
The eldest born of Fear, which makes you brave 
Against this solitary hoary liead ! 
See the bold chiefs, who would reform a state 
And shake down senates, mad with wrath and dread 
At sight of one patrician ! Butcher me ! 
You can ; I care not.— Israel, are these men 
The mighty hearts you spoke of ? look upon them ! 
Cal. Faiih! he hath shamed us, and deservedly. 
Was this your trust in j'our true chief Bertuccio, 
To turn your swords against him and his guest ? 
Sheathe them, and hear him. 

L Ber. I disdain to speak. 

They might and must have known a heart like mine 
Incapable of treachery; and the power 
They gave me to adopt all fitting means 
To fui'ther their design was ne'er abused. 
They might be certain that whoe'er was brought 
By me into this council had been led 
To take his choice— as brother, or as victim. 

Boge. And which am I to be ? your actions leave 
Some cause to doubt the freedoni of the choice. 
I. Ber. My lord, we would have perish 'd here 
together. 
Had these rash men proceeded ; but, behold. 
They are ashamed of that mad moment's impulse, 
And droop their heads ; believe me, they are such 
As I described them— Speak to them. 

Cal. Ay, speak ; 

We are all listening in w^onder. 

L Ber. [addressing the ConsfArators). You are safe, 
Xay, more, almost "triumphant— listen then, 
And know my words for truth. 

Boge. You see me here, 

As one of you hath said, an old, unarm'd. 
Defenceless man : and yesterday you saw me 
Presiding in the hall of ducal state. 
Apparent sovereign of our hundred isles. 
Robed in official purple, dealing out 
The edicts of a power which is not mine, 
Xot yours, but of our masters — the patricians. 
Why I was there you know, or think you know; 
i Why I am here, he who hath been most wrong'd, 
i He who among you hath been most insulted, 
I Outraged, and trodden on, until he doubt 
! If he be worm or no, may answer for me, 
I Asking of his own heart, what brought him here ? 
\ You know my recent story, all men know it, 
And judge of it far differently from tliose 
, Who sate in judgment to heap scorn on scorn. 
1 But spare me the recital — it is here, 
I Here at my heart the outrage— but my words, 
j Already spent in unavailing plaints, 
IGO 



ACT III. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE ir. 



Would only show my feebleness the more, 
x\nd I come here to strengtlien even the strong, 
And urge them on to deeds, and not to war 
With woman's weapons ; hut I need not urge you. 
Our private wrongs have sprung from public vices, 
In this — I cannot call it commonwealth, 
Nor kingdom, wh.ich hath neither prince nor people. 
But all the sins of the old Spartan state 
.Without its virtues — temperance and valor. 
Tlie lords of Laced^emon were true soldiers, 
But ours are Sybarites, while we are Helots, 
Of wiiom I am the lowest, most enslaved; 
Althougli dress'd out to jiead a pageant, as 
The Greeks of yore made drunk their slaves to 

form 
A pastime for their children. You are met 
To overthrow this monster of a state. 
This mockery of a government, this spectre, 
Which must be exorcised with blood, — and then 
We will renew the tim.es of truth and justice, 
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth 
Not rash equality but equal rights. 
Proportion 'd like the columns to the temple, 
Giving and taking strength reciprocal. 
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty, 
So that no part could be removed without 
Infringement of the general symmetry. 
In operating this great change, I claim 
To be one of you — if you trust in me ; 
If not, strike home, — my life is compromised, 
And I would rather fall by freemen's liands 
Than live another day to act the tyrant 
As delegate of tyrants: such I am not, 
And never have been — read it in our annals ; 
I can appeal to my past government 
In many lands and cities ; they can tell you 
If I were an oppressor, or a man 
Feeling and thinking for my fellow men. 
Haply had I been what the senate sought, 
A thing of robes and trinkets, dizen'd out 
To sit in state as for a sovereign's picture; 
A popular scourge, a ready sentence-signer, 
A stickler for the senate and " the Forty," 
A skeptic of all measures which had not 
The sanction of " the Ten," a council-fawner, 
A tool, a fool, a puppet, — they had ne'er 
Foster'd the wretch who stung me. What I suffer 
Has reach 'd me through my pity for the people ; 
That many know, and they who know not yet 
Will one day learn : meantime, I do devote, 
Whate'er the issue, my last daj^s of life— 
My present power such as it is, not that 
Of l)oge, but of a man who has been great 
Before he was degraded to a Doge, 
And still has individual means and mind ; 
I stake my fame (and I had fame) — my breath 
(The least of all, for its last hours are nigh) — 
My heart — my hope — my soul — upon this cast! 
Such as I am, I offer me to you 
And to your chiefs ; accept me or reject me, — 
A prince who fain would be a citizen 
Or nothing, and who has left his throne to be so. 

Cal. Long live Faliero ! — Venice shall be free ! 

Consp. Long live Faliero ! 

J. Ber. Comrades ! did I well ? 

Is not this man a host in such a cause ? 

Doge. This is no time for eulogies, nor place 
For exultation. Am I one of you ? 

Cal. Ay, and the first amongst us, as thou hast 
been 
Of Yenice— be our general and chief. 

Doge. Chief ! — general ! — I was general at Zara, 
And chief in Rhodes and Cyprus, prince in Yenice : 

I cannot stoop that is, I am not fit 

To lead a band of patriots : when I lay 

Aside the dignities which I have borne, 
'T is not to put on others, but to be 
170 



Mate to my fellows— but now to the point : 
Israel has stated to me your whole plan — 
'T is bold, but feasible if I assist it, 
And must be set in motion instantly. 

Cal. E'en when thou wilt. Is it not so, my friends? 
I have disposed all for a sudden blow ; 
When shall it be then ? 

Doge. At sunrise. 

JBe7-. So soon ? 

Doge. So soon ?— so late — each hour accumulates 
Peril on peril, and the more so now 
Since I have mingled with you ; — know you not 
The Council, and '' the Ten " ? the spies, the eyes 
Of the patricians dubious of their slaves. 
And now more dubious of the prince they have 

made one V 
I tell you, you must strike, and suddenly. 
Full to the Hydra's heart — its heads will follow. 

Cal. With all my soul and sword, I yield assent ; 
Our companies are ready, sixty each. 
And all now under arms by Israel's order ; 
Each at their different place of rendezvous, 
And vigilant, expectant of some blow ; 
Let each repair for action toliis post ! 
And now, my lord, the signal ? 

Doge. When you hear 

The great bell of Saint Mark's, which may not be 
Struck without special order of the Doge 
(The last poor privilege they leave their prince), 
March on Saint Mark's ! 

I. Ber. And there ?— 

Doge. By different routes 

Let your march be directed, every sixty 
Entering a separate avenue, and still 
Upon the way let your cry be of war 
And of the Genoese fleet, by the first dawn 
Discern 'd before the port ; form round the palace, 
Within whose court will be drawn out in arms 
My nephew and the clients of our house. 
Many and martial ; while the bell tolls on, 
Shout ye, " Saint Mark !— the foe is on our waters I '^ 

Cal. I see it now— but on, my noble lord. 

Doge. All the patricians flocking to the Council 
(Which they dare not refuse, at the dread signal 
Pealing from out their patron saint's proud tower) 
Will then be gather'd in unto the harvest. 
And we will reap them with the sword for sickle. 
If some few should be tardy or absent them, 
'Twill be but to be taken faint and single, 
Wlien the majority are put to rest. 

Cal. Would that the hour were come ! we wiU 
not scotch, 
But kill. 

Ber. Once m.ore, sir, with your pardon, I 
Would now repeat the question which I ask'd 
Before Bertuccio added to our cause 
This great ally who renders it more sure, 
And therefore safer, and as such admits 
Some dawn of mercy to a portion of 
Our victims— must all perish in this slaughter ? 

Cal. All who encounter me and mine, be sure, 
The mercy they have shown, I show. 

Consp. All! All! 

Is this a time to talk of pity V when 
Have they e'er shown, or felt, or feign 'd it ? 

/. Ber. Bertram, 

This false compassion is a folly, and 
Injustice to thy comrades and thy cause ! 
Dost thou not see, that if we single out 
Some for escape, they live but to avenge 
The fallen? and how distinguish now the innocent 
From out the guilty ? all their acts are one— 
A single emanation from one body, 
Together knit for our oppression 1 'T is 
Much that we let their children live ; I doubt 
If all of these even should be set apart : 
The hunter may reserve some single cub 



ACT TIT. 



3IAEIN0 FA LIU EG, 



SCEXE II. 



From out the tiger's litter, but who e'er 
Would seek to save the spotted sire or dam, 
Unless to perish by their fangs ? however, 
I will abide by Doge Faliero's counsel : 
Let him decide if any should be saved. 
Doge. Ask me not — tempt me not with such a 
question — 
Decide yourselves. 

I. Ber. You know their private virtues 

Far better than we can, to whom alone 
Their public vices, and most foul oppression, 
Have made them deadly ; if there be amongst them 
One who deserves to be repeal'd, pronounce. 

Doge. Dolfino's father was my friend, and Lando 
Fought by my side, and Marc Cornaro shared 
My Genoese embassy : I saved the life 
Of Veniero — shall I save it twice ? 
Would that I could save them and Venice also ! 
All these men, or their fathers, were my friends 
Till they became my subjects; then fell from me 
As faithless leaves drop from the o'erblown flower, 
And left me a lone blighted thorny stalk, 
Which, in its solitude, can shelter nothing; 
So, as they let me wither, let them perish! 

Cal. They cannot coexist with Yen ice' freedom ! 
Doge. Ye, though you know and feel our mutual 
mass 
Of many wrongs, even ye are ignorant 
What fatal poison to the springs of life, 
To human ties, and all that 's good and dear, 
Lurks in the present institutes of Venice : 
All these men were my friends : I loved them, they 
Requited honorably my regards ; 
We served and fought ; we smiled and wept in 

concert ; 
We revell'd or we sorrow 'd side by side ; 
W^e made alliances of blood and marriage ; 
We grew in years and honors fairly,— till 
Their own desire, not my ambition, made 
Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell, 
Farewell all social memory ! all thoughts 
In common ! and sweet bonds which link old friend- 
ships. 
When the survivors of long years and actions, 
Which now belong to history, soothe tlie days 
Which yet remain by treasuring each other. 
And never meet, but each beholds the mirror 
Of half a century on his brother's brow, 
And sees a hundred beings, now in earth. 
Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, 
And seeming not all dead, as long as two 
Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band. 
Which once were one and many, still retain 
A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak 

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marble 

Oime ! Oime !— and must I do this deed ? 
I. Ber. My lord, you are much moved : it is not 
now 
That such things must be dwelt upon. 

Boge. Your patience 

A moment — I recede not : mark with me 
The gloomy vices of this government. 
From the hour they made me Doge, the Doge they 

ninde me — 
Farewell tlie past ! I died to all that had been, 
Or rather they to me : no friends, no kindness, 
Ko privacy of life — all were cut off : 
They came not near me, such approach gave um- 
brage ; 
They could not love me, such was not the law ; 
They thwarted me, 'twas the state's policy; 
They baffled me, 't was a patrician's duty ; 



* " I could have forgiven the dag-ger or the howl, any thing, 
but the deliberate desolation piled upon me, when I stood 
alone upon my hearth, with my household gods shivered 
around me. Do you suppose I have forgotten or forgiven 



They wrong'd me, for such was to right the state; 

They could not right me, that would give suspicion ; 

So that I was a slave to my own subjects ; 

So that I v^as a foe to my ow^n friends ; 

Beg'irt with spies for guards, with robes for power, 

With pomp for freedom, gaolers for a council, 

Inquisitors for friends, and hell for life ! 

I had one only fount of quiet left. 

And that they poison'd ! My pure household gods* 

Were shiver'd on my hearth, and o'er their shrine 

Sate grinning Ribaldry and sneering Scorn. 

I. Ber. You have been deeply wrong'd, and now 
shall be 
jSTobly avenged before anotlier night. 

Doge. I had borne all — it hurt me, but I bore it — 
Till this last running over of the cup 
Of bitterness — untirthis last loud insult, 
Not only unredress'd, but sanction 'd ; then. 
And thus, I cast all further feelings from me — 
The feelings which they crush 'd for me, long, long 
Before, even in their oath of false allegiance ! 
Even in that very hour and vow, tliey abjured 
Their friend and made a sovereign, as boys make 
Playthings, to do their pleasure— and be broken! 
I from that hour have seen but senators 
In dark suspicious conflict with the Doge, 
Brooding with him in mutual hate and fear ; 
They dreading lie should snatch tlie tyranny 
From out their grasp, and he abhorring tyrants. 
To m.e, then, these men have no private life, 
Nor claim to ties they have cut off from others ; 
As senators for arbitrary acts 
Amenable, I look on them— as such 
Let them be dealt upon. 

Cal. And now to action ! 

Hence, brethren, to our posts, and may this be 
The last night of mere words : I 'd fain be doing ! 
Saint Mark's great bell at dawn shall find me wake- 
ful! 

I. Ber. Disperse then to your posts : be firm and 
vigilant ; 
Think on the wrongs we bear, the rights w^e claim. 
This day and night shall be the last of peril I 
Watch for the signal, and then march. I go 
To join my band ; let each be prom.pt to marshal 
His separate charge : the Doge will now return 
To the palace to prepare all for the blow. 
We part to meet in freedom and in glory ! 

Cal. Doge, when I greet you next, my homage to 
you 
Shall be the head of Steno on this sword ! 

Doge. No ; let him be reserved unto the last, 
Nor turn aside to strike at such a prey. 
Till nobler game is quarried : his offence 
Was a mere ebullition of the vice, 
The general corruption generated 
By the foul aristocracy : he could not — 
He dared not— in more honorable days 
Have risk'd it. I have merged all private wrath 
Against him in the thought of our great purpose. 
A slave insults me — I require his punishment 
From his proud master's hands ; if he refuse it. 
The offence grows his, and let him answer it, 

Cal. Yet, as the immediate cause of the alliance 
Which consecrates our undertaking more, 
I owe him sach deep gratitude, that fain 
I would repay him as he merits ; may I ? 

Doge. You would but lop the hand, and I the head ; 
You would but smite the scholar, I the master ; 
You would but punish Steno, I the senate. 
I cannot pause on individual hate, • 
In the absorbing, sweeping, whole revenge, 



it? It has, comparatively, swallowed up in me every other 
feeling, and I am only a spectator upon earth till a ten- 
fold opportunity offers. It may come yet."— Byron Letters^ 
1819. 

171 



ACT III. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE II. 



Which, like the sheeted fire from heaven, must blast 
Without distinction, as it fell of yore. 
Where the Dead Sea hath quench 'd two cities' 
ashes. 

I. Ber. Away, then, to your posts ! I but remain 
A moment to accompany the Doge 
To our late place of tryst, to see no spies 
Have been upon the scout, and thence I hasten 
To where my allotted band is under arms. 

Cal. Farewell, then, — until dawn ! 

I. Ber. Success go with you ! 

Consp. We will not fail!— Away! My lord, fare- 
well ! 
[T/ic Conspirators salute the Doge and Israel 
Bertuccw^ and retire^ headed by Philip Calen- 
daro. The Doge and Israel Bertuccio remain. 

I. Ber. We have them in the toil — it cannot fail ! 
Now tliou 'rt indeed a sovereign, and wilt make 
A name immortal greater than the greatest : 
Free citizens have struck at -kings ere now; 
Cj3esars have fallen, and even patrician liands 
Have crush 'd dictators, as the popular steel 
Has reach 'd patricians : but, until tliis hour. 
What prtnce has plotted for his people's freedom ? 
Or risk'd a life to liberate his subjects ? 
For ever, and for ever, they consi)ire 
Against the people, to abuse their hands 
To chains, but laid aside to carry weapons 
Against the fellow nations, so that yoke 
On yoke, and slavery and death may whet, 
Not glut^ the never-gorged Leviathan ! 
Now, my lord, to our enterprise ; — 'tis great. 
And greater the reward ; why stand you rapt ? 
A moment back, and you were all impatience ! 

Doq\ And is it then decided ? must they die ? 

/. Ber. AVho ? 

Doge. JUy o^vn friends by blood and courtesy, 
And many deeds and days — the senators V 

I. Ber. You pass'd their sentence, and it is a just 
one. 

Doge. Ay, so it seems, and so it is to you; 
You are a patriot, plebeian Gracchus — 
Tlie rebels' oracle, the people's tribune — 
I blame you not— you act in your vocation ; 
They sniote you, and oppress'd you, and despised 

you : 
So they have me : but you ne'er spake with them ; 
You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt ; 
You never had their wine-cup at your lips ; 
You grew not up with them, nor laugh'd, nor wept, 
Nor held a revel in their company ; 
Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their 

smile 
In social interchange for yours, nor trusted 
Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have : 
These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, 
The elders of the council : I remember 
When all our locks were like the raven's wing. 
As we went forth to take our prey around 
Tiie isles wrung from the false Mahometan ; 
And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood? 
Each stab to them will seem my suicide. 

/. Ber. Doge ! Doge ! this vacillation is unworthy 
A child : if you are not in second childhood, 
Call back your nerves to your own purpose, nor 
Thus shame yourself and me. By heavens ! 1 'd 

rather 
Forego even now, or fail in our intent, 
Than see the man I venerate subside 
From high resolves into such shallow weakness ! 
You have seen blood in battle, shed it, both 
172 



Your own and that of others ; can you shrink then 
From a few drops from veins of hoary vampires. 
Who but give back what they have drain 'd from 

millions ? 
Doge. Bear with me ! Step by step, and blow on 

blow, 
I will divide with you ; think not I waver : 
Ah ! no; it is the certainty of all 
Which I must do doth make me tremble thus. 
But let these last and lingering thoughts have way. 
To which you only and the night are conscious, 
And both regardless: wlien the hour arrives, 
'Tis mine to sound the knell, and strike the blow, 
Wjiich shall unpeople many palaces. 
And hew the highest genealogic trees 
Down to the earth, strew 'd with their bleeding 

fruit. 
And crush their blossoms into barrenness: 
'J his will I — must I — have I sworn to do, 
Nor aught can turn me from my destiny; 
But still I quiver to behold what I 
Must be, and think what I have been ! Bear with 

me! 
I. Ber. Reman your breast ; I feel no such re- 
morse, 
I understand it not : why should you change ? 
You acted, and you act, "on your free will. 

Doge. Ay, there it is— ;vwt feel not, nor do I, 
Else "I should stab thee on the spot, to save 
A thousand lives, and, killing, do no murder; 
You feel not— you go to this butcher-work 
As if these high-born men were steers for shambles ! 
When all is over, you '11 be free and merry. 
And calmly wash those hands incarnadine ; 
But I, outgoing thee and all thy fellows 
In this surpassing massacre, shall be. 
Shall see and feel— oh God ! oh God ! 't is true, 
And thou dost well to answer that it was 
'' ^ly own free will and act," and yet you err, 
For I tcill do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice ! 
And yet I act no more on my free will, 
Nor my own feelings — both compel me back ; 
But there is hell within me and around. 
And like the demon who believes and trembles 
Must I abhor and do. Away ! away ! 
Get thee unto thy fellows, I will hie me 
To gather the retainers of our house. 
Doubt not. Saint Mark's great bell shall wake all 

Venice, 
Except her slaughter'd senate : ere the sun 
Be broad upon the Adriatic, tliere 
Shall be a voice of weeping, which shall drown 
The roar of waters in the cry of blood ! 
I am resolved— come on. 

I. Ber. With all my soul ! 

Keep a firm rein upon these bursts of passion ; 
Remember what these men have dealt to thee, 
And that this sacrifice will be succeeded 
By ages of prosperity and freedom 
To this unshackled city : a true tyrant 
Would have depopulated empires, nor 
Have felt the strange compunction which hath 

wrung you 
To punish a few traitors to the people. 
Trust me, such were a pity more misyilaced 
Than the late mercy of the state to Steno. 
Doge. Man, thou hast struck upon the chord 

which jars 
All natui-e from my heart. Hence to our task ! 

[Exeunt. 



ACT TV. 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE T. 



^CT IV^, 



SCENE I. — Palazzo of the Patrician Lioni. Lioni 
laying aside the mask and cloak which the. Venetian 
JSlohleswore in public, attended by a Domestic. 

Lioni. I will to rest, right weary of this revel, 
The gayest we have held for many moons, 
,An(l j'et, I know not why, it cheer'cl me not ; 
'There came a heaviness across my lieart, 
Which, in the lightest movement" of the dance, 
Though eye to eye, and hand in hand nnited 
Even with the lady of my love, oppress'd me, 
And througli my spirit cliili'd my blood, until 
A damp like death rose o'er my brow ; I strove 
To laugh the thought away, but 't would not be : 
Through all th.e music ringing in my ears 
A knell was sounding as distinct and clear. 
Though low and far, as e'er the Adrian wave 
Rose o'er the city's murmur in the niglit, 
Dashing against the outward Lido's bulwark : 
So that I left the festival before 
It reach'd its zenith, and will woo my pillow 
For thoughts more tranquil, or forgetfulness. 
Antonio, take my mask and cloak, and light 
The lamp within my chamber. 

Ant. Yes, my lord : 

Command you no refreshment ? 

Lioni. Nought, save sleep, 

Which will not be commanded. Let me hope it, 

[Exit Antonio. 
Though my breast feels too anxious ; I will try 
Whether the air will calm my spirits : 't is 
A goodly night ; tlie cloudy wind which blew 
From the Levant hath crept into its cave. 
And the broad moon has brighten'd. What a still- 
ness ! [Goes to an open lattice. 
And what a contrast with the scene I left. 
Where the tall torches' glare, and silver lamps' 
More pallid gleam along the tapestried walls, 
Spread over the reluctant gloom wliicli haunts 
Those vast and dimly-latticed galleries 
A dazzling mass of artificial light, 
Which show'd all things, but notliing as they were. 
There Age essaying to recall the past, 
After long striving for the hues of youth 
At the sad labor of the toilet, and 
Full many a glance at the too faithful mirror, 
Prank'd fortli in all the pride of ornament. 
Forgot itself, and trusting to the falsehood 
Of the indulgent beams, which show, yet hide, 
Believed itself forgotten, and was fool'd. 
. There Youth,which needed not, nor thought of such 
Yain adjuncts, lavish 'd its true bloom, and health, 
And bridal beauty, in the unwholesome press 
Of flush 'd and crowded wassailers, and wasted 
Its hours of rest in dreaming this was pleasure. 
And so shall waste them till the sunrise streams 
On sallow cheeks and sunken eyes, whicii should not 
Have worn this aspect yet for many a year. 
The music, and the banquet, and the wine — 
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers— 
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments— 
The white arms and the raven hair— the braids 
And bracelets ; swanlike bosoms, and the necklace, 
An India in itself, yet dazzling not 
The eye like what it circled ; the thin robes, 
Floating like light clouds 'twixt our gaze and 

heaven ; 
The many-twinkling feet so small and sylpldike, 
Suggesting the more secret symmetry 
Of the fair forms which terminate so well- 
All the delusion of the dizzy scene. 
Its false and true enchantments — art and nature, 
Which swam before my giddy eyes, that drank 
The sight of beauty as tlie parch 'd pilgrim's 



On Arab sands the false mirage, which offers 
A lucid lake to his eluded thirst. 
Are gone. Around me are the stars and waters- 
Worlds mirror'd in the ocean, goodlier sight 
Than torches glared back by a gaudy glass ; 
And the great element, whicli is to space 
What ocean is to earth, spreads its blue depths, 
Soften'd with the first breathings of the spring ; 
The high moon sails upon her beauteous way, 
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls 
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces. 
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts. 
Fraught with the Orient spoil of many marbles, 
Like altars ranged along the broad canal, 
Seem each a trox)hy of some mighty deed 
Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely 
Than those more massy and mysterious giants 
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics, 
Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have 
No other record. AH is gentle : nought 
Stirs rudely ; but, congenial with the night. 
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit. 
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars 
Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress, 
And cautious opening of the casement, showing 
That he is not unheard ; while her young hand. 
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part, 
So delicately white, it trembles in 
The act of opening the forbidden lattice. 
To let in love through music, makes his heart 
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight;— the dash 
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle 
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas, 
And the responsive voices of the choir 
Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse ; 
Some dusky shadow checkering the Rialto ; 
Some glimmering palace roof, or tapering spire, 
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade 
The ocean-born and earth-commanding citj^ — 
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm ! 
I thank thee, Xight! for thou hast chased away 
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, 
I could not dissipate : and with the blessing 
Of thy benign and quiet influence, 
Now will I to my couch, although to rest 

Is almost wronging such a night as this 

[A knocking is heard from without. 
Hark ! what is that ? or who, at such a moment ? 

Enter Antonio. 

Ant. My lord, a man without, on urgent business, 
Implores to be admitted. 

Lioni. Is he a stranger ? 

Ant. His face is muffled in his cloak, but both 
His voice and gestures seem familiar to me ; 
I craved his name, but this he seem'd reluctant 
To trust, save to yourself; most earnestly 
He sues to be permitted to approach you. 

Lioni. 'T is a strange hour, and a suspicious bear- 
ing! 
And yet there is slight peril : 't is not in 
Their houses noble men are struck at ; still. 
Although I know not that I have a foe 
In Venice, 'twill be wise to use some caution. 
Admit him, and retire ; but call up quickly 
Some of thy fellows, who may wait without. — 
Who can this man be ? — 

[Exit Ant07iio, and returns luith Bertram, muffled. 

Ber. My good lord Lioni, 

I have no time to lose, nor thou,— dismiss 
This menial hence ; I would be private with you. 

Lioni. It seems the voice of Bertram— Go, An- 
tonio. [Exit Antonio. 
Now^, stranger, what would you at such an hour ? 
173 



ACT IV. 



3IARIN0 FALIERO. 



SCENE I. 



boon, 



my 



noble 



Ber. {discovering himself). A 
patron ; yoii have granted 
Many to your poor client, Bertram ; add 
This one, and make him happy. 

Lioni. Thon hast known me 

From boj^hood, ever ready to assist thee 
In all fair objects of advancement, which 
l^eseem one of thy station ; I would promise 
Ere thy request was heard, but that tlie hour, 
Thy bearing, and this strange and hurried mode 
Of suing, gives me to suspect this visit 
Hath some mysterious import— but say on — 
A\^]iat has occurred, some rash and sudden broil V— 
A cup too mucli, a scuffle, and a stab ? 
Mere things of every day; so that thou hast not 
Spilt noble blood, I guarantee thy safety ? 
But then thou must withdraw, for angry friends 
And relatives, in the first burst of vengeance, 
Are things in Venice deadlier than the laws. 

Ber. My lord, I thank you ; but 

Lioni. But what ? You have not 
Raised a rash hand against one of our order ? 
If so, withdraw and fly, and own it not ; 
I would not slay— but then I must not save thee ! 
He who has shed patrician blood 

Ber. 1 come 

To save patrician blood, and not to shed it ! 
And thereimto I must be speedy, for 
Each minute lost may lose a life ; since Time 
Has changed his slow scythe for the two-edged sword, 
And is about to take, instead of sand, 
The dust from sepulchres to fill his hour-glass! — 
Go not thou forth to-morrow ! 

Lioni. Wherefore not ? 

What means this menace ? 

Ber. Do not seek its meaning, 

But do as I implore thee ;— stir not forth, 
Whate'er be stirring; though the roar of crowds — 
The cry of women, and the shrieks of babes-^ 
The groans of men— the clash of arms— the sound 
Of rolling drum, shrill trump, and hollov/ bell, 
Peal in one wide alarum !— Go not forth 
Until the tocsin 's silent, nor even then 
Till I return ! 

Lioni. Again, what does this mean ?' 

Ber. Again, I tell thee, ask not; but by all 
Thou boldest dear on earth or heaven— by all 
The souls of thy great fathers, and thy hope 
To emulate them, and to leave behind 
Descendants worthy both of them and thee— 
By all thou hast of bless'd in hope or memory — 
By all thou hast to fear here or hereafter — 
By all the good deeds thou hast done to me. 
Good I would now repay with greater good. 
Remain within — trust to thy household gods. 
And to my word for safety, if thou dost 
As I now counsel— but if not, thou art lost ! 

Lioni. I am indeed already lost in wonder ; 
Surely thou ravest ! what have J to dread ? 
Who are my foes V or if there be such, why 
Art thou leagued with them ? — thou ! or if so leagued. 
Why comest thou to tell me at this hour, 
And not before ? 

Ber. I cannot answer this. 

Wilt thou go forth despite of this true warning? 

Lioni. 1 was not born to shrink from idle threats, 
The cause of which I know^ not : at the hour 
Of council, be it soon or late, I shall not 
Be found among the absent. 

Ber. Say not so ! 

Once more, art thou determined to go forth ? 

Lioni. I am. iNor is there aught which shall im- 
pede me ! 

Ber. Then Heaven have mercy on thy soul!— 
Farewell ! [Going. 

Lioni. Stay— there is more in this than my own 
safety 

174 



Which makes me call thee back ; we must not part 

thus : 
Bertram, I have known thee long. 

Ber. From childhood, signor, 

You have been my protector : in the days 
Of reckless infancy, when rank forgets. 
Or, rather, is not yet taught to remember 
Its cold prerogative, we play'd together ; 
Our sports, our smiles, our tears, were mingled oft ; 
My father was your father's client, I 
His son's scarce less than foster-brother; years 
Saw us together— happy, heart-full hours !' 
Oh God! the difference 'twixt those hours and this! 

Lioni. Bertram, 'tisthou who hast forgotten them. 

Ber. ;N'or now, nor ever ; whatsoe'er betide, 
I would have saved you : when to manhood's growth 
We sprung, and you, devoted to the state. 
As suits your station, the more humble Bertram 
Was left unto the labors of the humble. 
Still you forsook me not; and if my fortunes 
Have not been towering, 't was no fault of him 
Who ofttimes rescued and supported me. 
When struggling with the tides of circumstance 
Which bear away the "weaker : noble blood 
N^e'er mantled in a nobler heart than thine 
Has proved to me, the poor plebeian Bertram. 
Would that thy fellow senators were like thee ! 

Lioni. Why, what hast thou to say against the 
sena,te ? 

Ber. Nothing. 

Lioni. I know that there are angry spirits 

And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason, 
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out 
Muffled to whisper curses to the night; 
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians. 
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns ; 
lliou herdest not with such : 't is true, of late 
I have lost sight of thee, but thou wert wont 
To lead a temperate life, and break thy bread 
With honest mates, and bear a cheerful aspect. 
What hath come to thee ? in thy hollow eye 
And hueless cheek, and thine unquiet motions, 
Sorrovv^ and shame and conscience seem at war 
To waste thee. 

Ber, Rather shame and sorrow light 

On the accursed tyranny which rides 
The very air in Venice, and makes men 
Madden as in the last hours of the plague 
Which sweeps the soul deliriously from life ! 

Lioni. Some villains have been tampering Avith 
thee, Bertram ; 
This is not thy old language, nor own thoughts; 
Some wretch has made thee drunk with disaffection ; 
But thou must not be lost so ; thou wert good 
And kind, and art not fit for such base acts 
As vice and villainy would put thee to : 
Confess — confide in me — thou know'st my nature. 
What is it thou and thine are bound to do. 
Which should prevent thy friend, the only son 
Of him who was a friend unto thy lather, 
So that our good will is a heritage 
We should bequeath to our posterity 
Such as ourselves received it, or augmented ; 
I say, what is it thou must do, that I 
Should deem thee dangerous, and keep the house 
Like a sick girl ? 

Ber. ^iiy, question me no further : 
I must be gone. 

Lioni. And I be murder'd !— say. 

Was it not thus tliou said'st, my gentle Bertram '/ 

Ber. Who talks of murder ? what said I of mur- 
der V — 
'T is false ! I did not utter such a word. 

Lioni. Thou didst not ; but from oiit thy wolfish 
eye, 
So changed from what I knew it, there glares forth 
The gladiator. If mij life 's thine object. 



ACT IV. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE II. 



Take it— I am unarm 'd,— and then away ! 
I would not hold my breath on such a tenure 
As the capricious mercy of such things 
As thou and those who have set thee to thy task- 
work. 

Ber. Sooner than spill thy blood, I peril hiine ; 
Sooner than harm a hair of thine, I place 
In jeopardy a thousand heads, and some 
As noble, nay, even nobler than thine own. 

Lioni. Ay, is it even so ? Excuse me, Bertram ; 
J am not worthy to be singled out 
From such exalted hecatombs— who are they 
That are in danger, and that make the danger ? 

Ber. Venice, and all that she inherits, are 
Divided like a house against itself. 
And so will perish ere to-morrov/'s twilight! 

Lioni. More mysteries, and awful ones ! But now, 
Or thou, or I, or both, it may be, are 
Upon the verge of ruin ; speak once out. 
And thou art safe and glorious ; for 't is more 
Glorious to save than slay, and slay i' the dark too — 
Fie, Bertram ! that was not a craft for thee ! 
How would it look to see upon a spear 
The head of him whose heart was open to thee. 
Borne by thy hand before the shuddering people ? 
And such may be my doom ; for here I swear, 
Whate'er the peril or the penalty 
Of thy denunciation, I go forth. 
Unless thou dost detail the cause, and show 
The consequence of all which led thee here! 

Ber. Is there no way to save thee V minutes fly, 
And thou art lost \—thou I my sole benefactor. 
The only being who was constant to me 
Through every change. Yet, make me not a 

traitor ! 
Let me save thee— but spare my honor ! 

Lioni. Where 

Can lie the honor in a league of murder ? 
And who are traitors save unto the state ? 

Ber. A league is still a compact, and more binding 
In honest hearts when words must stand for lav/ ; 
And in my mind, there is no traitor like 
He whose'^domestic treason plants the poniard 
Within the breast which trusted to his truth. 

Lioni. And who will strike the steel to mine ? 

Ber. Not I; 

I could have wound my soul up to all things 
Save this. Tliou must not die ! and think how dear 
Thy life is, when I risk so many lives, 
jN'ay, more, the life of lives, the liberty 
Of future generations, not to be 
The assassin thus miscall'st me ; — once, once more 
I do adjure thee, pass not o'er thy threshold ! 

Lioni. It is in vain — this moment I go forth. 

Ber. Then perish Venice rather than my friend ! 
I will disclose— ensnare— betray — destroy— 
Oh, what a villain I become for thee ! 

Lioni. Say, rather thy friend's saviour and the 
state's !— 
Speak — pause not— all rewards, all pledges for 
Thy safety and thy welfare ; wealth such as 
The state accords her worthiest servants; nay, 
Nobility itself I guarantee thee. 
So that thou art sincere and penitent. 

Ber. I have thought again: it must not be— I 
love thee — 
Thou knowest it— that I stand here is the proof, 
Not least though last; but having done my duty 
By thee, I now must do it by my country ! 
Farewell — we meet no more' in life !— farewell ! 

Lioni. What, ho ! — Antonio — Pedro— to the door ! 
See that none pass— arrest this man ! 

Enter Antonio and other armed Domestics, who seize 

Bertram. 

Lioni [continues). Take care 

lie hath no harm ; bring me my sword and cloak ; 



And man the gondola with four oars— quick— 

[Exit Antonio. 
We will unto Giovanni Gradenigo's, 
And send for Marc Cornaro ; — fear not, Bertram ; 
This needful violence is for thy safety, 
No less than for the general weail. 

Ber. Where v/ouldst thou 

Bear me a prisoner ? 

Lioni. Firstly to "the Ten ; " 

Next to the Doge. 

Ber. To the Doge ? 

Lioni. Assuredly : 

Is he not chief of the state ? 

Ber. Perhaps at sunrise — 

Lioni. What mean you ? —but v>e '11 know anon. 

Ber. Art sure ? 

Lioni. Sure as all gentle means can make ; and if 
They fail, you know " the Ten " and their tribunal, 
And that Saint Mark's has dungeons, and the dun- 
geons 
A rack. 

Ber. Apply it then before the dawn 
Now hastening into heaven,— One more such word. 
And you shall perish piecemeal, by the death 
You think to doom to me. 

Be-e ter Antonio. 

Ant. The bark is ready, 

My lord, and all prepared. 

Lioni. Look to the prisoner. 

Bertram, I '11 reason with thee as we go 
To the Magnifico's, sage Gradenigo. [Exeunt. 

SCENE 11.— The Ducal Palace.— The Doge's 
Apartment. 

The Doge and his Nephew Bertuccio Faliero. 

Doge. Are all the people of our house in muster? 

Ber. F. They are array 'd, and eager for the signal. 
Within our palace precincts at San Polo.* 
I come for your last orders. 

Doge. It had been 

As well had there been time to have got together, 
From my own fief, Val di Marino, more 
Of our retainers — but it is too late. 

Ber. F. Methinks, my lord, 't is better as it is : 
A sudden swelling of our retinue 
Had waked suspicion ; and, though fierce and trusty. 
The vassals of that district are too rude 
And quick in quarrel to have long maintain'd 
The secret discipline we need for'such 
A service, till our foes are dealt upon. 

Doge. True ; but when once the signal has been 
■ given, 
Tlicse are the men for such an enterprise ; 
These city slaves have all their private bias, 
Their prejudice against or for this noble, 
Wliich may induce them to o'erdo or spare 
Where mercy may be madness : the fierce peasants, 
Serfs of my county of Val di Marino, 
Would do the bidding of their lord without 
Distinguishing for love or hate his foes ; 
Alike to them^Marcello or Cornaro, 
A Gradenigo or a Foscari ; 
They are not used to start at those vain names, 
Nor bow the knee before a civic senate ; 
A chief in armor is their suzerain. 
And not a thing in robes. 

Ber. F. We are enough ; 

And for the dispositions of our clients 
Against the senate I will answer. 

Doge. Well, 

The die is thrown ; but for a warlike service. 
Done in the field, commend me to my peasants : 



* The dog-e's familj^ palace. 
175 



ACT IV. 



MARINO FA LIE BO. 



SCENE II. 



They made the sun slnne tlirough the host of Huns 
When SiiUow burghers slunk back to their tents, 
And cower'd to hear their own victorious trumpet. 
If there be small resistance, you will find 
These citizens all lions, like their standard ; 
But if there 's much to do, you '11 wish, with me, 
A band of iron rustics at our backs. 

Ber. F. Thus thinking, I must marvel you resolve 
To strike the blow so suddenly. 

Doge. Such blows 

Must be struck suddenly or never. When 
I had o'ermaster'd the weak false remorse 
Which yearn 'd about my heart, too fondly yielding 
A moment to the feelings of old days, 
I was most fain to strike; and, firstly, that 
I might not yield again to such emotions ; 
And, secondly, because of all these men, 
Save Israel and Philip Calendaro, 
I know not well the courage or tlie faith : 
To-day miglit find 'mongst them a traitor to us, 
As yesterday a thousand to the senate ; 
But once in, with their hilts liot in their hands, 
They must on for their own sakes ; one stroke struck. 
And the mere instinct of the first-born Cain, 
Which ever lurks somewhere in human Jiearts, 
Though circumstance may keep it in abejance, 
Will urge the rest on like to wolves ; the sight 
Of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more^ 
As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel; 
And you will find a harder task to quell 
Than urge them when they have commenced, but till 
That moment, a mere voice, a straw, a shadow, 
Are capable of turning them aside. — 
How goes the night ? 

Ber. F. Almost upon the dawn. 

Bocje. Then it is time to strike upon the bell. 
Are the men posted ? 

Ber. F. By this time they are ; 

But they have orders not to strike, until 
They haVe command from you through me in person. 

Bcge. 'T is well.— Will the morn never put to rest 
These stars which twinkle yet o'er all the heavensV 
I am settled and bound up, and being so. 
The very effort which it cost me to 
Kesolve to cleanse this commonwealth with fire, 
jS'ow leaves my mind more steady. I have wept, 
And trembled at the thought of this dread duty; 
But now I have put down all idle passion. 
And look the growing tempest in the face. 
As doth the pilot of an admiral galley : 
Yet (wouldst thou think it. kinsman ?) it hath been 
A greater struggle to me, than when nations 
Beheld their fate merged in the approaching fight, 
Where I w^as leader of a phalanx, where 
Thousands were sure to perish — Yes, to spill 
The rank polluted current from the veins 
Of a few bloated despots needed more 
To steel me to a purpose such as made 
Timoleon immortal, than to face 
The toils and dangers of a life of war. 

Ber. F. It gladdens me to see your former wisdom 
Subdue the furies which so wrung you ere 
You were decided. 

Boge. It was ever thus 

/With me; the hour of agitation came 
In the first glimmerings of a purpose, when 
Passion had too much room to sway ; but in 
The hour of action I have stood as'calm 
As were the dead who lay around me ; this 
They knew who made me what I am, and trusted 
To the subduing power which I preserved 
Over my mood, when its first burst was spent. 
But they were not aware that there are things 



Which make revenge a virtue by reflection. 
And not an impulse of mere anger ; though 
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injured souls 
Oft do a public right with private wrong, 
And justify their deeds unto themselves. — 
Methinks the day breaks— is it not so ? look. 
Thine eyes are clear with youth ;— the air puts on 
A morning freshness, and, at least to me, 
The sea looks grayer through the lattice. 

Ber. F. True, 

The morn is dappling in the sky. 

B oge . Away th en I 

See that they strike without delay, and with 
The first toll from Saint Mark's, march on the pal- 
ace 
With all our house's strength : here I will meet you ; 
The Sixteen and their companies will move 
In separate columns at the self-same moment: 
Be sure you post yourself at the great gate : 
I would not trust " the Ten " except to us — 
The rest, the rabble of patricians, may 
Glut the more careless swords of those leagued 

with us. 
Remember that the cry is still " Saint Mark ! 
The Genoese are come— ho ! to the rescue ! 
Saint Mark and Liberty ! "— Xow — now to action! 

Ber. F. Farewell then, noble uncle ! we will meet 
In freedom and true sovereignty, or never ! 

Boge. Come hither, myBertuccio— one embrace; 
Speed, for the day grows broader ; send me soon 
A messenger to tell me how all goes 
When you rejoin our troops, and then sound— sound 
The storm-bell from Saint Jtlark's ! 

[Exit Bertuccio FaUcro. 

Boge {sohis). He is gone,* 

And on each footstep moves a life. 'T is done. 
IS'ow the destroying angel hovers o'er 
Venice, and pauses erelie pours the vial, 
Even as the eagle overlooks his prey. 
And for a moment, poised in middle air. 
Suspends the motioii of his mighty wings. 
Then swoops with his unerring beak. Thou day ! 
That slowly walk'st the waters ! march — march on — 
I would not smite i' the dark, but rather see 
That no stroke errs. And you, ye blue sea waves! 
I have seen you dyed ere now, and deeply too, 
With Genoese, Saracen, and-Hunnish gore, 
While that of Venice flow'd too, but victorious; 
Now thou must wear an unmix'd crimson ; no 
Barbaric blood can reconcile us now 
Unto that horrible incarnadine. 
But friend or foe will roll in civic slaughter. 
And have I lived to fourscore years for this ? 
I, who was named Preserver of the City? 
I, at whose name the million's caps were flung 
Into the air, and cries from tens of thousands 
Rose up, imploring Heaven to send me blessings, 
And fame, and length of days— to see this day ? 
But this day, black within the calendar, 
Shall be succeeded by a bright millennium. 
Doge Dandolo survived to ninety summers 
To vanquish empires, and refuse their crown ; 
I will resign a crown, and make the state 
Renew its freedom — but oh ! by what means ? 
The noble end must justify them. What 
Are a few drops of human blood ? 't is false, 
The blood of tyrants is not human ; they, 
Like to incarnate Molochs. feed on ours. 
Until 't is time to give them to the tombs 
Which they have made so populous.— Oh world I 
Oh men ! what are ye, and our best designs, 
That we must work by crime to punish crime? 
And slay as if Death had but this one gate. 



At last the moment arrives when the hell is to he and the heir of his house (for he is childless), leaves Faliero 
sounded, and the whole of the conspiring- hands are watch- j in his palace, and goes to strike with his own hand the fatal 
ing in impatience for the signal. The nephew of the dog-e, < summons. The dog-e is left alone. 
17G 



ACT IV. 



MARINO FALIEEO. 



SCENE II. 



When a few years would make the sword super- 
fluous ? 
And I, upon the verge of th' unknown realm, 
Yet send so many heralds on before me ? — 
I must not ponder this. [A pause. 

Hark ! was there not 
A murmur as of distant voices, and 
The tramp of feet in martial unison ? 
What phantoms even of sound our wishes raise I 
It cannot be— the signal hath not rung- 
Why pauses it ? My nephew's messenger 
Should be upon his way to me, and he 
Himself perhaps even now draws grating back 
Upon its ponderous hinge the steep tower portal, 
Where swings the sullen huge oracular bell. 
Which never knells but for a princely death, 
Or for a state in peril, pealing forth 
Tremendous bodements ; let it do its otnce. 
And be this peal its awf ullest and last. 
Sound till the strong tower rock!— What! silent 

still V 
I would go forth, but that my post is here. 
To be tlie centre of reunion to 
The oft discordant elements which form 
Leagues of this nature, and to keep compact 
The wavering of the weak, in case of conflict ; 
For if they should do battle, 'twill be here, 
Within the palace, that the strife will thicken : 
Then here must be my station, as becomes 

The master-mover. Hark! he comes— he comes. 

My nephew, brave Bertuccio's messenger. — 
What tidings ? Is he marching ? hath he sped ? 
They here !— all 's lost— yet will I make an effort. 

Enter a Signor of the Night,* with Guards, etc., 
etc. 

Sig. Doge, I arrest thee of high treason ! 

Boge. Me I 

Thy prince, of treason ? — Who are they that dare 
Cloak their own treason under such an order V 

Sig. [showing his order). Behold my order from the 
assembled Ten. 

Boge. And where are they, and why assembled ? no 
Such council can be lawful, till the prince 
Preside there, and that duty 's mine : on thine 
I charge thee, give me way, or marshal me 
To the council chamber. 

Sig. Duke ! it may not be : 

Nor are they in the wonted Hall of Council, 
But sitting in the convent of Saint Saviour's. 

Boge. You dare to disobey me, then V 

Sig. I serve 

The state, and needs must serve it faithfully ; 
My warrant is the will of those who rule it. 

Boge. And till that w^arrant has my signature 
It is illegal, and, as now applied, 
Kebellious. Hast thou weigh 'd well thy life's 

worth. 
That thus you dare assume a lawless function ? 

Sig. 'T is not my office to reply, but act — 
I am placed here as guard upon thy ])erson, 
And not as judge to hear or to decide. 

Boge [aside). I must gain time. So tliat the storm- 
bell sound, 
All may be well yet. — Kinsman, speed— speed- 
speed !— 
Our fate is trembling in the balance, and 
Woe to the vanquish'd ! be they prince and people. 
Or slaves and senate — 

[The great hell of Saint Mark''s tolls. 
Lo ! it sounds — it tolls ! 
(Aloud.) Hark, Signor of the Night ! and you, ye 

hirelings. 
Who wield your mercenary staves in fear, 

* " I signori di Notte," held an important chargre in the old 
republic. 

12 



It is your knell— Swell on, thou lusty peal ! 
Now, knaves, what ransom for your lives V 

Sig. Confusion I 

Stand to your arms, and guard the door — all 's lost 
Unless that fearful bell be silenced soon. 
The officer hath miss'd his path or purpose, 
Or met some unforeseen and hideous obstacle. 
Anselmo, with thy company proceed 
Straight to the Tower ; the rest remain with me. 
[Exit part of the Guard. 

Boge. Wretch ! if thou wouldst have thy vile life, 
implore it ; 
It is not now a lease of sixty seconds. 
Ay, send thy miserable ruffians forth; 
They never shall return. 

Sig. So let it be I 

They die then in their duty, as will I. 

Boge. Fool ! the high eagle flies at nobler game, 
Than thou and thy base myrmidons, — live on, 
So thou provok'st not peril by resistance. 
And learn (if souls so much obscured can bear 
To gaze upon the sunbeams) to be free. 

Sig. And learn thou to be captive. It hath ceased, 
[The hell ceases to toll. 
The traitorous signal, wiiicli was to have set 
The bloodhound mob on their patrician prey— 
The knell hath rung, but it is not the senate's! 

Boge [after a pause). All 's silent, and all 's lost. 

Sig. Now, Doge, denounce me 

As rebel slave of a revolted council ! 
Have I not done my duty ? 

Boge. Peace, thou thing ! 

Tliou hast done a worthy deed, and earn'd the price 
Of blood, and they w'ho use thee will reward thee. 
But thou wert sent to watch, and not to prate. 
As thou saidst even now — then do thine office. 
But let it be in silence, as behoves thee. 
Since, though thy prisoner, I am thy x^rince. 

Sig. I did not mean to fail in the respect 
Due to your rank : in this I shall obey you. 

Boge {aside). There now is nothing left m.e save 
to die ; 
And yet how near success ! I would have fallen. 
And proudly, in the hour of triumph, but 
To miss it thus ! 

Enter other Signers of the Night, with Bertuccio 
Faliero prisoner. 

2d Sig. We took him in the act 

Of issuing from the tower, where, at his order, 
As delegated from the Doge, the signal 
Had thus begun to sound. 

1st Sig. Are all the passes 

Which lead up to the palace well secured ? 

2d Sig. They are — besides, it matters not; the 
chiefs 
Are all in chains, and some even now on trial— 
Their followers are dispersed, and many*taken. 

Ber. F, Uncle ! 

Boge. It is in vain to war with fortune ; 

The glory hath departed from our house. . 

Ber. F. Who would have deem'd it ? — Ah ! one 
moment sooner ! 

Boge. That moment would have changed the face 
of ages ; 
This gives us to eternity — We '11 meet ft 
As men whose triumph is not in success. 
But who can make their own minds all in all, 
Equal to every fortune. Droop not, 'tis 
But a brief passage — I would go alone, 
Yet if they send us, as 'tis like, together, 
Let us go worthy of our sires and selves. 

Ber. F. I shall not shame you, uncle. 

1st Sig. Lords, our orders 

Are to keep guard on both in separate chambers. 
Until the council call ye to your trial. 

Boge. Our trial ! will they keep their mockerv 
177 



ACT V. 



MA EI NO FALIERO, 



SCENE I. 



Even to the last ? but let them deal upon us, 
As we had dealt on them, but Avith less pomp. 
'Tis but a game of mutual homicides, 
Who have cast lots for the first death, and they 
Have won with false dice— AVho hath been our 
Judas V 

1st Siq. I am not w^arranted to answer that. 

Ber. P. I'll answer for thee — 'tis a certain Ber- 
tram, 
Even now deposing to the secret giunta. 

Boge. Bertram the Bergamask! With what vile 
' tools 
We operate to slay or save! This creature, 
Black with a double treason, now will earn 
Rewards and honors, and be stamp'd in story 
With the geese in the Capitol, which gabbled 
Till Rome awoke, and had an annual triumph. 
While Manlius, wiio hurl'd down the Gauls, was cast 
Erom the Tarpeian. 



1st Sig. He aspired to treason, 

And sought to rule the state. 

Doge. He saved tlie state, 

And sought but to reform what he revived— 

But this is idle Come, sirs, do your work. 

1st Sig. Noble Bertuccio, w^e must now remove 
you 
Into an iimer chamber. 

Ber. F. Earewell, uncle ! 

If we shall m.eet again in life I know not. 
But they perhaps will let our ashes mingle. 
Doge. Yes, and our spirits, which shall yet go 
forth, 
And do what our frail clay, thus clogg'd. hath faiPd 

in! 
They cannot quench the memory of those 
Who would have hurl'd them from their guilty 

thrones, 
And such examples will find heirs, though distant. 



ACT V. 



SOBNB l.—TTie Hall of the Council of Ten, assem- I 
bled 'With the additional Senators, who, on the Trials \ 
of the Conspirators for the Treason of Marino | 
Faliero, comjyosed what icas called the Giunta. — ! 
Guards, Officers, etc., etc. — Israel Bertuccio ami i 
Philip Calendaro as Prisoners. — Bertram, 
Lioni, and Witnesses, etc. 

The Chief of the Ten, Benintende. 

Ben. There now* rests, after such conviction of 
Their manifold and manifest offences. 
But to pronounce on these obdurate m^en 
The sentence of the law^ : — a grievous task 
To those who hear, and those w4io speak. Alas ! 
That it should fall to me ! and that my days 
Of ofiice should be stigmatized through all 
The years of coming time, as bearing record 
To tills most foul and complicated treason 
Against a just and free state, known to all 
Tlie earth as being the Christian bulwark 'gainst 
The Saracen and the schismatic Greek, 
The savage Hun, and not less barbarous Frank; 
A city which has open'd India's wealth 
To Europe; the last Roman refuge from 
O'er whelming Attila ; the ocean's queen ; 
Proud Genoa's prouder rival I 'T is to sap 
The throne of such a city, these lost men 
Have risk'd and forfeited their worthless lives— ! 
So let them die the death. | 

I. Ber. We are prepared ; 

Your racks have done that for us. Let us die. j 

Ben. If j'e have that to say which would obtain i 
Abatement of your punishment, tlie giunta | 

Will hear you { if you have aught to confess, ' 

Now is your time, perhaps it may avail ye. 

Ber. F. We stand to hear, and^not to speak. 

Ben. Your crimes 

Are fully proved by your accomplices, 
And all which circumstance can add to aid them ; 
Yet we would hear from your own lips complete 
Avowal of your treason : on the verge 
Of tliat dread gulf which none repass, the truth 
Alone can profit you on earth or heaven — 
Say, then, what was your motive ? 

/. Ber. Justice! 

Ben. What 

Your object ? 

/. Ber. Freedom ! 



Ben. 



You are brief, sir. 



I. Ber. So my life grows: I 
Was bred a soldier, not a senator. 
178 



Ben. Perhaps you think by this blunt brevity 
To brave your judges to postpone the sentence ? 

/. Ber. Do you be brief as "l am, and believe me, 
I shall prefer that mercy to your pardon. 

Ben. Is this your sole reply to the tribunal ? 

I. Ber. Go, ask your racks w^hat they have wrung 
from us. 
Or place us there again ; we have still some blood left. 
And some slight sense of pain in these wrench 'd 

limbs : 
But this ye dare not do ; for if we die there — 
And you have left us little life to spend 
Upon your engines, gorged with pangs already — 
Ye lose the public spectacle, with which 
You would appall your slaves to f urtlier slavery ! 
Groans are not words, nor agony assent, 
^or affirmation truth, if nature's sense 
Should overcome tlie soul into a lie, 
Eor a short respite — must we bear or die? 

Ben. Say, who were your accomplices ? 

I. Ber. The senate. 

Ben. What do you mean ? 

/. Ber. Ask of the suffering people, 

Whom your patrician crimes have driven to crime. 

Ben. 'You know the Doge V 

I. Ber. 1 served with him at Zara 

In the field, when yoii were pleading here 3^our \^ay 
To present office ; we exposed our lives, 
While you but hazarded the lives of others, 
Alike by accusation or defence ; 
And, for the rest, all Venice knows her Doge, 
Through his great actions, and the senate's insults. 

Ben^ You have held conference with liim ? 

I. Ber. I am weary — 

Even wearier of your questions than your tortures : 
I pray you pass to judgment. 

Ben. It is coming. — 

And you, too, Philip Calendaro, what 
Have you to say why you shoidd not be doom'd ? 

Cal. I never was a man of many w^ords, 
And now^ have few left worth the utterance. 

Ben. A further application of yon engine 
May change your tone. 

Cal. Most true, it will do so; 

A former application did so ; but 
It will not change my Avords, or, if it did — 

Ben. What then ? 

Cal. Will my avowal on yon rack 

Stand good in law ? 

Ben. Assuredly. 

Cal. Whoe'er 

The culprit be whom I accuse of treason ? 



ACT V. 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE I. 



Ben. Without doubt, he will be brought up to 
trial. 

Cal. And on this testimony would he .perish ? 

Ben. So your confession be detail'd and full, 
He will stand here in peril of his life. 

Cal. Then look well to thy proud self, President ! 
For by the eternity which yawns before me, 
I swear that thou, and only thou, shalt be 
The traitor I denounce upon that rack. 
If I be stretch 'd there for tlie second time. 

One of the Giimta. Lord President, 't were best 
proceed to judgment ; 
There is no more to be draw^n from these men. 

Ben. Unhappy men ! prepare for instant death. 
The nature of your crime, our law, and peril 
The state now stands in, leave not an hour's respite. 
Guards I lead them forth, and upon the balcony 
Of the red columns, where, on festal Thursday, 
The Doge stands to behold the chase of bulls, 
^Let them be justified : and leave exposed 
Their wavering relics, in the place of judgment, 
To the full view of the assembled people ! 
And Heaven have mercy on their souls ! 

The Giimta. Amen! 

I. Ber. Signors, farewell ! w^e shall not ail again 
Meet in one place. 

Ben. And lest they should essay 

To stir up the distracted multitude — 
Guards! let their mouths be gagg'd,^^ even in the 

act 
Of execution. Lead them hence ! 

Cal. What ! must we 

Not even say farewell to some fond friend, 
jSTor leave a last word with our confessor ? 

Ben. A priest is waiting in the antechamber ; 
But, for your friends, such interviev/s would be 
Painful to them, and useless all to you. 

Cal. I knew that we were gagg'd in life ; at least 
All those who had not heart to risk their lives 
Upon their open thoughts; but still I deem'd 
That in the last few moments, the same idle 
Freedom of speech accorded to the dying, 
Would not now be denied to us ; but since 

I. Ber. Even let them have their way, brave 
Calendaro ! 
What matter a few syllables ? let 's die 
Without the slightest show of favor from them ; 
So shall our blood more readily arise 
To Heaven against them, and more testify 
To their atrocities, than could a volume 
Spoken or written of our dying words ! 
They tremble at our voices— nay, they dread 
Our very silence— let them live in fe^ir! 
Leave them unto their though.ts, and let us now 
Address our own above ! — Lead on ; we are ready. 

Cal. Israel, hadst thou but hearken'd unto me. 
It had not now been thus ; and yon pale villain, 
The cow^ard Bertram, would 

I. Ber. Peace, Calendaro ! 

What brooks it now to ponder upon this V 

Bert. Alas ! I fain you died in peace with me : 
I did not seek this task ; 't was forced upon me : 
Say, you forgive me, though I never can 
Retrieve my own forgiveness — frown not thus ! 

I. Ber. I die and pardon thee ! 

Cal. {spitting at him). I die and scorn thee ! 

[JExeunt Israel Bertuccio and Philip 
Calendaro, Guards, etc. 

Ben. Now that these criminals have been disposed 
of, 
'T is time that we proceed to pass our sentence 
Upon the greatest traitor upon record 
In any annals, the Doge Faliero ! 
The proofs and process are complete ; the time 
And crime require a quick procedure : shall 
He now be calPd in to receive th.e award V 

The Giunta. Ay, ay. 



Ben. Avogadori, order that the Doge 
Be brought before the coimcil. 

One of the Giunta. And the rest. 

When shall they be brought up ? 

Ben. When all the chiefs 

Have been disposed of. Some have tied to Chiozza ; 
But there are thousands in pursuit of them, 
And such precaution ta'en on terra firma, 
As well as in the islands, that we hope 
iSTone will escape to utter in strange lands 
His libellous tale of treasons 'gainst the senate. 

Enter the Doge as Prisoner, loith Guards, etc., etc. 

Ben. Doge — for such still you are, and by the law 
Must be consider VI, till the hour shall come 
When you must dolf the ducal bonnet from 
That head, which could not wear a crown more 

noble 
Than empires can confer, in quiet honor. 
But it must plot to overthrow your peers. 
Who made you what you are, and quench in blood 
A city's glor}^ — we have laid already 
Before you in your chamber at full length, 
By the Avogadori, all the proofs 
Wliich have appear'd against you ; and more ample 
Ne'er rear'd tlieir sanauinary shadows to 
Confront a traitor. What have you to say 
In your defence ? 

Boge. What shall I say to ye, 

Since my defence must be your condemnation ? 
You are at once offenders and accusers, 
Judges and executioners ! — Proceed 
Upon your power. 

Ben. Your chief accomplices 

Having confess'd, there is no hope for you. 

Boge. And who be they ? 

Ben. In number many; but 

The first now stands before you and the court, 
Bertram, of Bergamo, — ^would you question him ? 

Boge [looking at him contemptuoush/). No. 

Ben. And two others, Israel Bertuccio, 

And Philip Calendaro, have admitted 
Their fellowship in treason with the Doge ! 

Boge. And where are they ? 

Ben. Gone to their place, and now 

Answering to Heaven for what they did on earth. 

Doge. Ah ! the plebeian Brutus, is he gone ? 
And the quick Cassius of the arsenal ?— 
HoAV did they meet their doom ? 

Ben. Think of your own : 

It is approaching. You decline to plead, then ? 

Boge. I cannot plead to my inferiors, nor 
Can recognize your legal power to try me. 
Show me the law ! 

Ben. On great emergencies * 

The law must be remodell'd or amended : 
Our fathers had not fix'd the punishment 
Of sucli a crime, as on the old Roman tables 
The sentence against parricide was left 
In pure forgetf ulness : they could not render 
That penal, which had neither name nor thought 
In their great bosoms ; who would have foreseen 
That nature could be filed to such a crime 
As sons 'gainst sires, and princes 'gainst their 

realms ? 
Your sin hath made us make a law which will 
Become a precedent 'gainst such haught traitors. 
As would with treason mount to tyranny; 
Not even contented with a sceptre, till 
They can convert it to a two-edged sword ! 
Was not the place of Doge sufficient for ye ? 
What 's nobler than the signory of Venice? 

Boge. The signory of Venice ! You betray 'd me — 
You — you, who sit there, traitors as ye are ! 
From my equality with you in birth. 
And my superioritv in action. 
You drew me from my honorable toils 
179 



ACT Y. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE T. 



In distant lands— on flood— in field— in cities— 

You singled me out like a victim to 

Stand cl•o^^Tl'd,bllt boimd and helpless, at the altar 

Where you alone could minister. I knew not — 

I sousrht not^wish'd not — dream 'd not the election, 

Which reach 'd me first at Rome, and I obey'd ; 

But found on my arrival, that, besides 

The jealous vigilance whicli always led you 

To mock and mar your sovereign's best intents, 

You had, even in the interregnum of 

My journey to the capital, curtaiFd 

And mutilated the few privileges 

Yet left the duke : all this I bore, and would 

Have borne, until my very hearth was stain'd 

By the pollution of your ribaldry. 

And he, the ribald, whom I see amongst you— 

Fit judge in such tribunal I- 

Ben. (interrupting hwi). Michel Steno 

Is here in virtue of his office, as 
One of the Forty : " the Ten " having craved 
A giunta of patricians from the senate 
To' aid our judgment in a trial arduous 
And novel as the present : he was set 
Free from the penalty pronounced uponhim, 
Because the Doge, who should protect the law, 
Seeking to abrogate all law, can claim 
No punishm.ent of others by the statutes 
Wliich he himself denies and violates I 

Doge. His puxishmext I I rather see him there, 
Where he now sits, to glut him with my death. 
Than in the mockery of castigation. 
Which your foul, outward, juggling show of justice 
Decreed as sentence ! Base as was his crime, 
'T was purity compared with your protection. 

Ben . And can it be, that the great Doge of Venice, 
With three parts of a century of years 
And honors'on his head, could thus allow 
His fury, like an angry boy's, to master 
All feeling, wisdom, faith, and fear, on such 
A provocation as a young man's petulance ? 

Doge. A spark creates the flame— 't is the last drop 
Which makes the cup run o'er, and mine was full 
Already: you oppress Vl the prince and people ; 
I would have freed both, and have fail'd in both : 
The price of such success would have been glory. 
Vengeance, and victory, and such a name 
As would have made Venetian history 
Rival to tliat of Greece and Syracuse 
When they were freed, and flourish'd ages after, 
And mine to Gelon and to Tiirasybulus:- 
Failmg, I know the penalty of failure 
Is present infamy and death — the future 
Will judge, when Venice is no more, or free ; 
Till then, the truth is in abeyance. Pause not ; 
I woifid have shown no mercy, and I seek none; 
My life was staked upon a mighty hazard, 
And being lost, take what I would have taken ! 
I would have stood alone amidst your tombs : 
Now you may flock round mine, and trample on it. 
As you have clone upon my heart wliile living. 

Ben. You do confess then, and admit the justice 
Of our tribunal ? 

Doge. I confess to have fail'd ; 

Fortune is female : from my youth her favors 
Were not withheld, the fault was mine to hope 
Her former smiles again at this late hour. 

Ben. You do not then in aught arraign our 
equity ? 

Doge. Noble Venetians ! stir me not with ques- 
tions. 
I am resigned to the worst ; but in me still 
Have something of the blood of brighter days. 
And am not over-patient. Pray you, spare me 
Further interrogation, which boots nothing. 
Except to turn a trial to debate. 
I shall but answer that which will offend you, 
And please your enemies — a host already ; 
180 



'T is true, these sullen walls should jdeld no echo : 
But walls have ears — ^nay, more, they have tongues ; 

and if 
There were no other way for truth to o'erleap them, 
You who condemn me, you who fear and slay me. 
Yet could not bear in silence to your graves 
What you would hear from me of good or evil ; 
The secret were too mighty for your souls : 
Then let it sleep in mine, unless you court 
A danger which would double that you escape. 
Such my defence would be, had I full scope 
To make it famous ; for true words are things^ 
And dying men's are things which long outlive, 
And oftentimes avenge them ; bury mine. 
If ye would fain survive me : take this counsel. 
And though too oft 5'e made me live in wrath. 
Let me die calmly; you may grant me this ; 
I deny nothing— defend nothing— nothing 
I ask of you, but silence for myself. 
And sentence from the court ! 

Ben. This full admission 

Spares us the harsh necessity of ordering 
The torture to elicit the whole truth. 

Doge. The torture! you have put me there already. 
Daily since I was Doge ; but if you will 
Add the corporeal rack, you may: these limbs 
Will yield with age to crushing iron : but 
There 's that within my heart shall strain your 

engines. 

Enter an Officer. 

Officer. Noble Venetians ! Duchess Faliero 
Requests admission to the giunta's presence. 

Ben. Say, conscript fathers,* shall she be admit- 
ted? 

One of the Giunta. She may have revelations oi 
importance 
Unto the state, to justify compliance 
With her request. 

Ben. Is this the general will ? 

All. It is. 

Doge. Oh , admirable laws of Venice ! 

Which would admit the wife, in the full hope 
That she might testify against the husband. 
What glory to the chaste Venetian dames! 
But such blasphemers 'gainst all honor, as 
Sit here, do well to act in their vocation. 
Now, villain Steno! if this Avoman fail, 
I '11 pardon thee thy lie, and thy escape, 
And my own Aiolent death, and thy vile life. 

The Duchess enters. 
Ben. Lady! this just tribunal has resolved, 
Though the' request be strange, to grant it, and 
Whatever be its purport, to accord 
A patient hearing with the due respect 
Which fits your ancestry, your rank, and virtues: 
But you turn pale — ho ! there, look to the lady I 
: Place a chair instantly. 

j Ang. * A moment's fain tn ess — 

' 'T is JDast ; I pray you pardon me,— I sit not 
In presence of mV prince and of my husband, 
\ YY^hile he is on his feet. 

Ben. Your pleasure, lady ? 

I Ang. Strange rumors, but most true, if all I hear 
I And see be sooth, have reach 'd me, and I come 
\ To know the worst, even at the worst ; forgive 
The abruptness of my entrance and my bearing. 

I Is it 1 cannot speak — I cannot shape 

The question — but you answer it ere spoken. 
With eves averted, and with gloomy browns— 
Oh God ! this is the silence of the grave ! 
Ben. [after a pause). Spare us, and spare thyself 
the repetition 



* The Venetian senate took the same title as the Roman, of 
■ conscript fathers." 



ACT V. 



MAEIXO FALIERO. 



scz:nE I. 



Of oar most awfol, bnt inexorable 
Duty to Heaven and man ! 

Ang. Yet speak ; I cannot — 

I cannot — no — even now believe these things. 
Is he condenm'd '? 

Ben. ^ Alas! 

Aufj. ' And was he guilty ? 

Ben. Lady I the natural distraction of 
Tliy thoughts at such a moment uiakes the question 
Merit forgiveness : else a doubt like this 
AgaiQSt a just and paramount tribimal 
Were deep* offence. But question even the Doge, 
And if he can deny the proofs, believe him 
Guiltless as thy o^^ti lK)Som. 

Ang, ' Is it so ? 

My lord — ^my sovereign — ^my poor father's friend— 
Tiie mighty" in the field, the sage in coimcU : 
Unsay the 'words of this man I — ^thoii art silent I 

Ben. He hath already own'd to us his guilt. 
Xor, as thou seest. doth he deny it now. 

Ang. Ay, but he must not die I 'Spare his few years. 
Which grief and shame will soon cut down to days ! 
Ojie day of baffled crime must not eiiace 
Near sirvteen lustres crowded with brave acts. 

Ben . His doom must lie f ulfill'd without remission 
Of time or i»enalty — *t is a decree. 

Ang. He hath t>een guilty, but there maybe mercy. 

Ben. Xot in this case with justice. 

Ang. Alas! signor, 

He who is only jnst is cruel ; who 
Upon the earth would live were all judged justly ? 

Ben. His punishment is safety to the state. 

Ang. He was a subject, and hath served the state : 
He was your general, and hath saved the state ; 
He is your sovereign, and hath ruled the state. 

One of the Council. He is a traitor, and betray'd 
the state. 

An g. And , but for him , there now h ad been no state 
To save or to destroy; and you. who sit 
There to pronounce the death of your deliverer, 
Had now been groaning at a Moslem oar. 
Or digging in the Hunnish mines in fetters : 

One of the CffunciL Xo, lady, there are others who 
would die 
Rather than breathe in slavery I 

Ang. If there are so 

Within these wails, thou art not of the numl»er: 
The truly brave are generous to the fallen! — 
Is there no hope ? 

Ben. Lady, it cannot be. 

Ang. {turning to the Boge). Then die, Faliero I 
since it must be so ; 
But with the spirit of my father's friend. 
Thou hast been guilty of a great ofience, 
Half-cancell"d by the harshness of these men. 
I would have su'ed to them— have pray'd to them — 
Have begg'd as famish 'd mendicants for bread — ^. 
Iiave wept as they will cry unto their God 
For mercy, and be auswer'd as they answer. — 
Had it be^n fitting for thy name of mine. 
And if the cruelty in their cold eyes 
Had not announced the heartless' ^\Tath within. 
Then, as a prince, address thee to thy doom ! 

Boge. I have lived too long not to know liow to die ! 
Thy suing to these men were but the bleating 
Of the lamb to the butcher, or the cry 
Of seamen to the stirge : I would not "take 
A life eternal, granted at the hands 
Of wretches, from whose monstrous villainies 
I sought to free the groaning nations ! 

Michel Steito. Poge, 

A word with thee, and with this noble lady. 
Whom I have grievously offended. AVould 
Sorrow, or shame, or penance on my part, 
Could cancel tiie inexorable past ! 
But since that cannot be, as Christians let us 
Say farewell, and in peace : with full contrition 



I crave, not pardon, but compassion from you, 
And give, however weak, my prayers for both. 

Ang. Sage Benintende. now chief judge of Venice, 
I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
Iniorm the ribald Steno. that his words 
Ne'er weigh "d in mind with Loredano's daughter 
Further than to create a moment's pity 
± or such as he is : would that otliers had 
Despised him as I pity I I prefer 
My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
Be multiplied in mine, but would not have 
A single hfe of others lost for that 
Which nothing human can impugn — ^the sense 
Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
A good name for reward, but to itself. 
To me the scomer's words were as the wind 
L nto the rock : but as there are — alas I 
Spirits more sensitive, on which stich things 
Light as the whii'l^ind on the waters : souls 
To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
More terrible than death, here and hereafter; 
Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing. 
And who. though proof against all blandishments 
Of pleasure, and aU pangs^of pain, are feeble 
A\ lien the proud name on which they pinnacled 
Their hopes is breathed on. jealous as the eagle 
C>i her high aerie ; let what we now 
Behold, and feel, and suffer, be a lesson 
To ^Tetches how they tamper in their spleen 
T\ ith beings of a higher order. Insects 
Have made the lion"mad ere now ; a shaft 
I" the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave; 
A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy ; 
A wife's dishonor unkmg'd Rome for ever ; 
An injured husband brought the Gauls to Clusium, 
And thence to Rome, which perish 'd for a time ; 
An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties ; 
A virgin's A\Tong made Spain a Moorish province: 
And Steno's lie.^couch'd in two worthless lines, 
Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
Discrown'd a prince, cut off his crownless head, 
And forged new fetters for a groaning people ! 
Let the poor wretch, like to the court^esan 
A\ ho fired Persepohs. be proud of this. 
If it so please him — *t were a pride fit for him ! 
But let him not insult the last hours of " 
Him, who, whatever he now is. icas a hero. 
By the intrusion of his very prayers : 
Nothing of good can come "from* such a source. 
Xor would we aught with him. nor now, nor ever: 
We leave him to himself, that lowest depth 
Of human baseness. Pardon is for men. 
And not for reptiles — we have none for Steno, 
And no resentment : things like him must stir g, 
And higher brings suffer; 'tis the charter 
Of life.^ The man who dies by the adder's fang 
May have the crawler crush'd". but feels no anger: 
"T was the worm's nature : and some men are woi ms 
In soul, more than the living things of tombs. 

Boge [to Ben.). Signor! complete that which you 
deem your duty. 

Ben. Befo're Ave caii proceed upon that duty, 
We would request the princess to withdraw : 
'T will move lier too much to be ^-itness to it. 

Any. I know it will, and yet I must endure it, 
TjCfi 't is a part of mine— I will not quit. 
Except by force, my husband's side. — ^Proceed! 
Nay, fear not either shriek, or sigh, or tear: 
Tlibugh my heart burst, it shall he silent. — ^Speak ! 
I have that within which shall overmaster alL 

Ben. Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice. 
Count of "V al di Marino, Senator, 
And some time General of the Fleet and Army, 
Noble Venetian, many times and oft 
Intrusted by the state' with high employments, 
ISi 



ACT Y 



3IARIN0 FALIERO. 



SCEISTE TI. 



Even to tlie highest, listen to the sentence. 

Convict by many witnesses and proofs. 

And by thine own confession, of the guilt 

Of treachery and treason, yet nnheard of 

Until this trial— the decree is death. 

Thy goods are confiscate nnto the state. 

Thy name is razed from out her records, save 

Upon a public day of thanksgiving 

For this our most miraculous deliverance, 

Wiien thou art noted in our calendars 

Witli earthquakes, pestilence, and foreign foes, 

And the great enemy of man, as subject 

Of grateful masses for Heaven's grace in snatcliing 

Our lives and country from thy wickedness. 

Tlie place wherein as Doge thou shouldst be painted, 

With thine illustrious predecessors, is 

To be left vacant, with a death-black veil 

Flung over these dim words engraved beneath,— 

'■ Tiiis place is of Marino Faliero, 

Decapitated for his crimes." 

Bngp. " His crimes ! " 

But let it be so :— it will be in vain. 
The veil vrhich blackens o'er this blighted name. 
And hides, or seems to hide, these lineam.ents, 
Shall draw more gazers than the th.ousand portraits 
"Which glitter round it in their pictured trappings — 
Your delegated slaves— the people's tyrants! 
" Decapitated for his crimes ! "— 7T7?af crimes ? 
Were it not better to record the facts. 
So that the contemplator might approve, 
Or at the least learn irhence the crimes arose ? 
When the beholder knows a Doge conspired. 
Let him be told tlie cause — it is your history. 

Ben. Time must reply to that ; our sons will judge 
Their fatliers' judgment, which I now pronounce. 
As Doge, clad in the ducal robes and cap, 
Thou Shalt be led hence to the Giants' Staircase, 
Where thou and all our princes are invested ; 
And there, the ducal crown being first resumed 
Upon the spot wliere it was first assumed. 
Thy head shall be struck off ; and Heaven have mercy 
Upon thy soul I 

Doge. Is this the giunta's sentence ? 

Ben. It is. 

Doge. 1 can endure it. — And the time ? 

Ben. Must be immediate. — Make thy peace with 
God : 
Y/ithin an hour thou must be in his presence. 

Doge. I am already ; and my blood will rise 
To Heaven before the souls of those who shed it. — 
Are all my lands confiscated ? 

Ben. They are; 

And goods, and jewels, and all kind of treasure. 
Except two thousand ducats— these dispose of. 

Doge. That 's harsh.— I would have fain reserved 
the lands 
^ear to Treviso, which I hold by investment 
From Laurence tlie Count-bishop of Ceneda, 
In fief perpetual to myself and heirs. 
To portion tliem {leaving my city spoil. 
My palace and my treasures, to 3'our forfeit) 
Between my consort and my kinsmen. 

Ben. These 

Lie under the state's ban ; their chief, thy nephew. 
In peril of his ovrn life; but the council 
Postpones his trial for the present. If 
Thou will'st a state unto thy widow'd princess, 
Fear not, for we will do her justice. 

Ang. Signers, 

I share not in your spoil ! From henceforth, know 
I am devoted unto God alone. 
And take my refuge in the cloister. 

Doge. Come ! 

The hour may be a hard one, but 'twill end. 
have I aught else to undergo save death V 

Ben. You have nought to do, except confess and 
die. 

182 



The priest is robed, the scimitar is bare, 
And both await without.— But, above all, 
Think not to speak unto the iieople ; they 
Are now by thousands sv>-aTming at the gates, 
But these are closed : the Ten, tlie Avogadori, 
The giunta, and the chief men of the Forty, 
Alone will be beholders of thy doom. 
And they are ready to attend the Doge. 

Doge. The Doge ! 

Ben. Yes, Doge, thou hast lived and thou shrJt 
die 
A sovereign; till the moment which precedes 
The separation of that head and trunk, 
That ducal crovrn and head shall be united. 
Thou hast forgot thy dignity in deigning 
To plot with petty traitors : not so we. 
^"f lio in the very punishment acknowledge 
The prince. Thy vile accomplices luive died 
The dog's death, and the wolf's ; but thou shalt fall 
As falls the lion by the hunters, girt 
By those who feel'a proud compassion for thee, 
And m.ourn even tiie inevitable death 
Provoked by thy wild vrrath, and regal fierceness. 
Xow we remit thee to thy preparation : 
Let it be brief, and we ourselves will be 
Thy guides unto the place wliere first we were 
United to thee as thy subjects, and 
Thy senate ; and must now be parted from thee 
As such for ever, on the self-same spot. — 
Guards ! form the Doge's escort to his chamber 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE U.— The Doge's Apartment. 

The Doge as Prisoner., and the Duchess attending 
him. 

Doge, ^ow, that the priest is gone, 'twere useless 
all 
To linger out the miserable minutes ; 
But one pang more, the pang of parting from thee, 
And I will leave the few last grains of sand 
Which yet remain of the accorded hour. 
Still falling — I have done with Time. 

Ang. Alr.s! 

And I have been the cause, the unconscious cause ; 
And for this funeral marriage, this black union, 
Which thou, compliant witli my fatlier's wish. 
Didst promise at /iz's death, thou hast seal'd tliine 
own. 

Doge. ^N'ot so : there was that in my spirit ever 
Which shaped out for itself some great reverse; 
The marvel is, it came not until now— 
xVnd yet it was foretold me. 

Ang. How foretold you ? 

Doge. Long years ago — so long, they are a doubt 
In memory, and yet tiiey live in annals : 
When I was in my youth, and served the senate 
And signory as podesta and captain 
Of the town of Treviso. on a day 
Of festival, the sluggish bishop who 
Convey'd the Host aroused my rash young anger 
By strange delay, and arrogant reply 
To my reproof : I raised my hand and smote liim, 
Until he reel'd beneatli his lioly burthen ; 
And as he rose from eartli again, he raised 
His tremulous hands in pious wrath towards heaven. 
Thence pointing to the Host, which had fallen from 

him, 
He turn'd to me, and snid, '' Th.e hour will come 
When he thou hast o'erthrown shall overthrow thee : 
The glorv shall depart from out Ihy house, 
The wisdom shall be shaken from thy soul, 
And in thy best maturity of mind 
A madness of the heart shall seize upon thee; 
Passion shall tear thee when all ])assions cease 
In other men, or mellow into virtues : 
And majesty, which decks all otlier heads, 



ACT V. 



MARINO FALIERO, 



SCENE III. 



Shall crown to leave thee headless ; honors shall 
But prove to thee the lieralds of destruction, 
And hoar}^ hairs of shame, and both of death, 
But not such death as fits an aged man." 
Thus saj'in^, he pass'd on. — That hour is come. 

Ang. And with this warning couldst thou not 
have striven 
To avert the fatal moment, and atone, 
By penitence, for that which thou hadst done ? 

Bocje. I own the words went to my heart, so much 
That I remember'd them amid the maze 
Of life, as if they form'd a spectral voice. 
Which shook me in a supernatural dream ; 
And I repented ; but 't was not for me 
To pull in resolution : what must be 
I could not change, and would not fear. — iSTay more. 
Thou canst not have forgot, what all remember. 
That on my day of landing here as Doge, 
On my return from Kome, a mist of such 
Unwonted density went on before 
The Bucentaur, like the columnar cloud 
Which usher'd Israel out of Eg^^Dt, till 
The pilot was misled, and disembark'* us 
Between the pillars of Saint Mark's, where 't is 
The custom of the state to put to death 
Its criminals, instead of touching at 
The Eiva della Paglia, as the wont is. — 
So that all Venice shudder'd at the omen. 

AuQj. Ah ! little boots it now to recollect 
Such things. 

i)o(7e. And yet I find a comfort in 

The thought that these things are the work of Fate ; 
For I would rather yield to gods than mxcn. 
Or cling to any creed of destiny, 
Rather than deem these mortals, most of whom 
I know to be as worthless as the dust. 
And weak as worthless, more than instruments 
Of an o-erruling power; they in themselves 
Were all incapable — they could not be 
Victors of him wlio oft had conquer'd for them! 

Anq. Employ the minutes left in aspirations 
Of a more healing nature, and in peace 
Even with these ^^Tetches take thy flight to heaven. 

Doge. I am at peace : the peace of certainty 
That a sure hour will come, wlien their sons' sons. 
And tins proud city, and these azure waters, 
And all which makes them eminent and bright. 
Shall be a desolation and a curse, 
A hissing and a scoff unto the nations. 
A Carthage, and a Tyre, an ocean Babel I 

AuQ. Speak not thus now: the surge of passion 
still 
Sweeps o'er thee to the last : thou dost deceive 
Thyself, and canst not injure them — be calmer. 

Boge. I stand within eternity, and see 
Into eternity, and I behold — 
Ay, pali^able as I see thy sweet face 
For the last time— the days which I denounce 
Unto all time against these wave-girt walls, 
And they who are indwellers. 

Guard [coming forward). Doge of Venice, 
The Ten are in attendance on your highness. 

Doge. Then farewell, Angiolina !— one embrace- 
Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
A fond but fatal husband— love my memory— 
I would not ask so much for m.e still living. 
But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
Besides, of all the fruit of these long years. 
Glory, and wealth, and power, and fame, and name. 
Which generally leave some flowers to bloom 



♦This was the actual reply of Ballli, maire of Paris, to a 
Frenchman who made him the same reproach on his way to 
execution, in the earliest part of their revolution. I find in 
reading- over (since the completion of this traoredy), for the 
first time these sLs years, " Venice Preserved," a similar reply 



Even o'er the grave, I have nothing left, not even 

A little love, or friendship, or esteem, 

]^ro, not enough to extract an epitaph 

From ostentatious kinsmen ; in one hour 

I have uprooted all my former life, 

And outlived everything, except thy heart. 

The pure, the good, the gentle, which will oft 

With unimpaif'd but not a clamorous grief 

Still keep Thou turn'st so pale!— Alas! she 

faints, 
Siie has no breath, no pulse !— Guards ! lend your 

aid — 
T cannot leave her thus, and yet 't is better, 
Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
When she shakes off this temporary death, 
I shall be with the Eternal.- Call her women — 
One look ! — how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 

And take my last thanks 1 am ready now. 

[T/ie Attendants of Angiolina enter., and F,ur- 
round their mistress, who has fainted. — 
Exeunt the Doge, Guards, etc., etc. 

SCENE lU.—The Court of the Ducal Palace; the 
outer gates are shut against the people. 

The Doge enters in his ducal rohes, in procession uiith 

the Council of Ten and other Patricians, attended 

by the Guards, till they arrive at the top of the 

'■''Giants'' Staircase'''' [where the Doges took the 

oaths) ; the Executioner is stationed there with his 

sword. — On arriving^ a Chief of the Ten takes ojf 

the ducal cap from the Doge''s head. 

Doge. So now the Doge is nothing, and at last 
T am "again Marino Faliero : 
'T is well to be so, though but for a mom.ent. 
Here v/as I crown 'd, and here, bear witness, Heaven I 
With how much more contentment I resign 
That shining mockery, the ducal bauble, 
Than I received the fatal ornament. 

One of the Ten. Thou tremblest, Faliero ! 

Doge. 'T is v/ith age, then.* 

Ben. Faliero ! h ast thou a ught further to commend , 
Compatible v.dth justice, to the senate ? 

Doge. I would commend my nephew to their 
mercy, 
]SIy consort to their justice ; for methinks 
My death, and such a death, might settle all 
Between the state and me. 

Ben. They sliall be cared for ; 

Even notwithstanding thine unheard-of crime. 

Boge. Unheard-of ! ay, there 's not a history 
But shows a thousand crown 'd conspirators 
Against the people ; but to set them free 
One sovereign only died, and one is dying. 

Ben. And who were they who fell in such a cause ? 

Boge. The King of Sparta, and the Doge of 
Venice— 
Agis and Faliero ! 

Ben. Hast thou more 

To utter or to do ? 

Boge. May I speak ? 

Ben. Thou mayst ; 

But recollect the people are without, 
Beyond the compass of the human voice. 

Boge. I speak to Time and to Eternity, 
Of which I grow a portion, not to man. 
Ye elements ! in which to be resolved 
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit 
Upon you ! Ye blue waves ! which bore my banner, 



on a different occasion by Renault, and other coincidences 
arising- from the subject. I need hardly remind the gentlest 
reader, that such coincidences must be accidental, from the 
very facility of their detsction by reference to so popular a 
play on the stage and in the closet as Otway's chef-d'oeuvre. 
183 • 



ACT V. 



MARINO FALIERO. 



SCENE IV. 



Ye winds ! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it, 
And fiU'd my swelling sails as they were wafted 
To many a triumph ! Thou, my native earth, 
Which I have bled for, and thou, foreign earth, 
AVhich drank this willing blood from many a w^ound ! 
Ye stones, in which my' gore will not sink, but 
Reek up to heaven ! Ye skies, w^hich will receive it ! 
Thou snn ! which shinest on these things, and Thou ! 
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns !— Attest ! 
I am not innocent — but are these guiltless ? 
I perish, but not unavenged : far ages 
Float up from the abyss of time to be, 
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom 
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse 

On hers and hers for ever ! Yes, the hours 

Are silently engendering of the day. 

When she, w^ho built 'gainst Attila a bulwark, 

Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield, 

Unto a bastard Attila, without 

Shedding so much blood in her last defence 

As these" old veins, oft drain 'd in shielding her, 

Shall pour in sacrifice. — She shall be bought 

And sold, and be an appanage to those 

Who shall despise her !* — She shall stoop to be 

A province for an empire, petty town 

In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates, 

Beggars for nobles, panders for a people ! 

Then when the Hebrew 's in thy palaces,! 

The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek 

Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his: 

When thy patricians beg their bitter bread 

In narrow streets, and in their shameful need 

Make their nobility a plea for pity ; 

Then, when the few^ who still retain a wreck 

Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn 

Round a barbarian Vice of Kings' Vicegerent, 

Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns. 

Even in the palace where they slew^ their sovereign. 

Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung 

From an adulteress boastful of her guilt 

With some large gondolier or foreign soldier, 

Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph 

To the third spurious generation ;— w^ hen 

Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being. 

Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors. 

Despised by cowards for greater cow^ardice. 

And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices 

As in the monstrous grasp of their conception 

Defy all codes to image or to name them ; 

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom. 

All thine inheritance shall be her shame 

Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown 

A wider proverb for worse prostitution :— 

When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee. 



* Should the dramatic picture seem harsh, let the reader 
look to the historical, of the period prophesied, or rather of 
the few years preceding- that period. Voltaire calculated 
their "nostre bene merite Meretrici" at 12,000 of regulars, 
without including: volunteers and local militia, on what 
authority I know not ; but it is, perhaps, the only part of the 
population not decreased. Venice once contained two hun- 
dred thousand inhabitants : there are now about ninety 
thousand ; and these ! ! few individuals can conceive, and 
none could describe, the actual state into which the more 
than infernal tyranny of Austria has plung-ed this unhappy 
city. 

+ The chief palaces on the Brenta now belong- to the Jews ; 
who in the earlier times of the republic were only allowed to 
inhabit Mestri, and not to enter the city of Venice. The 
whole commerce is in the hands of the Jews and Greeks, and 
the Huns form the garrison. 

% If the Dog-e's prophecy seem remarkable, look to the fol- j 
lowing, made by Alimanni two hundred and seventy years | 
ago:— "There is one very singular prophecy concerning- j 
Venice: 'If thou nost not chang-e.' it says to that proud re- I 
public, 'thy liberty, which is already on the wing, will not i 
reckon a century more than the thousandth year.' If we I 
carry back the epocha of Venetian freedom to the establish- | 
► 184 



Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er, 
But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude, 45 
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness. 
Depraving nature's frailty to an art : — 
When these and more are heavy on thee, when 
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleas- 
ure. 
Youth without honor, age without respect. 
Meanness and weakness," and a sense of woe 
'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not 

murmur. J 
Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts. 
Then, in the last gasp of thine agony. 
Amidst thy many murders, think of mine I 
Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes I § 
Gehenna of the w^aters ! thou sea Sodom ! 
Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods! 
Thee and thy serpent seed ! 

[Here the Doge turns and addresses the Kvecii- 
tioner. 

Slave, do thine office ! 
Strike as I struck the foe ! Strike as I would 
Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse ! 
Strike— and but once ! 

[llie Doge throivs himself upon his knees^ and as 
the Executioner raises his sword the scene closea. 

SCENE TV.— The Piazza and Piazzetta of Saint 

3Iark^s. — TJie i:)eople in crowds gathered round the 

grated gates of the Ducal Palace., which are shut. 

First Citizen. 1 have gaiii'd the gate, and can 
discern the Ten, 
Robed in their gowns of state, ranged round the 
Doge. 

Second Cit. I cannot reach thee with mine utmost 
eifort. 
How is it ? let us hear at least, since sight 
Is thus prohibited unto the people. 
Except the occupiers of those bars. 

First Cit. One has approach 'd the Doge, and now 
they strip 
The ducal bonnet from his head — and now 
He raises his keen eyes to heaven : I see 
Them glitter, and his lips move — Hush ! hush ! — no, 
'T was but a murmur — Curse upon the distance ! 
His words are inarticulate, but the voice 
Swells up like mutter'd thunder; vrould we could 
But gather a sole sentence ! 

Second Cit. Hush! we perhaps may catch the 
sound. 

First Cit. 'T is vain, 

I cannot hear him. — How his hoary hair 



ment of the government under which the republic flourished, 
we shall find that the date of the election of the first doge is 
697 : and if we did add one century to a thousand, that is, 
eleven hundred years, we shall find the sense of the predic- 
tion to be literally this: ' Thy liberty will not last till 1797.' 
Recollect that Venice ceased to be free in the year 1796, the 
fifth year of the French republic; and you will perceive, 
that there never was prediction more pointed, or more 
exactly followed by the event. 

§ Of the first fifty doges, five abdicated— /lue were banished 
with their eyes put out— ^ue were massacred— and rdne de- 
posed ; so that nineteen out of fifty lost the throne by vio- 
lence, besides two who fell in battle : this occurred long pre- 
vious to the reign of Marino Faliero. One of his more 
immediate predecessors, Andrea Dandolo, died of vexation. 
Marino Faliero himself perished as related. Amongst his 
successors, Foscari. after seeing his son repeatedly tortured 
and banished, was deposed, and died of breaking a blood- 
vessel, on hearing the bell of Saint Mark's toll for the election 
of his successor. Morosini was impeached for the loss of 
Candia; but this was previous to his dukedom, duilng which 
he conquered the Morea, and was styled the Peloponnesian. 
Faliero might truly say, 

" Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes I " 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



SCENE I. 



Streams on the wind like foam upon the wave ! 
;^Q^r_jiow— he kneels— and now tliey form a circle 
Kound him, and all is hidden— but I see 

The lifted sword in air Ah ! hark ! it falls ! 

[27ze people murmur. 
Third Cit. Then they have murder'd him who 

would have freed us. 
Fourth Git. He was a kind man to the commons 

ever. 
Fifth Cit. Wisely they did to keep their portals 
barr'd. 
Would we had known the work they were prepanng 
Ere we were summon'd here — we would have 

brougrht 
Weapons, and forced them ! 



Sixth Cit. Are you sure he 's dead ? 

First Cit. I saw the sword fall— Lo ! what have 
w^e here ? 

Enter on the Balcony of the Palace which fronts 
Saint MarVs Place a Chief of the Ten, with a 
hloodvii sword. He waves it thrice before the people, 
and exclaims, 
" Justice hath dealt upon the mighty Traitor! " 
[21ie gates are opened : the populace rush in toioard^ 
the'"'- Giants^ Staircase,''^ where the execution has 
taken place. The foremost of them exclaims to 
those behind, 
The gory head rolls down the Giants' Steps ! 

[The curtain falls. 



HEAYEN AND EAETH: 

FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, CHAP. VI. 

"And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them 
rives of all which they chose." * 



•And woman wailing for her demon lover,"— Coleridge. 



ANGELS. 
Samiasa. 
Azaziel. 
Raphael, the Archangel, 



BBAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 
Noah and his Sons. 
Irad. 
Japhet. 

Ckorics of Spirits of the Earth.— Chorus of Mortals. 



WOMEN, 
Anah. 
Aholibamah. 



T>A.IIT I 



SCENE I. — A icoody and mountainous district near 
Mount Ararat. — Time, Midnight. 

Enter Anah and Aholibamah. 

Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
Who love us are accustom 'd to descend 
Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : — 
How my heart beats ! 

Aho. Let us proceed upon 

Our invocation. 

Anah. But the stars are hidden, 

I tremble. 

Aho. So do I, but not with fear 

Of aught save their delay. 

Anah. My sister, though 

I love Azaziel more than oh, too much ! 

W^hat was I going to say ? my heart grows impious. 

Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
Celestial natures ? 

Anah. But, Aholibamah, 

I love our God less since his angel loved me : 



* " Heaven and Earth " was written at Ravenna, in October, 
1821. In forwarding it to Mr. Murray, in the following- month. 
Lord Byron says— " Enclosed is a lyrical drama, entitled 'A 
Mystery.' You will find it pious enough, I trust— at least 
some of the chorus might have been written bySternhold 
and Hopkins themselves for that, and perhaps for melody. 
As it is longer, and more lyrical and Gi-eek, than I intended 
at first, I have not divided it into acts, but called what I have 
eent Part First ; as there is a suspension of the action, which 



This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
Which are not ominous of right. 

Aho. Then wed thee 

Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
There 's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long : 
Marry, and bring forth dust ! 

Anah. I should have loved 

Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
I am glad he is not. I cannot outlive him. 
And when I think that his immortal wings 
Will one day hover o'er tlie sepulchre 
Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
Less terrible; but yet I pity him : 
His grief will be of ages, or at least 
Mine would be such for him, were I the seraph. 
And he the perishable. 

Aho. Eather say. 

That he will single forth some other daughter 
Of earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 



may either close there without impropriety, or be continued 
in a way that I have in view. I wish the first part to be pub- 
lished before the second ; because, if it don't succeed, it is 
better to stop there than to go on in a ^uitless experiment " 
Though without delay revised by Mr. Gifford, and printed, 
this "First Part" was not published till 1823, when it S'.p- 
peared in the second number of the "Liberal." The "Mys- 
tery " was never completed. 



185 



PART T. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE II. 



Anah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
Better thus tlum that he should weep for me. 
Aho. If I tliought thus of Samiasa's love, 
All seraph as he is, I 'd spurn him from me. 
But to our invocation ! — 'T is the hour. 
Anah. Seraph ! 

From thy sphere ! 
Whatever star contain thy glory; 
In the eternal depths of heaven 
Albeit thou watchest with " the seven " * 
Though througli space infinite and hoary 
Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
Yet hear ! 
Oh ! think of her w^ho holds thee dear ! 

And tliough she nothing is to thee, 
Yet think that thou art all to her. 
Thou canst not tell, — and never be 
Such pangs decreed to aught save me, — 
The bitterness of tears. 
Eternity is in thine years, 
Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
With me thou canst not sympathize, 
Except in love, and there thou must 
Acknow^ledge that more loving dust 
Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
Thou waik'st thy many worlds, thou seest 

The face of him who made thee great, 
As he hath made me of the least 
Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
Yet, Seraph dear ! 
Oh hear! 
For thou hast loved me, and I would not die 
Until I know what I must die in knowing, 
That thou forgett'st in thine eternity 
Her whose heart death could not keep from 
o'erflowing 
For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
Great is their love who love in sin and fear ; 
And such, I feel, are waging in ray heart 

A war imv/orthy : to an Adamite 
Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
For sorrow is our element ; 
Delight 
An Eden kept afar from sight. 
Though sometimes vvdth our visions blent. 
The hour is near 
Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite.— 
Appear ! Appear ! 
Seraph ! 
My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
And leave the stars to their own light. 
Aho. Samiasa ! 

Wheresoe'er 
Thou rulest in the upper air — 
Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
Dispute with him 
Who made all empires, empire; or recalling 
Some wandering star, wliich shoots through the 
abyss. 
Whose tenants dying, while their world is 
falling, 
Share tlie dim destiny of clay in this ; 

Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
Samiasa ! 
I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 

Many may worship thee, that will I not: 
If that thy spirit down to mine may move thee, 
Descend and share my lot ! 
Though I be form'd of clay. 

And thou of beams 
More bright than tliose of day 
On Eden's streams. 
Thine immortality cannot repay 

*Tbe archangels, said to be seven in number, and to occupy 
the eighth rank In the celestial hierarchy. 

188 



With love more warm than mine 
My love. Tliere is a ray 

In me, which, thougli forbidden yet to shine, 

I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
It may be hidden long : death and decay 

Our mother Eve bequeath'd us— but my heart 
Defies it : though this life must pass away, 

Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
Thou art immortal — so am I: I feel — 

I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal. 

Like the eternal thunders of the deep. 
Into my ears this trutli — " Thou liv'st for ever ! " 
But if it be in joy 

I know not, nor would know ; 
Tliat secret rests witli the Almighty giver 

AVho folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 
But thee and me he never can destroy ; 
Change us he may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
Of as eternal essence, and must war 
With him if he will war with us : with thee 

I can share all things, even immortal sorrow; 
For thou hast ventured to share life v/ith ?7ie. 
And shall /shrink from thine eternity V 

No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me 
thorough, 
And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coil 
Around me still ! and I will smile, 
And curse thee not ; but hold 
Thee in as warm a fold 

As but descend, and prove 

A miortal's love 
For an immortal. If the skies contain 
More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 

Anah. Sister! sister! I view" them winging 
Their bright way through the parted night. 

Aho. The clouds from oif their pinions flinging, 
As though they bore to-morrow's light. 

Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 

Aho. He w^ould but deem it was the moon 
Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
An hour too soon. 

Anah. They come! /le comes! — xizaziel ! 

Aho. ^ Haste 

To meet them ! Oh ! for wrings to bear 
My spirit, w^hile they hover there, 
To Samiasa's breast ! 

Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
Like a returning sunset; — lo 1 

On Ararat's late secret crest 
A mild and many-color'd bow. 
The remnant of their flashing path, 
Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 

y/hich the leviathan hath lash'd 
From his unfathomable home, 
When si^orting on the face of the calm deep. 

Subsides soon after he again liath dash'd 
Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 

Aho. They have touch 'd earth ! Samiasa ! 

Anah. My Azaziel I 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE II. 
Enter Irad and Japhet. 

Irad. Despond not : wherefore wilt thou wander 
thus 
To add thy silence to the silent night, 
And lift thy tearful eye unto the stars ? 
They cannot aid thee. 

JapJi. But they soothe me— now 

Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
Methinks a being tliat is beautiful 
Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
The eternal beauty of undying things. 
Oh , Anah ! 

Irad. But she loves thee not. 



PART T. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCET^E III. 



Japh. Alfis ! 

Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 

Japh. I feel for thee too. 

Irad. Let her keep her pride, 

Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
It may be, time too will avenge it. 

Japh. Canst thou 

Find joy in such a thought ? 

Irad. ISTor joy nor sorrow. 

I loved her well ; I would have loved her better, 
Had love been met with love : as 't is, I leave her 
To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 

Japh. What destinies ? 

irad. I have some cause to think 

She loves another. 

Japh. Anah ! 

Irad. No; her sister. 

Japh. What other ? 

Irad. That I know not ; but her air. 

If not her words, tells me she loves another. 

Japh. Ay, but not Anah : she but loves her God. 

Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
What can it profit thee ? 

Japh. True, nothing ; but 

I love. 

Irad. And so do I. 

Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 

Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 

Irad. Yes. 

Japh. I pity thee. 

Irad. Me! why? 

Japh. For being happy. 

Deprived of that which makes my misery. 

Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper. 
And would not feel as thou dost for more shekels 
Than all our father's herds would bring, if weigh'd 
Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
As if such useless and discolor'd trash, 
The refuse of the earth, could be received 
For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and all 
Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon — 
I must back to my rest. 

Japh. And so would I, 

If I could rest. 

Irad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 

Japh. No, Irad; I will to the cavern, wliose 
Mouth they say opens from the internal world 
To let the inner spirits of the earth 
Forth when they walk its surface. 

Irad. Wherefore so ? 

What wouldst thou there ? 

Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 

With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
And I am hopeless. 

Irad. But 't is dangerous ; 

Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with 

terrors. 
I must go with thee. 

Japh. Irad, no ; believe me 

I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 

Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more 
As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
Or let mine be with thine. 

Japh. No, neither, Irad ; 

I must proceed alone. 
Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 

[Exit Irad. 
Japh. {solus). Peace! I have sought it where it 
should be found, 
In love— with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
And, in its stead, a heaviness of heart, 
A weakness of the spirit — listless days. 
And nights inexorable to sweet sleep, 
Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the 
calm 



Of desolation, and the stillness of 

The untrodden forest, only broken by 

The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ; 

Such is the sullen or the fitful state 

Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown wicked, 

And many signs and portents have proclaim'd 

A change at hand, and an o'erwhelming doom 

To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 

When the dread hour denounced shall open wide 

The fountains of the deep, how miglitest thou 

Have lain within this bosom, folded from 

The elements ; this bosom, Avhieh in vain 

Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 

While thine Oh, God! at least remit to her 

Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing 
As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench. 
Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
Row v^^ould I have adored thee, but thou wouldst 

not; 
And still would I redeem thee— see thee live 
When ocean is earth's grave, and, unopposed 
By rock or shallow, the leviathan. 
Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 

[Exit Japhet. 

Enter Noa.li and Shem. 

Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 

Shem. He went forth, 

According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
Tov/ards Anah's tents, round which he hovers 

nightly. 
Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 

Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot 
Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
Than even wicked men resort there : he 
Still loves this daughter of a fated race. 
Although he could not wed her if she loved him, 
And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
The destiny and evil of these days, 
And that the hour approacheth, should indulge 
In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
He must be sought for ! 

Shem. Go not forward, father ; 

I will seek Japhet. 

Noah. Do not fear for me : 

All evil things are powerless on the man 
Selected by Jehovah.— Let us on. 

Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 

Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucasus. 

[Exeunt Noah and Shem. 

SCENE III. — The Mountains. — A- Cavern, and the 
Bocks of Caucasus. 

Japh. {solns\ Ye wilds, that look eternal; and 
thou cave, 
Which seem'st unfathomable ; and ye mountains, 
So varied and so terrible in beauty ; 
Here, in your rugged majesty of rocks 
And toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
In perpendicular places, where the foot 
Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes. 
Ye look eternal ! Yet, in a few days. 
Perhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, hurl'd 
Before the mass of waters ; and yon cave. 
Which seems to lead into a lower world, 
Shall have its depth search 'd by the sweeping wave, 
And dolphins gambol in the lion's den ! 

And man! Oh, men ! my fellow beings ! Y/ho 

Shall weep above your universal grave. 
Save I ? Who shall be left to weep ? My kinsmen, 
Alas 1 what am I better than ye are 
187 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE III. 



That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 
The pleasant places where I tliought of Anah 
"While I had hope ? or the more savage haunts, 
Scarce less beloved, where I despaired for her ? 
And can it be!— Shall yon exulting peak, 
Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 
Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep y 
No more to have the morning sun break forth, 
And scatter back tlie mists in floating folds 
From its tremendous brow ? no more to have 
Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 
No more to be the beacon of the world. 
For angels to alight on, as the spot 
Nearest the stars ? And can those words " no more " 
Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 
And the predestined creeping things reserved 
By my sire to Jehovah's bidding ? May 
He preserve them, and 1 not have the power 
To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 
A doom which even some serpent, with his mate. 
Shall 'scape to save his kind to be prolong'd, 
To hiss and sting through some emerging Avorld, 
Keeking and dank from, out the slime, whose ooze 
Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this, until 
The salt morass subside into a sphere 
Beneath the sun, and be the monument. 
The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre. 
Of yet quick myriads of all life V How much 
Breath will be still'd at once ! All-beauteous world ! 
So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
With a cleft heart look on thee day by day. 
And night by night, thy number'd days and nights : 
I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 
A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
Such as— Oh God ! and canst thou — [He pauses. 
A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, and shouts 
of laughter— afterwards a Spirit -passes. 

Japh. In the name 

Of the Most High, what art thou ? 

Spirit (laughs). Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 

Spirit [laughs). Ha ! ha! 

Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
The deep W'hich will lay open ail her fountains ! 
The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes! 
Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct. 
Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me! 
Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 

Spirit. Why weep'st thou ? 

Japh. For earth and all her children. 

Spirit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! [Spirit vanishes. 

Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a 
world, 
The coming desolation of an orb, 
On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
How the earth sleeps ! and all tliat in it is 
Sleep too upon the very eve of death ! 
Why should they wake to meet it ? What are here, 
Which look like death in life, and speak like 

things 
Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
[Various Spirits pass from the cavern. 

Spirit. Rejoice ! 

The abhorred race 
Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 
But listen 'd to the voice 

Of knowledge without power, 
Are nigh the hour 
Of death ! 
Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow. 

Nor years, nor' heart-break, nor time's sapping 
motion, 

188 



Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow! 
Earth shall be ocean ! 
And no breath. 
Save of the winds, be on the unbounded w^ave ! 

Angels shall tire their wings, but find no spot : 
Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 

Shall lift its point to save. 
Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
For the' expected ebb which cometh not : 
All shall be void. 
Destroy 'd ! 
Another element shall be the lord 

Of life, and the abhorr'd 
Children of dust be quench 'd ; and of each hue 
Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
And of the variegated mountain 
Shall nought remain 
Unchanged, or of the level plain; 
Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
All merged within the universal fountain, 
Man, earth, and fire, shall die. 

And sea and sky 
Look vast and lifeless in the eternal eye. 

Upon the foam 
Who shall erect a home ? 
Japh. [coming forward). My sire ! 
Earth's seed shall not expire; 
Only the evil shall be put away 

From day. 
A vaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
Who howl your hideous joy 
When God destroys whom you dare not destroy ; 
Hence ! haste ! 
Back to your inner caves ! 
Until the waves 
Shall search you in your secret place. 
And drive your sullen race 
Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds. 
In restless wretchedness along' all space I 
Spjirit. Son of the saved ! 

When thou and thine have braved 
The wide and warring element ; 
When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 
Shall thou and thine be good or happy? — No ! 
Thy new w^orld and new race shall be of woe — 
Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
Less than the glorious giants, who 
Yet walk the world in pride, 
The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tears. 
And art thou not ashamed 

Thus to survive. 
And eat, and drink, and wive ? 
With a base heart so far subdued and tamed. 
As even to hear this wide destruction named. 
Without such grief and courage, as should rather 

Bid thee await the world-dissolving wave, 
Tlian seek a shelter with thy favor'd father. 
And build thy city o'er the drown 'd earth's 
grave ? 
Who would outlive their kind, 
Except the base and blind ? 
Mine 
Hateth thine 
As of a different order in the sphere, 
But not our own. 
There is not one who hath not left a throne 

Vacant in heaven to dwell in darkness here, 
Rather than see his mates endure alone. 

Go, wretch ! and give 
A life like thine to other wretches — live! , 
And when the annihilating waters roar 
Above wliat they have done, 
Envy the giant patriarchs then no more, 
And scorn thy sire as the surviving one! 
Thyself for being his son ! 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



SCENE III. 



Chorus of Spirits issuing from the cavern. 

Rejoice ! 
'No more the human voice 
- Shall vex our joys in middle air 
With prayer ; 
No more 
Shall they adore ; 
And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 

The prayer-exacting Lord, 
To whom the omission of a sacrifice 
Is vice; 
We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
Until one element shall do the work 
Of all in chaos ; until they, 
The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
In caves, in dens, in clefts of mountains, where 
The deep shall follow to their latest lair; 

Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
Shall cease to prey on man and on each gther, 

And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother; 
Till all things shall be as they were, 
Silent and uncreated, save the sky : 
While a brief truce 
Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
The little remnant of the past creation. 
To generate new nations for his use ; 
This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
Of the subsiding deluge, from its slime, 
When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
Into a world, shall give again to Time 
New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
Vf ith all companionship of hate and toil, 
Until— 
Jajjh. (interrupting them). The eternal will 
Shall deign to expound this dream 
Of good and evil ; and redeem 
Unto himself all times, all things ; 
And, gather'd under liis almighty wings, 
Abolish hell I 
And to the expiated Earth 
Restore the beauty of her birth, 

Her Eden in an endless paradise. 
Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
^ And even the very demons shall do well ! 
Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous 

spell y 
Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 

And then in glory. 
. Spiy^t. Meantime still straggle in the mortal 
chain, 

Till earth wax hoary ; 
War with yourselves, and hell, and heaven, in vain. 

Until the clouds look gory 
With the blood reeking from each battle plain ; 
New times, new climes, new arts, new men ; but 

still, 
The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
Shall be amongst your race in different forms ; 

But the same moral storms 
Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
In a few hours the glorious giants' graves.* 

Chorus of Spirits. 
Bretliren, rejoice ! 
Mortal , farewell ! 
Hark ! liark ! already we can hear the voice 
Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ; 
The clouds have nearly fiU'd their springs ; 

* "" And there were giants in the earth in those days, and 
after; mighty men, which were of old, men of renown."— 
Genesis. 

+ "• The same day wei-e all the fountains of the great deep 



The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 
And heaven set wide her windows ; f while man- 
kind 
View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
The mustering thunders of the threatening 
sphere ; 
Yet a few hours their coming is delay 'd ; 
Their flashing banners, folded still on high. 

Yet undisplay'd, 
Save to the Spirit's all-pervading eye. 
Howl ! howl ! oh Earth ! 
Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth ; 
Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 

The ocean's overflow! 
The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 

The little shells, of ocean's least things be 
Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 

How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
And call his nestlings up w^ith fruitless yell, 
Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell; — 
While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 

The wings which could not save : — 
Where could he rest them, while the whole space 
brings 
Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
Brethren, rejoice ! 
And loudly lift each superhuman voice- 
All die. 
Save the slight remnant of Seth's seed — 

The seed of Seth, 
Exempt for future Sorrow's sake from death. 
But of the sons of Cain 
None shall remain ; 
And all his goodly daughters 
Must lie beneath the desolating waters ; 
Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid. 
Along the wave, the cruel heaven upbraid. 
Which would not spare 
Beings even in death so fair. 
It is decreed. 
All die ! 
And to the universal human cry 
The universal silence shall succeed I 
Ely, brethren, fly ! 
But still rejoice ! 
We fell ! 
They fall! 
So perish all 
These petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
[The Spirits disappear., soaring upwards. 
Japh. [solus). God hath proclaim'd the destiny of 
earth ; 
My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
The scroll J of Enoch prophesied it long 
In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
And yet men listen 'd not, nor listen ; but 
Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so 

nigh. 
Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty pur- 
pose. 
Or deaf obedient ocean, which fulfills it. 
No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
As on the fourth day of creation, when 
God said unto him, " Shine ! " and he broke forth 
Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 

broken up ; and the windows of heaven were opened."— 
nyid. 

t- The book of Enoch, preserved by the Ethiopians, is said 
by them to be anterior to tlio flood. 
189 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE III. 



Unform'd forefather of mankind— but roused 
Before the human orison the earlier 
Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
Which in the open firmament of heaven 
Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
Heaven first each day before the Adamites : 
Their matins now draw nigh — the east is kindling — 
And they will sing ! and day will break I Both near, 
So near the awfufclose ! For these must drop 
Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and day, 
After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
Ay, day will rise; but upon Avhat ? — a chaos, 
Which was ere day; and wiiich, renewed, makes 

time 
Nothing ! for, without life, what are the hours ? 
Xo more to dust than is eternity 
Unto Jehovah, w^ho created both. 
Without him, even eternity would be 
A void ; w^ithout man, time, as made for man, 
Dies wdth man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
Devour'd by that which drow^ns his infant w^orld. — 
What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air, 
jS'o — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
How lovelily they move along the side 
Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist! 
And after the swart savage spirits, w^hose 
Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
Welcome as Eden. It may be they come 
To tell me the reprieve of our young world. 
For w^hich I have so often pray'd — They come ! 
Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 



Enter Saraiasa, 



Azaziel, Anah, and AJdoli- 
bamah. 

Japhet ! 

Lo! 



Anoli. 

Sam. 
A son of Adam ! 

Aza. Wliat doth the earth-born here, 

While all his race are slumbering ? 

Japh. Angel! w^hat 

Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 

Aza. Know^'st thou not, or forgett'st thou, that a 
part 
Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 

Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth. 
Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
In vain, and long, and still to be, beloved ! 
Why walk'st thou with, this spirit, in those hours 
W^hen no good spirit longer lights below ? 

Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, yet 
Forgive me 

Japh. May the Heaven, w^hich soon no more 

Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 

Alio. Back to thy tents, insulting son of I^oah ! 
We know thee not. 

Jap/i. The hour may come v^^hen thou 

Mayst know me better ; and thy sister know 
Me still the same which I have ever been. 

Sam. Son of the i)atriarch, who hath ever been 
Upright before his God, whate'er thy gifts, 
And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wTath, 
How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
Wrong V 

Ja.ph. Wrong! the greatest of all wrongs; but 
thou 
Sayst Avell; though she be dust, I did not, could 

not, 
Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
To save this beautiful— t/iese beautiful 
Children of Cain ? 

190 



Aza. From what ? 

Japh. And is it so. 

That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
Have shared man's sin, and it may be, now must 
Partake his punishment ; or, at the least. 
My sorrow. 

Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till now 

To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 

Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded 
them V 
Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 

Aho. So be it ! 

If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
An immortality of agonies 
With Samiasa! 

Anah. Sister! sister! speak not 

Thus. 

Aza. Fearest thou, my Anah ? 

Ayiah. Yes, for thee: 

I would resign the greater remnant of 
This little life of mine, before one hour 
Of thine eternity should know^ a pang. 

Jap/i. It is for him^ then ! for the seraph thoii 
Hast left me ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
Left thy God too ! for unions like to these. 
Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
Be happy or be hallow^'d. We are sent 
Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
Are made to minister on high unto 
The Highest : but if he can save thee, soon 
The hour will come in which celestial aid 
Alone can do so. 

Anah. Ah ! he speaks of death. 

Sam. Of death to us I and those who are with us : 
But that the man seems full of sorrow^ I 
Coidd smile. 

Japh. 1 grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 

I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
Of a well-doing sire, wiio hath been found 
Righteous enough to save his children. AVould 
His power was greater of redem.ption I or 
That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
Who could alone have made mine happy, she. 
The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
! The ark w-hich shall receive a remnant of 
The seed of Seth ! 

Aho. And dost thou think that v/e, 

With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
Warm in our veins,— strong Cain ! who was begotten 
In Paradise, — would mingle with Seth's children ? 
Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine 
From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 

Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aliolibamah ! 
Too much of the forefather wiiom thou vauntest 
Has come down in that haughty blood which 

springs 
From him who shed the first, and that a brother's ! 
But thou, my Anah ! let me call thee mine. 
Albeit thou art not ; 't is a word I cannot 
Part with, although I must from thee. My A^nah ! 
Thou who dost rather make me di-eam that Abel 
Had left a daughter, whose pure pious race 
Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
For all of them are fairest in their favor 

Aho. [interrupting him). And wouldst thou have 
her like our father's foe 
In mind, in soul ? If /partook thy thought. 
And dream 'd that aught of Abel w^as in her ! — 
Get thee hence, son of Xoah ; thou makest strife. 

Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 

Aho. But 

He slew not Seth ; and what hast thou to do 
With other deeds between his God and him ? 



TAKT I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE ITT. 



Japli. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged 
him, and 
1 had not named his deed, but that thyself 
Didst seem to gloiy in liim, nor to shrink 
From what he had done. 

Aho. He Avas our fathers' father ; 
The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
And most enduring :— Shall I blush for hira 
From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
Oar race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 
Their courage, strength, and length of days 

Japh. They are numbered. 

Alio. Be it so ! but while yet th'eir hours endure, 
I glory in my brethren and our fathers. 

Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
Anah ! and thou ? 

Anah. Whate'er our God decrees, 

The God of Seth, as Cain, T must obey, 
And will endeavor patiently to obey. 
But could I dare to pray in his dread hour 
Of universal vengeance (if such should be), 
It would not be to live, alone exempt 
Of all my house. My sister ! oh, ray sister ! 
AVhat were the world, or other worlds, or all 
The brightest future, v/ith.out the sweet past — 
Thy love — my father's— all the life, and all 
The things w^hich sprang up with me, like the 

stars, 
Making my dim existence radiant w^ith 
Soft lights wiiich w^re not mine ? Aholibamah ! 
Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it: 
I abhor death, because that thou must die. 

Alio. What, hath this dreamer, with his father's 
ark, 
The bugbear he hath built to scare the world, 
Shaken my sister ? are we not the loved 
Of seraph's ? and if w^e v/ere not, m.ust we 
Cling to a son of i^oah for our lives ? 

Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 

The worst of dreams, the fantasies engendered 
By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
Shall shake these solid mountains, this firm^ earth. 
And bid those clouds and waters take a shape 
Distinct from that which we and all our sires 
Have seen them wear on their eternal way V 
Who shall do this ? 

Javh. He whose one word produced them. 

Aho. Who heard that word ? 

Jafh. The universe, which leap'd 

To life before it. Ah ! smilest thou still in scorn? 
Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not. 
They are none. 

Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 

Aho. I have ever haii'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
As thine, and mJne: a God of love, not sorrow. 

Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
He who made earth in love had soon to grieve 
Above its first and best inhabitants. 

Aho. 'Tis said so. 
' Japh. It is even so. 

Enter Noah and Shena. 

Noah. Japhet ! What 

Dost thou here with these children of the wicked ? 
Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom V 

Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
To save an earth-born being ; and behold, 
These are not of the sinful, since they have 
The fellowship of angels. 

Noah . Th ese are t h ey , th en , 

Who leave the throne of God, to take them wives 
From out the race of Cain : the sons of heaven. 
Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty V 

*in the original MS. "Michael."— " I return yon," says 
Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, " the revise. I have softened the 
part to which Gifford objected, and changed the name of 



Aza. Patriarch ! 

Thou hast said it. 

Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such communion ! 

Has not God made a barrier between earth 
And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 

Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's 
image ? 
Did God not love what he had made ? And what 
Do we but imitate and emulate 
His love unto created love ? 

Noah. I am 

But man, and was not made to judge mankind, . 
Far less the sons of God ; but as our God 
Has deign 'd to commune with me, and reveal 
His judgments, I reply, that the descent 
Of seraplis from the everlasting seat 
Unto a perishable and perishing, 
Even on the very eve of perishing, world. 
Cannot be good. 

Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 

Noah. ]^ot ye in all your glory can redeem 
What he who made you glorious hath condemn'd. 
Were your immortal mission safety, 't would 
Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
And beautiful they are, but not the less 
Condemn'd. 

Japh. Oh, father ! say it not. 

' Noah. Son ! son ! 

If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
That they exist : they soon shall cease to be. 
While thou shalt be the sire of a new world. 
And better. 

Japh. Let me die with this, and them ! 

Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt 
not; he 
Who can, redeems thee. 

Sam. And why him and thee. 

More than what he, thy son, prefers to both V 

Noah. Ask him who made thee greater than myself 
And mine, but not less subject to his own 
Almightiness. And lo I his mildest and 
Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 

Enter Raphael,* the Archangel. 

Raph. Spirits ! 

Whose seat is near the throne, 
What do ye here ? 
Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
• Xow that the hour is near 
When earth must be alone ? 
Return ! 
Adore and burn 
In glorious homage with the elected " seven." 

Your place is heaven. 
Sam. Raphael ! 

The first and fairest of the sons of God, 

How long hath this been law, 
That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 

Earth ! which oft saw 
Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
The world he loved, and made 
For love ; and oft have we obey'd 
His frequent mission with delighted pinions : 
Adoring him in his least works display'd; 
Watching tliis youngest star of his dominions; 
And, as the latest birth of his great w^ord, 
Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
Why is thy brow severe ? 
And wherefore speak 'st thou of destruction near ? 

Eaph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
In their true place, with the angelic choir. 
Written in fire 
They would have seen 



Michael to Raphsel, who was an angel of gentler sympa- 
thies."— Byron Letters, July 6, 1822. 

191 



PART T. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE TIT. 



Jehovah's late decree, 
And not inquired their Maimer's breath of rae : 
But ignorance must ever be 
A part of sin ; 
And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow less 

As they wax proud within ; 
For Blindness is the first-born of Excess. 

When all good angels left the world, ye stay'd, 
Stung with strange passions, and debased 

By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
But ye are pardon 'd thus far, and replaced 
Witli your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away ! 
Or stay, 
And lose eternity by that delay. 
Aza. And thou ! if earth be thus forbidden 
In the decree 
To us until this moment hidden, 
Dost thou not err as we 
In being here ? 
Baph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere. 
In the great name and at the word of God. 
Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 

That which I came to do : till now we trod 
Together the eternal space ; together 
Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must 
die! 
Her race, return 'd into her womb, must wither. 
And much which she inherits : but, oh ! why 
Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
Without involving ever some vast void 
In the immortal ranks ? imm^ortal still 

In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
Our brother Satan fell : his burning will 
Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
But ye who still are pure ! 
Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 

Think how he was undone I 
And think if tempting man can compensate 
For heaven desired too late? 
Long have I v/arr'd, 
Long must I war 
With him who deem'd it hard 
To be created, and to acknowledge him 
Who midst tlie cherubim 
Made him as suns to a dependent star. 
Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 

I loved him — ^beautiful he was : oh heaven ! 
Save his who made, what beauty and what power 
Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour • 

In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
The wish is impious : but, oh ye ! 
Tet undestroy'd, be warn'd! Eternity 

With him, or with his God, is in your choice: 
He hath not tempted you : he cannot tempt 
The angels, from his further snares exempt : 

But man hath listen'd to his voice. 
And ye to woman's — ^beautiful she is, 
The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
The snake but vanquish'd dust ; but she will draw 
A second host from heaven, to break heaven's law. 
Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
Ye cannot die ; 
But they 
Shall pass away. 
While ye shall fill with shrieks the upper sky 

For perishable clay. 
Whose memory in your immortality 

Shall long outlast the sun wiiich gave them day. 
Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
In all but suffering ! why partake 
Tlie agony to which they must be lieirs — 
Born to be plough 'd with years, and sown with 
cares : 
And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
Even had their days been left to toil their path 
Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
Stillthey are Evil's prey and Sorrow's spoil. 
192 



Aho. Let them fly ! 

I hear the voice wliich says that all must die 
Sooner than our v/hite-bearded patriavclis died ; 
And that on high 
An ocean is prepared, 
While from below 
The deep shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 

Few shall be spared, 
It seems; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
Sister! since it is so, 
And the eternal Lord 
In vain would be implored 
For the remission of one hour of woe, 
Let us resign even what we have adored, 
And meet the wave, as we would meet the sword, 

If not unmoved, yet undismay'd. 
And wailing less for us than those who shall 
Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 

And, when the fatal waters are allay 'd. 
Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
Fly, seraphs! to j'our own eternal shore. 
Where winds nor howl nor waters roar. 
Our portion is to die. 
And yours to live for ever : 
But which is best, a dead eternity, 
Or living, is but knov*^n to the great Giver. 
Obey him, as we shall obey ; 
I would not keep this life of mine in clay 
An hour beyond his will ; 
Xor see ye lose a portion of his grace, 
For aU tlie mercy which Seth's race 
Find still. 
Fly! 
And as your pinions bear ye back to heaven. 
Think that my love still mounts with thee on high, 

Samiasa ! 
And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep — 
Farewell ! Xow rise, inexorable Deep ! 
Anali. And must we die ? 

And must I lose thee too, 
Azaziel ! 
Oh my heart ! my heart ! 

Thy prophecies were true ! 
And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new: 
But yet depart ! 
Ah! why? 
Yet let me not retain thee — fly! 
My pangs can be but brief; but thine would be 
Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for m.e. 
Too much already hast thou deign 'd 
To one of Adam's race ! 
Our doom is sorrow : not to us alone. 
But to the spirits who have not disdain 'd 
To love us, Cometh anguish with disgrace. 
The first who taught us knowledge hath been liurPd 
From his once archangelic throne 
Into some unknown world : 
And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
Thou Shalt not suffer woe 
For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
Thou canst not weep ; but yet 
Mayst suffer more, not weeping : then forget 
Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling deep 

Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
Japh. Oh say not so ! 

Father! and thou, archangel, thou ! 
Surely celestial mercy lurks below 

That pure severe serenity of brow : 
Let them not meet this sea without a shore. 
Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
Noah. Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
Do God no wrong! 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH, 



SCENE III. 



Live as he wills it — die, when he ordains, 
A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 

Cease, or be sorrowful in silence; cease 
To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
Such would it be 
To alter his intent 
For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
Japli. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
And we are all alone. 
Floating upon the azure desert, and 
The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
Wlio, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then com- 
mand ? 
Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
Oh God ! be thou a God, and spare 

Yet while 't is time ! 
Eenew not Adam's fall : 
Mankind were then but twain, 
But they are numerous now as are the waves 

And the tremendous rain. 
Whose drops shall be less thick than would their 
graves. 
Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
JVoa/i. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine 's a 
crime. 
Angels, forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
Baph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : 
Ye! 
Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
May now return with me. 

Sam. It may not be : 

We have chosen, and will endure. 
Baph. Sayst thou ? 

Aza. He hath said it, and I say, Amen ! 

Baph. Again ! 

Then from this hour. 
Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
And aliens from your God, 
Farewell ! 
Jcq:}h. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 

Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still. 
Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
There 's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 

Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
JSToah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
And hover round the mountain, where before 
jSTever a white wing, wetted by the wave, 

Yet dared to soar, 
Even when the waters wax'd too fierce to brave. 
Soon it shall be their only shore. 
And then, no more ! 
Japh. The sun I the sun ! 

He riseth, but his better light is gone. 
And a black circle, bound 
His glaring disk around, 
Proclaims earth's last of summer days hath shone ! 

The clouds return into the hues of night, 
Save wiiere their brazen-color'd edges streak 
The verge where brighter morns were wont to 
break. 
Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light. 
The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 

It Cometh ! hence, away ! 
Leave to the elements their evil i^rey ! 
Hence to where our all-h allow 'd ark uprears 
Its safe and wreckless sides ! 
Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
Noah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Be- 
gone ! 
Japh. Kot I. 

13 



Noah. Then die 

With them ! 
How darest thou look on that prophetic sky. 
And seek to save what all things now condemn. 
In overwhelming unison 

With just Jehovah's wrath ! 
Jajjh. Can rage and justice join in the same 

path ? 
Noah. Blasphemer! darest thou murmur even 

now ? 
Baph. Patriarch, be still a father! smooth thy 

brow : 
Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 

With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
But be, when passion passeth, good as thou. 
Nor perish like heaven's children with man's 

daughters. 
Aho. The tempest cometh; heaven and earth 
unite 
For the annihilation of all life. 
Unequal is the strife 
Between our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
Sayn. But ours is with thee : we will bear ye far 
To some untroubled star, 
Where thou and Anah shalt partake our lot : 

And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth. 
Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of 
birth ! 
And mountains, land, and woods ! when ye are not, 
Who shall dry up my tears ? 

Aza. Thy spirit-lord. 

Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven. 
Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 

Baph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked as thy deeds 
Shall henceforth be but weak : the flaming sword. 
Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
Still flashes in the angelic hands. 

Aza. It "cannot slay us : threaten dust with death. 
And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds. 
What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
Baph. The moment cometh to approve thy 
strength ; 
And learn at length 
How vain to war with what thy God commands : 
Thy former force was in thy faith. 

Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
Chorus of Mortals. 
The heavens and earth are mingling— God ! oh God ! 
What have we done ? Yet spare ! 
Hark! even the forest beasts howl forth their 
prayer ! 
The dragon crawls from out his den. 
To herd, in terror, innocent with men : 
And the birds scream their agony through air. 
Yet, yet, Jeliovah ! yet withdraw thy rod 
Of wrath, and pity thine own world's desi^air ! 
Hear not Man only but all Nature plead ! 
Baph. Farewell, thou earth ! ye wretched sons of 
clay, 
I cannot, must not, aid you. 'T is decreed ! 

[Exit Bapliael. 
Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their 
prey. 
While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
At which tlieir wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
No azure more shall robe the firmament, 

Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen :: 
In the sun's place a ])ale and ghastly glare 
Hath wound itself around the dying air. 
Azah. Come, Anah! quit this chaos-founded, 
prison, 
To which the elements again repair, 
To turn it into what it was : beneath 
193 



PART I. 



HEAVEN AND EARTH. 



SCENE TIT. 



The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 

As was the eagle's nestling once within 

Its mother's— Let the coming chaos chafe 

With all its elements ! Heed not tlieir din ! 

A brighter world than this, where thou shalt 

breathe 
Ethereal life, will we explore : 
These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 

[Azaziel and Samiasafly off and disappear 
luith Anah and Aliolihamah. 
Japh. They are gone! They have disappear'd 

amidst the roar 
Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
Whether they live, or die with all earth's life, 
Now near its last, can aught restore 
Anah unto these eyes. 

Chorus of Mortals. 
Oil son of l!^oah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
What ! wilt thou leave us all— all — all behind? 
While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
A Mother {offering her infant to Japhet). Oh let 
this cliild embark ! " 
I brought him forth in w^oe. 

But thought it joy 
To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
Why w^as he born ? 
What hath he done— 
My unwean'd son— 
To move Jehovah's wTath or scorn ? 
What is there in this milk of mine, that death 
Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 

My boy. 
And roll the w^aters o'er his placid breath ? 
Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
Or cursed be— with him wiio made 
Thee and thy race, for which w^e are betray 'd ! 
Japh. Peace! 'tis no hour for curses, but for 
prayer. 

Chorus of Mortals. 

For prayer ! ! ! 
And where 
Shall prayer ascend. 
When the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 

And burst, 
And gushing oceans every barrier rend. 
Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
Accursed 
Be he who made thee and thy sire ! 
We deem our curses vain ; w^e must expire ; 

But as we know the worst, 
Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
Since w^e must fall the same ? 
If he hath made earth, let it be his shame. 

To make a w'orld for torture. — Lo ! they come. 
The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
And with their roar make wholesome ISTature dumb ! 

The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 
When Paradise upsprung, 

Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung). 
So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
Are overtopp'd. 
Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd, 



Which rise, and rise, and rise. 

Vainly w^e look up to the lowering skies — 

They meet the seas. 
And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
Fly, son of J!^oah, fly I and take thine ease 
In thine allotted ocean-tent; 
And view, all floating o'er the element, 
The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
Then to Jehovah raise 
Thy song of praise ! 
A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
Who die in the Lord ! 
And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
Yet, as his word. 
Be the decree adored ! 
He gave me life— he taketh but 
The breath which is his own : 
And though these eyes should be for ever shut, 
Kor longer this WTak voice before his throne 
Be heard in supplicating tone. 

Still blessed be the Lord, 
For what is past. 
For that which is : 
For all are his, 
From first to last— 
Time— space— eternity — ^life — death— 
The vast known and immeasurable unknown. 
He made, and can unmake; 
And shall J, for a little gasp of breath. 

Blaspheme and groan ? 
Xo ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
]S"or quiver, though the universe may quake ! 

Chorits of Mortals. 
Where shall we fly ? 
Not to the mountains high ; 
For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 

To meet the ocean, wdiich, advancing still, 
Already grasps each drowning hill, 
Nor leaves an un search 'd cave. 

Enter a Woman. 
Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
Our valley is no more : 

My father and my father's tent. 
My brethren and my iDrethren's herds. 

The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent, 
And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
The little rivulet wiiich freshen 'd all 
Our pastures green, 
Nor more are to be seen. -* 

When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this morn, 

I turn'd to bless the spot. 
And not a leaf appear 'd about to fall ; — 

And now they are not !— 
Why was I born ? 

Japh. To die ! in youth to die I 

And happier in that doom. 
Than to behold the universal tomb 

Which I 
Am thus condemn'd to w^eep above in vain. 
Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 

[The waters rise; Men fly in every direction; 
many are overtaken hy the waves; the Chorus 
of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the 
mountains; Japhet remains upon a rock, while 
the Ark floats towards him in the distance. 



194 




^^'^H 


^^^^ 


M 


M 



SAEDANAPALUS: 



TO 

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE 

A STRANGER PRESUMES TO OFFER THE HOMAGE 

OF A LITERARY VASSAL, TO HIS LIEGE LORD, THE FIRST OF EXISTING WRITERS, 

WHO HAS CREATED THE LITERATURE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY, 

AND ILLUSTRATED THAT OF EUROPE. 

THE UNWORTHY PRODUCTION WHICH THE AUTHOR VENTURES TO INSCRIBE TO HIM 



SAEDANAPALUS.f 



PREFACE. 



TN publishing the following tragedies, J T have only to re- 
-*- peat, that they were not composed with the most remote 
view to the stage. On the attempt made by the managers 
in a former instance, the public opinion has been already 
expressed. With regard to my own private feelings, as 
it seems that they are to stand for nothing, I shall say 
nothing. 

For the historical foundation of the following compo- 
sitions, the reader is referred to the Notes. 

The author has in one instance attempted to preserve, 
and in the other to approach, the " unities ; " conceiving 
that with any very distant departure from them, there 
may be poetry, but can be no drama. He is aware of the 



unpopularity of this notion in present English literature ; 
but it is not a system of his own, being merely an opinion, 
which, not very long ago, Avas the law of literature through- 
out the world, and is still so in the more civilized parts 
of it. But "nous avons change tout cela," and are reap- 
ing the advantages of the change. The writer is far from 
conceiving that anything he can adduce by personal pre- 
cept or example can at all approach his regular, or even 
irregular predecessors ; he is merely giving a reason why 
he preferred the more regular formation of a structure, 
however feeble, to an entire abandonment of all rules 
whatsoever. Where he has failed, the failure is in the 
architect, — and not in the art. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Sardanapalus, King of Nineveh and Assyria, etc. 
Arbaces, the Mede who aspired to the Throne. 
Beleses, a Chaldean and Soothsayer. 
Salemenes, the King's Brother-in-law. 
Altada, an Assyrian Officer of the Palace. 
Pania. 
Zames. 
Sfero. 
Bale a. 



* On the original MS. Lord Byron has written :— " Mem. 
Ravenna, May 27, 1821.— I began this drama on the 13th of 
January, 1821 ; and continued the two first acts very slowly, 
and by intervals. The three last acts were written since the 
13th of May, 1821 (this present month) ; that is to say, in a 
fortnight." Sardanapalus was published In December, 1821, 
and was received with very great approbation. 

+ " Well knowing myself and my labors, in my old age, I 
could not but reflect with gratitude and diffidence on the ex- 
pressions contained in this dedication, nor interpret them 
but as the generous tribute of a superior genius, no less ori- 



WOMEN. 
Zarina, the Queen. 

Myrrha, an Ionian Female Slave, and the Favorite of 
Sardanapalus. 
Women composing the Harem of Sardanapalus, 
Guards, Attendants, Chaldean Priests, Medes, etc., 
etc. 

SCENE. — A Hall in the Royal Palace of Nineveh. 



ginal in the choice than inexhaustible in the materials of his 
sub j eets."— Goethe. 

X "Sardanapalus" originally appeared in the same volume 
with " The Two Foscari." 

§ In this tragedy it has been my intention to follow the 
account of Diodorus Siculus ; reducing it, however, to such 
di-amatic regularity as I best could, and striving to approach 
the unities. I therefore suppose the rebellion to explode 
and succeed in one day by a sudden conspiracy, instead of 
the long war of the history. 

195 



ACT I. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCEXE II. 



^CT I. 



SCENE l.—A Hall in the Palace. 



Saleraenes (solus). He hath wrong'd his queen, 
but still he is lier lord ; 
He hath wrong'd my sister, still he is my brother; 
He hath wrong'd his people, still he is tlieir sover- 
eign, 
And I must be his friend as well as subject : 
He must not perish thus. I will not see 
The blood of Nimrod and Semiramis 
Sink in the earth, and thirteen hundred years 
Of empire ending like a shepherd -s tale ; 
He must be roused. In his effeminate heart 
There is a careless courage which corruption 
Has not all quench 'd, and latent energies, 
Eepress'd by circumstance, but not destroy'd— 
Steep'd, but not drown -d, in deep voluptuousness. 
If born a peasant, he had been a man 
To have reach'd an empire : to an empire born, 
He will bequeath none ; nothing but a name, 
Which his sons will not prize in heritage : 
Yet, not all lost, even yet he may redeem 
His sloth and shame, by only being that , 
Wliich he should be, as easily as the thing 
He should not be and is. Were it less toil 
To sway his nations than consume his life ? 
To head an army than to rule a harem ? 
He sweats in palling pleasures, dulls his soul, 
And saps his goodly strength, in toils which yield 

not 
Health like the chase, nor glory like the war — 
He must be roused. Alas ! there is no sound 

[Sound of soft music heard from within. 
To rouse him short of thunder. Hark ! the lute, 
The lyre, the timbrel; the lascivious tinklings 
Of lulling instruments, the softening voices 
Of women, and of beings less than women, 
Must chime in to the echo of his revel, 
While the great king of all we know of earth 
Lolls crown'd with roses, and his diadem 
Lies negligently by to be caught up 
By the first manly hand which dares to snatch it. 
Lo, where they come ! already I perceive 
The reeking odors of the perfumed trains. 
And see the bright gems of the glittering girls, 
At once his chorus and his council, flash 
Along the gallery, and amidst the damsels, 
As femininely garb'd, and scarce less female. 
The grandson of Semiramis, the man-queen.— 
He comes ! Shall I await him ? yes, and front him, 
And teU him what all good men tell each other. 
Speaking of him and his. They come, the slaves. 
Led by the monarch subject to his slaves. 

SCENE 11.— Enter Sardanapalus effeminately 
dressed, his Head crovmcd with Flowers, and his 
liohe negligently flowing, attended by a Train of 
Women and young Slaves. 

Sar. [speaking to some of his attendants). Let the 
pavilion over the Euphrates 
Be garlanded, and lit, and furnish 'd forth 
For an especial banquet ; at the hour 
Of midnight we will sup there : see nought wanting, 
And bid the galley be prepared. Tliere is 
A cooling breeze which crisps the broad clear river : 
We will embark anon. Fair nymphs, who deign 
To share the soft hours of Sardanapalus, 
We '11 meet again in that the sweetest hour, 
When we shall gather like the stars above us, 
And you will form a heaven as bright as theirs ; 

*"The Ionian name had been still more comprehensive, 
having- included the Achaians and the Boeotians, who, tog-ether 
with those to whom it was afterwards confined, would make 
196 



Till then, let each be mistress of her time. 
And thou, my own Ionian Myrrha,"^ choose, 
Wilt thou along with tliem or me ? 

Myr. My lord 

Sar. My lord, my life ! why answerest thou so 
coldly y 
It is the curse of kings to be so answer'd. 
Rule thy own hours, thourulest mine— say, wouldst 

thou 
Accompany our guests, or charm away 
The moments from me ? 

3Iyr. The king's choice is mine. 

Sar. 1 pray thee say not so: my chiefest joy 
Is to contribute to thine every wish. 
I do not dare to breathe my own desire. 
Lest it should clash with thine ; for thou art still 
Too prompt to sacrifice thy thoughts for others. 

Ilyr. 1 would remain : I have no happiness 
Save in beholding thine ; yet 

Sar, Yet ! what yet ? 

Thy o^va sweet will shall be the only barrier 
Which ever rises betwixt thee and me. 

3Iyr. 1 think the present is the wonted hour 
Of council ; it were better I retire. 

Sal. {comes forward and .saj/s). The Ionian slave 
says well : let her retire. 

Sar. Who answers ? How nov/, brother ? 

Sal. The gweew's brother, 

And your most faithful vassal, royal lord. 

Sar. {addressing his train). As I have said, let all 
dispose their hours 
Till midnight, when again we pray your presence. 

[llie court retiring. 

{To Myrrha, who is going.) Myrrha ! I thought 
thou wouldst remain. 

3fyr. Great kmg, 

Thou didst not say so. 

Sar. But thou lookedst it : 

I know each glance of those Ionic eyes. 
Which said thou wouldst not leave me. 

3Iyr. Sire ! your brother 

Sal. His consort's brother, minion of Ionia! 
How darest thou name me and not blush ? 

Sar. Not blush! 

Thou hast no more eyes than heart to make her 

crimson 
Like to the dying day on Caucasus, 
Where sunset tints the snow with rosy shadows. 
And then reproach her with thine own cold blind- 
ness, 
Which will not see it. What, in tears, my Myrrha ? 

Sal. Let them flow on ; she weeps for more than one , 
And is herself the cause of bitterer tears. 

Sar. Cursed be he who caused those tears to flow ! 

Sal. Curse not thyself — millions do that already. 

Sar. Tliou dost forget thee : make me not re- 
member 
I am a monarch. 

Sal. Would thou couldst ! 

Myr. My sovereign, 

I pray, and thou too, prince, permit my absence. 

Sar. Since it must be so, and this churl has 
check'd 
Thy gentle spirit, go ; but recollect 
That we must forthwitli meet : I had rather lose 
An empire than thy presence. [Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. It may be. 

Thou wilt lose both, and both for ever ! 

Sar, Brother, 

I can at least command myself, who listen 

nearly the whole of the Greek nation; and among the Ori- 
entals it was always the general name for the Greeks."— 
MiTFORD's Greece, vol. i., p. 199. 



ACT T. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE IT. 



To language such as this : yet urge me not 
Beyond my easy nature. 

Sal. 'T is beyond 

That easy, far too easy, idle nature. 
Which I would urge thee. Oh that I could rouse 

thee! 
Though 't were against myself. 

Sar. By the god Baal ! 

The man would make me tyrant. 

Sal. " So thou art. 

Tliink'st thou there is no tyranny but that 
Of blood and chains ? The despotism of vice — 
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury— 
The negligence— the apathy— the evils 
Of sensual sloth — produce ten thousand tyrants, 
Wliose delegated cruelty surpasses 
The worst acts of one energetic master, 
However harsh and hard in his own bearing. 
The false and fond examples of thy lusts 
Corrupt no less than they oppress, and sap 
In the same moment all thy pageant power 
And those who should sustain it : so that whether 
A foreign foe invade, or civil broil 
Distract within, both will alike prove fatal : 
The first thy subjects have no heart to conquer : 
The last they rather would assist than vanquish. 

Sar. Why, what makes tliee the mouthpiece of 
the people ? 

Sal. Forgiveness of the queen my sister's WTongs ; 
A natural love unto my infant nephews ; 
Faith to the king, a faith he may need shortly, 
In more than words ; respect for Nimrod's line; 
Also, another thing thou knowest not. 

Sar. What's that? 

Sal. To thee an unknown word. 

Sar. Yet speak it ; 

I love to learn. 

Sal. Virtue. 

Sar. Not know the word I 

iNever was word yet rung so in my ears- 
Worse than the rabble's shout, or splitting trumpet : 
I 've heard thy sister talk of nothing else. 

Sal. To change the irksome theme, then, hear of 
vice. 

Sar. From whom ? 

Sal. Even from the winds, if thou couldst listen 
Unto the echoes of the nation's voice. 

Sar. Come, I'm indulgent, as thou knowest, 
patient. 
As thou hast often proved — speak out, what moves 
thee ? 

Sal. Thy peril. 

Sar. Say on.' 

Sal. Thus, then : all the nations, 

For they are many, whom thy father left 
In heritacre, are loud in wrath against thee. 

Sar. 'Gainst me ! What would the slaves ? 

Sal. A king. 

Sar. And what 

Am I then ? 

Sal. In their eyes a nothing ; but 

In mine a man who might be something still. 

Sar. The railing drunkards! why, what would 
they have ? 
Have they not peace and plenty ? 

Sal. Of the first 

More than is glorious : of the last, far less 
Tlian the king recks of. 

Sar. Whose then is the crime, 

But the false satraps', who provide no better ? 

Sal. And somewhat in the monarch who ne'er 
looks 
Beyond his palace walls, or if he stirs 
Beyond them, 't is but to some mountain palace, 
Till summer heats wear down. Oh, glorious Baal ! 
Who built up this vast empire, and wert made 
A god, or at the least shinest like a god 



Through the long centuries of thy renown, 
This, thy presumed descendant, ne'er beheld 
As king the kingdoms thou didst leave as hero, 
Won with thy blood, and toil, and time, and peril! 
For what? to furnish imposts for a revel, 
Or multiplied extortions for a minion. 

Sar. 1 understand thee— thou wouldst have me go 
Forth as a conqueror. By all the stars 
AVhich the ChaLdeans read ! the restless slaves 
Deserve that I should curse them with their wishes, 
And lead them forth to glory. 

Sal. Wherefore not ? 

Semiram.is — a woman only — led 
These our Assyrians to the solar shores 
Of Ganges, 

Sar. 'Tis most true. And how return'd ? 

Sal. Why, like a man—?i hero ; baffled, but 
Not vanquish'd. With but twenty guards, she 

made 
Good her retreat to Bactria. 

Sar. And how many 

Left she behind in India to the vultures ? 

Sal. Our annals say not. 

Sar. Then I v.ill say for them— 

That she had better woven within her palace 
Some twenty garments, than with twenty guards 
Have fled to Bactria, leaving to the ravens. 
And wolves, and men— the fiercer of the three. 
Her mjTiads of fond subjects. Is t/iis glory ? 
Then let me live in ignominy ever. 

Sal. All warlike spirits have not the same fate. 
Semiramis, the glorious parent of 
A hundred kings, although she fail'd in India, 
Brought Persia, Media, Bactria, to the realm 
Which she once sway 'd— and thou mighVst sway. 

Sar. I sway them — 

She but subdued them. 

Sal. It may be ere long 

That they will need her sword more than your 
sceptre. 

Sar. There was a certain Bacchus, was there not ? 
I 've heard my Greek girls speak of such— they say 
He was a god, that is, a Grecian god. 
An idol foreign to Assyria's worship, 
^Vho conquer'd this same golden realm of Ind 
Thou prat'st of, where Semiramis was vanquish'd. 

Sal. I have heard of such a man ; and thou per- 
ceiv'st 
That he is deem'd a god for what he did. 

Sar. And in his godship I will honor him — 
Not much as man. What, ho ! my cupbearer ! 

Sal. What means the king ? 

Sar. To worship your new god 

And ancient conqueror. Some wine, I say. 

Enter Cupbearer. 
Sar. [addressing the Cupbearer). Bring me the 
golden goblet thick with gems. 
Which bears the name of Nimrod's chalice. Hence, 
Fill full, and bear it quickly. [Exit Ciqjbearer. 

Sal. Is this moment 

A fitting one for the resumption of 
Thy yet unslept-off revels ? 

Be-enter Cupbearer., icitli wine. 

Sar. [taking the cup from Mm). Noble kinsman. 
If these barbarian Greeks of the far shores 
And skirts of these our realms lie not, this Bacchus 
Conquer'd the whole of India, did he not ? 

Sal. He did, and thence was deem'd a deity. 

Sar. Not so :— of all his conquests a few columns 
Which may be his, and might be mine, if I 
Thought them worth purchase and conversance, are 
The landmarks of the seas of gore he shed , 
The realms he wasted, and the hearts he broke. 
But here, here in this goblet is his title 
To immortality— the immortal grape 
197 



ACT I. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE II. 



From which he first express'd the soul, and gave 
To gladden tliat of man, as some atonement 
Por the victorious mischiefs he had done. 
Had it not been for this, lie would have been 
A mortal still in name as in his grave ; 
And, like my ancestor Semiramis, 
A sort of semi-glorious hnman monster. 
Here 's that which deified him— let it now 
Humanize thee; my surly, chiding brother, 
Pledge me to the Greek god ! 

Sal. For all thy realms 

I would not so blaspheme our country's creed. 

Sar. Tliat is to say, thou thinkest him a hero, 
That he shed blood by oceans ; and no god. 
Because he turn'd a fruit to an enchantment, 
AVhich cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires 
Tiie young, makes weariness forget his toil, 
And fear her danger ; opens a new world 
When this, the present, palls. Well, then /pledge 

thee 
And him as a true man, who did liis utmost 
In good or evil to surprise mankind. [Drinks. 

Sal. Wilt thou resume a revel at this hour ? 

Sar. And if I did, 'twere better than a trophy. 
Being bought without a tear. But that is not 
My present purpose : since thou wilt not pledge me. 
Continue what thou pleasest. 
{To the Cupbearer. ) Boy, retire. 

[Exit Cupbearer. 

Sal. 1 would but have recall'd thee from thy 
dream ; 
Better by me awaken'd than rebellion. 

Sar. Who should rebel ? or why ? what cause ? 
pretext ? 
I am the lawful king, descended from 
A race of kings who knew no predecessors. 
Y\^hat have I done to thee, or to the people. 
That thou shouldst rail, or they rise up against me V 

Sal. Of what thou hast done to me, I speak not. 

Sar. But 

Thou think 'st that I have WTong'd the queen : is 't 
not so ? 

Sal. Think I thou hast wrong'd her ! 

Sar. Patience, prince, and hear me. 

She has all power and splendor of her station. 
Respect, the tutelage of Assyria's heirs. 
The homage and the appanage of sovereignty. 
I married her as monarchs w^ed — for state, 
And loved her as most husbands love their wives. 
If she or thou supposedst I could link me 
Like a Chaldean peasant to his mate, 
Ye knew nor me, nor monarclis, nor mankind. 

Sal. I pray thee, change the theme : my blood 
disdains 
C'Ornplaint, and Salemenes' sister seeks not 
Reluctant love even from AssjTia's lord ! 
^'^or would she deign to accept divided passion 



* " For this expedition he took only a small chosen body of 
the phalanx, but all his light troops. In the first day's march 
he reached Anchialus, a town said to have been founded by 
the king of Assyria, Sardanapalus. The fortifications, in 
their magnitude and extent, still, in Arrian's time, bore the 
character of greatness, which the Assyrians appear singu- 
larly to have affected in works of the kind, A monument 
representing Sardanapalus was found there, warranted by 
an inscription in Assyrian characters, of course in the old 
Assyrian language, which the Greeks, whether well or ill, 
interpreted thus; 'Sardanapalus, son of Anacyndaraxes, in 
one day founded Anchialus and Tarsus. Eat, drink, play: 
all other human joys are not worth a fillip.' Supposing this 
version nearly exact (for Arrian says it was not quite so), 
whether the purpose has not been to in\ate to civil order a 
people disposed to turbulence, rather than to recommend im- 
moderate luxury, may perhaps reasonably be questioned. 
What, indeed could be the object of a king of Assyria in 
founding such towns in a country so distant from his cap- 
ital, and so divided from it by an immense extent of sandy 
deserts and lofty mountains, and. still more, how the inhab- 
1<)8 



With foreign strumpets and Ionian slaves. 
The queen is silent. 

Sar. And why not her brother ? 

Sal. I only echo thee the voice of empires. 
Which lie wlio long neglects not long will govern. 

^a)'. The ungrateful and ungracious slaves ! they 
murmur 
Because I liave not shed their blood, nor led them 
To dry in the desert's dust by myriads, 
Or whiten with their bones the banks of Ganges ; 
iSTor decimated them with savage laws, 
IsTor sweated them to build up pyramids, 
Or Babylonian walls. 

Sal. Yet these are trophies 

More worthy of a people and their prince 
Than songs, and lutes, and feasts, and concubines. 
And lavish 'd treasures, and contemned virtues. 

Sar. Or for my trophies I liave founded cities : 
There 's Tarsus and Anchialus, both built 
In one day — what could that blood-loving beldame, 
My martial grandam, chaste Semiramis, 
Do more, except destroy them ? 

Sal. 'T is most true ; 

I own thy merit in those founded cities. 
Built for a whim, recorded with a verse, 
AVhicli shames both them and thee to coming ages. 

Sar. Shame me ! By Baal, the cities, though 
well built, 
Are not more goodly than the verse ! Say what 
Thou wilt 'gainst me, my mode of life or rule, 
But nothing 'gainst the truth of that brief record. 
Why, those few lines contain the history 
Of all things human : hear — " Sardanapalus, 
The king, and son of Anacyndaraxes, 
In one day built Anchialus"^and Tarsus. 
Eat, drink, and love ; the rest 's not worth a fillip, "* 

Sal. A worthy moral, and a wise inscription, 
For a king to put up before his subjects ! 

Sar. Oh, thou wouldst have me doubtless set up 
edicts — 
" Obey the king— contribute to his treasure— 
Recruit his phalanx— spill your blood at bidding- 
Fall down and w^orship. or get up and toil." 
Or thus — '' Sardanapalus on this spot 
Slew fifty thousand of his enemies. 
These are their sepulchres, and this his trophy." 
I leave such things to conquerors ; enough 
For me, if I can make my subjects feel 
The weight of human misery less, and glide 
ITngroaning to the tomb : I take no license 
Which I deny to them. We all are men. 

Sal. Thy sires have been revered as gods— 

Sar. In dust 

And .death, where they are neither gods nor men. 
Talk not of such to me ! the worms are gods ; 
At least they banqueted upon your gods, 
And died for lack of further nutriment. 

itants could be at once in circumstances to abandon them- 
selves to the intemperate joys Avhich their prince has been 
supposed to have recommended, is not obvious: but it may 
deserve observation that, in that line of coast, the southern 
of Lesser Asia, ruins of cities, evidently of an age after Alex- 
ander, yet barely named in history, at this day astonish the 
adventurous traveller by their magnificence and elegance. 
Amid the desolation which, under a singularly barbarian 
government, has for so manj- centuries been dailj'^ spreading 
in the finest countries of the globe, whether more from soil 
and climate, or from opportunities for commerce, extraoi'- 
dinary means must have been found for communities to 
flourish there ; whence it may seem that the measux*es of 
Sardanapalus were directed by juster \iews than have been 
commonly ascribed to him ; but that monarch having been 
the last of a dynasty ended by a revolution, obloquy on his 
memoi'y would follow of course from the policy of his suc- 
cessors and their partisans. The inconsistency of traditions 
concerning Sardanapalus is striking in Diodorus's aceount 
of him,"— MiXFORD's Greece, vol, ix,, p. 311. 



ACT I. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE TI. 



Those gods were merely men : look to their issue— 

I feel a thousand mortal things about me, 

But nothing godlike,— unless it may be 

The thing which you condemn, a disposition 

To love and to be merciful, to i)ardon 

The follies of my species, and (that 's human) 

To be indulgent to my own. 

Sal. Alas ! 

The doom of ^N'ineveh is seal'd.— Woe— woe 
To the unrivall'd city ! 

Sar. What dost dread ? 

Sal. Thou art guarded by thy foes : in a few hours 
The tempest may break out which overwhelms thee, 
And thine and mine ; and in another day 
What is shall be the past of Belus' race. 

Sar. What must we dread ? 

Sal. Ambitious treachery. 

Which has environ'd thee with snares ; but yet 
There is resource : empower me with thy signet 
To quell the machinations, and I lay 
The heads of thy chief foes before thy feet. 

Sa,r. The heads — how many ? 

Sal. Must 1 stay to number 

When even thine own 's in peril ? Let me go ; 
Give me thy signet — trust me with the rest. 

So.r. I will trust no man with unlimited lives. 
AVhen we take those from others, we nor know 
What we have taken, nor the thing we give. 

^aL Wouldst thou not take their lives who seek 
for thine ? 

Sar. That 's a hard question— But I answer, Yes. 
Cannot the thing be done without ? Who are they 
Wliom thou suspectest ? — Let them be arrested. 

Sal. I would thou wouldst not ask me ; the next 
moment 
Will send my answer through thy babbling troop 
Of paramours, and thence fly o'er the palace, 
Even to the city, and so baffle all.— 
Trust me. 

Sar. Tliou knowest I have done so ever ; 

Take thou the signet. {^Gives the signet. 

Sal. I have one more request. 

Sar. Name it. 

Sal. That thou this night forbear the banquet 

In the pavilion over the Euphrates. 

Sar. Forbear the banquet I Not for all the plot- 
ters 
That ever shook a kingdom ! Let them come. 
And do their worst : I shall not blench for them ; 
Nor rise the sooner ; nor forbear the goblet ; 
Nor crown me with a single rose the less ; 
Nor lose one joyous hour.— I fear them not. 

Sal. But tiiou wouldst arm thee, wouldst thou, 
not, if needful ? 

Sar. Perhaps. I have the goodliest armor, and 
A sword of such a temper ; and a bow 
And javelin, which might furnish Nimrod forth : 
A little heavy, but yet not unwieldy. 
And now I think on 't, 't is long since I 've used them , 
Even in the chase. Hast ever seen them, brother ? 

Sal. Is this a time for such fantastic trifling ? — 
If need be, wilt thou wear them ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Oh ! if it must be so, and these rash slaves 
Will not be ruled with less, I '11 use the sword 
Till they shall wish it turn'd into a distaff. 

Sal. They say thy sceptre 's turn'd to that already. 

Sar. That 's false ! but let them say so : the old 
Greeks, 
Of whom our captives often sing, related 
The same of their chief hero, Hercules, 
Because he loved a Lydian queen : thou seest 
The populace of all the nations seize 
Each calumny they can to sink their sovereigns. 

Sal. They did not speak thus of thy fathers. 

Sar. No ; 

They dared not. They were kept to toil and combat ; 



And never changed their chains but for their armor : 

Now they have peace and pastime, and the license 

To revel and to rail ; it irks me not. 

I would not give the smile of one fair girl 

For all the popular breath that e'er divided 

A name from nothing. What are the rank tongues 

Of this vile herd, grown insolent with feeding, 

That I should prize their noisy praise, or dread 

Their noisome clamor ? 

Sal. You have said they are men ; 

As such their hearts are something. 

Sar. So my dogs' are ;* 

And better, as more faithful: — but, proceed ; 
Thou hast my signet :— since they are tumultuous, 
Let them be temper'd, yet not roughly, till 
Necessity enforce it. 1 hate all pain, 
Given or received ; we have enough within us. 
The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, 
Not to add to each other's natural burthen 
Of mortal misery, but rather lessen, 
By mild reciprocal alleviation, 
The fatal penalties imposed on life : 
But this they know not, or they will not know. 
I have, by Baal ! done all I could to soothe them : 
I made no wars, I added no new imposts, 
I interfered not with their civic lives, 
I let them pass their days as best might suit them, 
Passing my own as suited me. 

Sal. Thou stopp'st 

Short of the duties of a king; and therefore 
They say thou art unfit to be a monarch. 

Sar. They lie. — Unhappily, I am unfit 
To be aught save a monarch ; else for me. 
The meanest Mede might be the king instead. 

Sal. There is one Mede, at least.who seeks to be so. 

Sar. What mean'st thou ? — 'tis thy secret ; tliou 
desirest 
Few questions, and I 'm not of curious nature. 
Take the fit steps ; and, since necessity 
Requires, I sanction and support thee. Ne'er 
Was man who more desired to rule in peace 
The peaceful only : if they rouse me, better 
They had conjured up stern Nimrod from his ashes, 
" The mighty hunter." I will turn these realms 
To one wide desert chase of brutes, who were., 
But i€ould no more, by their own choice, be human. 
What they have found me, they belie ; that which 
They yet may find me— shall defy their wish 
To speak it worse ; and let them thank themselves. 

Sal. Then thou at last canst feel ? 

S(Lr. Feel ! who feels not 

Ingratitude ? 

Sal. I will not pause to answer 

With words, but deeds. Keep thou awake that 

energy 
Which sleeps at times, but is not dead within thee, 
And thou mayst yet be glorious in thy reign. 
As powerful in thy realm. Farewell ! 

\_Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. (solus). Farewell ! 

He 's gone ; and on his finger bears my signet. 
Which is to liim a sceptre. He is stern 
As I am heedless; and the slaves deserve 
To feel a master. What may be the danger 
I know not :— he hath found it, let him quell it. 
Must I consume my life— this little life — 
In guarding against all may make it less ? 
It is not worth so much ! It were to die 
Before my hour, to live in dread of death. 
Tracing revolt ; suspecting all about me. 
Because they are near ; and all who are remote, 
Because they are far. But if it should be so— 
If they should sweep me off from earth and empire,, 
Why, what is earth or empire of the earth ? 



* See page 435, " Inscription on the Monument of a New- 
foundland Dog." 

199 



ACT T. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCEXE TI. 



I have loved, and lived, and multiplied mj- image ; 

To die is no less natural than those — 

Acts of this clay ! 'T is true I have not shed 

Blood as I might have done, in oceans, till 

My name became the synonym of death— 

A "terror and a trophy/ But for this 

I feel no penitence ; my life is love : 

If I must shed blood, it shall be by force. 

Till now, no drop from an Assyrian vein 

Hath flow'd for me, nor hath the smallest coin 

Of Xineveh's vast treasures e'er been lavished 

On objects which could cost her sons a tear : 

If then they hate me, "t is because I hate not : 

If they rebel, 'tis because I oppress not. 

Oh, men ! ye must be ruled with scythes, not sceptres, 

And mow'd down like the grass, else all we reap 

Is rank abundance, and a rotten harvest 

Of discontents infecting the fair soil, 

Making a desert of fertility.— 

I "11 think no more. Within there, ho ! 

Enter an Attendant. 

Sar. Slave, tell 

The Ionian Myrrha we would crave her presence. 

Attend. King, she is here. 

Myrrha ejiters. 

Sar. {apart to Attendant). Away! 
(Addressing Myrrha.) Beautiful being ! 

Thou dost almost anticipate my heart ; 
It tlirobb'd for thee, and liere thou comest : let me 
Deem that some unkuo^^Ti influence, some sweet 

oracle, 
Communicates between us, though unseen, 
In absence, and attracts us to each other. 

Myr. There doth. 

Sar. I know there doth, but not its name : 

What is it ? 

Mur. In my native land a god, 

And in my heart a' feeling like a god's, 
Exalted ; yet I own 't is only mortal ; 
For what I feel is humble, and yet happy — 

Tliat is, it would be happy ; but 

\_Mijrrha fjauses. 

Sar. 'There comes 

For ever something between us and what 
We deem our happiness : let me remove 
The barrier which that hesitating accent 
Proclaims to thine, and mine is seal'd. 

Myr. My lord !— 

Sar. My lord— my king— sire— sovereign ! thus it 
is— 
For ever thns, address'd with awe. I ne'er 
Can see a smile, imless in some broad banquet's 
Intoxicating glare, when the buffoons 
Have gorged themselves up to equality, 
Or I have quaff "d me do^^^l to their abasement. 
Myrrha, I can hear all these things, these names. 
Lord— king— sire— monarch— nay, time was I prized 

them ; 
That is, I suffer'd them— from slaves and nobles ; 
But when they falter from the lips I love, 
The lips which have been press'd to mine, a chill 
Comes o'er my heart, a cold sense of the falsehood 
Of this my station, which represses feeling 
In those for whom I have felt most, and makes me 
Wish that I could lay do^\ii the dull tiara. 
And share a cottage on the Caucasus 
With thee, and wear no crowns but those of flowers. 

3Iyr. Would that we could ! 

Sar. And dost thou feel this ?— Why ? 

3Iyr. Then thou wouldst know what thou canst 
.never know. 

Sar. And. tliat is— 

Myr. The true value of a heart ; 

At least, a woman's. 

Sar. I have proved a thousand— 

A thousand, and.a thousand. 
.200 



j\iyr. Hearts? 

Sar. I think so. 

Myr. oSTot one ! the time may come thou mayst. 

Sar. It will. 

Hear, Myrrha ; Salemenes has declared— 
Or why or how he hath divined it, Belus, 
Who founded our great realm, knows more than I— 
But Salemenes hath declared my throne 
In peril. 

3Iyr. He did well. 

Sar. And sayst thou so ? 

Thou whom he spurn 'd so harshly, and now dared 
Drive from our presence with his"^ savage jeers. 
And made thee weep and blush ? 

Myr. 1 should do both 

More frequently, and he did well to call me 
Back to my duty. But thou spak'st of peril — 
Peril to thee 

Sar. Ay, from dark plots and snares 

From Medes— and discontented troops and nations. 
I I know not what — a labj'rinth of things — 
' A maze of mutter Yl threats and mysteries : 
I Thou know'st the man — it is his usual custom. 
But he is lionest. Come, we '11 think no more on 't— 
But of the midnight festival. 

Myr. 'T is time 

To think of aught save festivals. Thou hast not 
Spurn'd his sage cautions ? 

Sar. What ?— and dost thou fear ? 

Myr. Fear ! I'm a Greek, and how should I fear 
death ? 
A slave, and wherefore should I dread my freedom ? 

Sar. Then wherefore dost thou tm'n so pale ? 

Myr. I love. 

Sar. And do not I ? I love thee far— far more 
Than either the brief life or the wide realm, 
Which, it may be, are menaced ;— yet I blench not. 

Myr. That means thou lovest nor thyseK nor me ; 
For he who loves another loves himself, 
Even for that other's sake. This is too rash : 
Kingdoms and lives are not to be so lost. 

Sar. Lost ! — why, who is the aspiring chief who 
dared 
Assume to win them ? 

Myr. Who is he should dread 

To fry so much ? When he who is their ruler 
Forgets liimself , will they remember him V 

Sar. Myrrha ? 

Myr. Frown not upon me : you have smiled 

Too often on me not to make those frowns 
Bitterer to bear than any punishment 
Which they may augur.— King, I am your subject ! 
Master,! am your slave I Man, I have loved }'ou I— 
Loved you, I know not by what fatal weakness, 
Although a Greek, and born a foe to monarchs— 
A slave, and hating fetters— an Ionian, 
And, therefore, when I love a stranger, more 
Degraded hj that passion than by chains ! 
Still I hav^e loved you. If that love were strong 
Enough to overcome all former nature, 
Shall it not claim the privilege to save you ? 

Sar. Save me, my beauty ! Thou art very fair. 
And what I seek of thee is love — not safety. 

3[yr. And without love where dwells security ? 

Sar. 1 speak of woman's love. 

Myr. The very first 

Of human life must spring from woman's breast, 
Your first small words are taught you from her lips. 
Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last 

sighs 
Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, 
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
I Of watching the last hour of him wlio led them. 

Sar. My eloquent Ionian ! thou, speak 'st music, 
Tlie very chorus of the tragic song 
I have heard thee talk of as the favorite pastime 
Of thy far father-land. Xay, weep not — calm thee. 



ACT I. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE II. 



Myr. I weep not.— But I pray thee, do not speak 
About my fathers or their land. 

Sar. Yet oft 

Thou speakest of them. 

Myr. True — true : constant thought 

Will overflow in words unconsciously ; 
But when .another speaks of Greece, it wounds me. 

^ar. 'Well, then, how wouldst thou save me, as 
thou saidst ? 

Myr. By teaching thee to save thyself, and not 
Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren. 

Sar. Why, child, I loathe all war, and warriors ; 
I live in peace and pleasure : w^hat can man 
Do more ? 

Myr. Alas ! my lord, with common men 
Tliere needs too oft tlie show of war to keep 
The substance of sweet peace ; and for a king, 
'T is sometimes better to be fear'd than loved. 

Sar. And I have never sought but for the last. 

Myr. And now art neither. 

Sar. Dost thou say so, Myrrlia V 

Myr. I speak of civic popular love,"^ seZ/"-love, 
Which means tliat men are kept in awe and laAv, 
Yet not oppress'd— at least they must not think so ; 
Or if they think so, deem it necessary, 
To ward off worse oppression , their own passions. 
A king of feasts, and flowers, and wine, and revel, 
And love, and mirth, was never king of glory. 

Sar. Glory ! what 's that ? 

Myr. Ask of the gods thy fathers. 

Sar. They cannot answer ; when the priests speak 
for them, 
'T is for some small addition to the temple. 

Myr. Look to the annals of thine empire's foun- 
ders. 

Sar. They are so blotted o'er with blood, I cannot. 
But wliat wouldst have ? the empire has been 

founded. 
I cannot go on m.ultiplying empires. 

Myr. Preserve thine own. 

Sar. At least, I will enjoy it. 
Come, Myrrha, let us go on to the Euphrates : 
The hour invites, the galley is prepared, 
And the pavilion, deck'd for our return, 
In fit adornment for the evening banquet, 
Shall blaze with beauty and with light, until 
It seems unto tlie stars which are above us 
Itself an opposite star ; and we will sit 
Crown'd with fresh flowers like 

Myr. Victims. 

Sar. ^0, like sovereigns, 

Tlie shepherd kings of patriarchal times, 
Who knew no brighter gems than summer wreaths. 
And none but tearless triumphs. Let us on. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. May the king live for ever ! 

Sar. ^N'ot an hour 

Longer than he can love. How my soul hates 
This language, which makes life itself a lie. 
Flattering dust with eternity. Well, Pania ! 
Be brief. 

Pan. I am charged by Salemenes to 
Eeiterate his prayer unto the king. 
That for this day, at least, he will not quit 
The palace : wlien the general returns, 
He will adduce such reasons as will warrant 
His daring, and perhaps obtain the pardon 
Of his presumption. 

Sar. What ! am I then coop'd ? 

Already captive ? can I not even breathe 
The breath of heaven ? Tell prince Salemenes, 
Were all Assyria raging round the walls 
In mutinous myriads, I would still go forth. 

Pan. I must obey, and yet — 

Myr. Oh, monarch, listen..,— 



How many a day and moon thou hast reclined 

Within these palace walls in silken dalliance, 

And never shov/n thee to thy people's longing ; 

Leaving thy subjects' eyes ungratified, 

The satraps uncontroll'd, the gods unworshipp'd, 

And all things in the anarchy of sloth. 

Till all, save evil, slumber'd through the realm! 

And wilt thou not now tarry for a day,— 

A day which may redeem thee ? Wilt thou not 

Yield to the few still faithful a few hours, 

For them, for thee, for thy past fathers' race. 

And for thy sons' inheritance ? 

Pan. 'T is true ! 

From the deep urgency with which the prince 
Despatch'd me to your sacred presence, I 
Must dare to add my feeble voice to tliat 
Which now has spoken. 

Sar. iSTo, it must not be. 

Myr. For the sake of thy realm ! 

Sar. Away ! 

Pan. For that 

Of all thy faithful subjects, who will rally 
Round thee and thine ! 

Sar. These are mere fantasies : 

There is no peril : — 't is a sullen scheme 
Of Salemenes, to approve his zeal. 
And show iiimself more necessary to us. 

Myr. By all that 's good and glorious, take this 
counsel. 

Sar. Business to-morrow. 

Myr. Ay, or death to-night. 

Sar. Why let it come then unexpectedly 
'Midst joy and gentleness, mirth and love ; 
So let me fall like the pluck'd rose !— far better 
Thus than be wither'd. 

Myr. Then thou wilt not yield, 

Even for the sake of all that ever stirr'd 
A monarch into action, to forego 
A trifling revel ? 

Sar. ISTo. 

3Iyr. Then yield for mine ; 

For "my sake ! 

Sar. Thine, my Myrrha ! 

Myr. 'T is the first 

Booii which I ever ask'd Assyria's king. 

Sar. That 's true, and were 't my kingdom, must 
be granted. 
Well, for thy sake, I yield me. Pania, hence ! 
Thou hear'st me. 

Pan. And obey. \_Exit Pania. 

Sar. I marvel at thee. 

What is tliy motive, MjTrha, thus to urge me ? 

Myr. Tliy safety ; and the certainty that nought 
Could urge the prince thy kinsman to require 
Thus much from thee, but some impending danger. 

Sar. And if I do not dread it, why siiouldst thou? 

Myr. Because thou dost not fear, I fear for thee. 

Sar. To-morrow thou vdlt smile at these vain 
fancies. 

Myr. If the worst come, I shall be where none 
weep. 
And that is better than the power to smile. 
And thou ? 

Sar. I shall be king, as heretofore. 

Myr. Where? 

Sar. With Baal, Ximrod, and Semiramis, 

Sole in Assyria, or with them elsewhere. 
Fate made me what I am — may make me nothing — 
But either that or nothing must I be : 
I will not live degraded. 

Myr. Hadst thou felt 

Thus alvv'ays, none would ever dare degrade thee. 

Sar. And who will do so now r* 

Myr. Dost thou suspect none ? 

Sar. Suspect!— that's a spy's oflice. Oh I v/e 
lose 
Ten thousand precious moments in vain words, 
201 



ACT II. 



SAEDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



And vainer fears. Within there !— Ye slaves, deck 
The hall of Ximrod for the evening revel : 
If I must make a prison of our palace, 
At least we '11 wear our fetters jocundly : 
If the Euphrates be forbid us, and 
The summer dwelling on its beauteous border, 
Here we are still unmenaced. Ho ! within there ! 

{Exit Sardana2jalns. 
Myr. (sola). Why do I love this man ? My coun- 
try's daughters 
Love none but heroes. But 1 have no country ! 
The slave hath lost all save her bonds. 1 love him ; 
AikI that 's the heaviest link of the long chain — 
To love whom we esteem not. Be it so : 
The hour is coming when he'll need all love, 
And find none. To fall from him now were baser 
Than to have stabb'd him on his throne when 

highest 
Would have been noble in my country's creed : 



I was not made for either. Could I save him, 
I should not love him better, but myself ; 
And I have need of the last, for I have fallen 
In my own thoughts, by loving this soft stranger: 
And yet methinks I love him more, perceiving 
That he is liated of liis own barbarians, 
The natural foes of all the blood of Greece. 
Could I but wake a single thought like those 
Which even the Phrygians felt when battling long 
'Twixt Ilion and the sea, within his heart, 
He would tread down the barbarous crowds, and 

triumph. 
He loves me, and I love him ; the slave loves 
Her master, and would free liim from his vices. 
If not, I have a means of freedom still, 
And if I cannot teach him how to reign, 
May show him how alone a kiiig can leave 
His throne. I must not lose him from my sight. 

[Exit. 



ACT II. 



SCENE l.—Tlie Portnl of the same Hall of the 
Palace. 

Beleses (solus). The sun goes dovm : methinks he 
sets more slowly, 
Taking his last look of Assyria's empire. 
How red he glares amongst those deepening clouds, 
Like the blood he predicts ! If not in vain, 
Thou sun that sinkest, and ye stars which rise, 
I have outwatch'd ye, reading ray by ray 
The edicts of your orbs, which make tim.e tremble 
For what he brings the nations, 'tis the furthest 
Hoiu' of Assyria's years. And yet liow calm ! 
An earthquake should announce so great a full— 
A summer's sun discloses it. Yon disk, 
To the star-read Chaldean, bears upon 
Its everlasting page the end of wliat 
Seem'd everlasting ; but oh, thou true sun ! 
The burning oracle of all that live. 
As fountain of all life, and symbol of 
Him who bestows it, wherefore dost thou limit 
Thy lore unto calamity ? Why not 
L^nfold the rise of days more worthy thine 
All-glorious burst from ocean V why not dart 
A beam of hope athwart the future years. 
As of wrath to its days ? Hear me ! oh, hear me ! 
I am thy worshipper, thy priest, thy servant— 
I have gazed on thee at tliy rise and fall. 
And bow'd my head beneath thy midday beams. 
When my eye dared not meet thee. I have watch'd 
Eor thee, and after thee, and pray'd to thee, 
And sacrificed to thee, and read, and fear'd thee, 
And ask'd of thee, and thou hast answer'd — ^but 
Only to thus much : while I speak, he sinks — 
Is gone — and leaves his beauty, not his knowledge, 
To the delighted west, which revels in 
Its hues of dying glory. Yet what is 
Death, so it be but glorious ? 'T is a sunset ; 
And mortals may be happy to resemble 
The gods but in decay. 

Enter Arbaces, by an iimer door. 

Arh. Beleses, why 

So rapt in thy devotions ? Dost thou stand 
Gazing to trace thy disappearing god 
Into some realm of undiscover'd day ? 
Our business is with night— 'tis come. 

Bel. But not 

Gone. 

Arh. Let it roll on— we are readv. 

Bel. ' Yes. 

Would it were over ! 

202 



Arh. Does the prophet doubt, 

To whom the very stars shine victory ? 

Bel. I do not doubt of victory — but the victor. 

Arh. Well, let thy science settle that. Meantime 
I have prepared as many glittering spears 
As will out-sparkle our allies — your planets. 
There is no more to thwart us. The she-king. 
That less than woman, is even now upon 
Tlie waters with his female mates. The order 
Is issued for the feast in the pavilion. 
The first cup which he drains will be the last 
Quaff 'd by the line of Nimrod. 

Bel. 'Twas a brave one. 

Arh. And is a weak one— 't is worn out— we 11 
mend it. 

Bel. Art sure of that ? 

Arh. Its founder was a hunter— 

I am a soldier — what is there to fear ? 

Bel. The soldier. 

Arh. And the priest, it may be : but 

If you thought thus, or think, why not retain 
Your king of concubines ? why stir me up ? 
Why spur me to this enterprise ? your own 
^o less than mine ? 

Bel. Look to the sky ! 

Arh. I look. 

Bel. What seest thou ? 

Arh. A fair summer's twilight, and 

The gathering of the stars. 

Bel. And midst them, mark 

Yon earliest, and the brightest, which so quivers, 
As it would quit its place in the blue ether. 

Arh. Well ? 

Bel. 'T is thy natal ruler — thy birth planet. 

Arh. {touching his scahhard). My star is in tliis 
scabbard : when it shines. 
It shall out-dazzle comets. Let us think 
Of what is to be done to justify 
Thy planets and their portents. When we conquer, 
They sliall have temples — ay, and priests — and thou 
Shalt be the pontiif of— what gods thou wilt ; 
For I observe that they are ever just. 
And own the bravest for the most devout. 

Bel. Ay, and the most devout for brave— thou 
hast not 
Seen me turn back from battle. 

Arh. 'No : I own thee 

As firm in fight as Babj'lonia's captain, 
As skilful in Chaldea's'worship: now, 
AVill it but plense thee to forget the priest, 
And be the warrior ? 

Bel. Why not both ? 



ACT II. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Arh. The better ; 

And yet it almost shames «ie, we shall have 
So little to effect. This woman's warfare 
Degrades the very conqueror. To have pluck'd 
A bold and blo<jdy despot from his throne, 
And grappled with him, clashing steel with steel, 
That were heroic or to win or fall ; 
But to upraise my sword against this silkworm, 
And hear him whine, it may be 

Bel. Do not deem it ; 

He has that in him which may make you strife yet ; 
And were he all you think, his guards are hardy. 
And headed by the cool, stern Salemenes. 

Arh. They '11 not resist. 

Bel. Why not ? they are soldiers. 

Arh. True, 

And therefore need a soldier to command tliem. 

Bel. That Salemenes is. 

Arh. But not their king. 

Besides, he hates the effeminate thing that governs, 
For the queen's sake, his sister. Mark you not 
He keeps aloof from all the revels ? 

Bel. But 

]S"ot from the council— there he is ever constant. 

Arh. And ever thwarted : what would you have 
more 
To make a rebel out of ? A fool reigning, 
His blood dishonor'd, and himself disdain'd : 
Why, it is his revenge we work for. 

Bel. Could 

He but be brought to think so : this I doubt of. 

Arh. What, if we sound him ? 

Bel. Yes— if the time served. 

Enter Balea. 

Bal. Satraps! The king commands your pres- 
ence at 
The feast to-night. 

Bel. 
In the pavilion ? 

Bal. ]Sro ; here in the palace. 

Arh. How! in the palace? itwasnotthusorder'd. 

Bal. It is so order'd now. 

Arh. And why ? 

Bal. I know not. 

May I retire ? 

Arh. Stay. 

Bel. {to Arh. aside). Hush ! let him go his way. 
[Alternately to Bal.) Yes, Balea, thank the monarch , 

kiss the hem 
Of his imperial robe, and say, his slaves 
Will take the crumbs he deigns to scatter from 
His royal table at the hour — was 't midnight ? 

Bal.'ltwsis: the place, the hall of ISTimrod. Lords, 
I humble me before you, and depart. [Exit Balea. 

Arh. 1 like not this same sudden change of place ; 
There is some mystery; wherefore should he 
change it? 

Bel. Doth he not change a thousand times a day? 
Sloth is of all things the most fanciful — 
And moves more parasangs in its intents 
Than generals in their marches, when tliey seek 
To leave their foe at fault.— Why dost thou muse ? 

Arh. He loved that gay pavilion,— it was ever 
His summer dotage. 

Bel. And he loved his queen — 

And thrice a thousand harlotry besides— 
And he lias loved all things by turns, except 
Wisdom and glory. 

Arh. Still— I like it not. 
If he has changed — why, so must we : the attack 
Were easy in the isolated bower, 
Beset with drowsy guards and drunken courtiers : 
But in the hall of Nimrod 

Bel. Is it so ? 

Methought the haughty soldier fear'd to mount 
A throne too easily — does it disappoint thee 



To hear is to obey. 



To find there is a slipperier step or two 
Than what was counted on ? 

Arh. When the hour comes, 

Thou shalt perceive how far I fear or no. 
Thou hast seen my life at stake — and gayly play'd 

for; 
But here is more upon the die — a kingdom. 

Bel. I have foretold already— thou wilt win it : 
Then on, and prosper. 

Arh. Now were I a soothsayer, 

I- would have boded so much to myself. 
But be the stars obey 'd— I cannot quarrel 
With them, nor their interpreter. Who 's here ? 

Enter Salemenes.- 

Sal. Satraps! 

Bel. My prince ! 

Sal. Well met— I sought ye both, 

But elsewhere than the palace. 

Arh. AVherefore so ? 

Sal. 'T is not the hour. 

Arh. The hour !— what hour ? 

Sal. 

Bel. Midnight, my lord ! 

Sal. What, are you not invited ? 

Bel. Oh ! yes — we had forgotten. 

Sal. Is it usual 

Thus to forget a sovereign's invitation ? 

Arh. Why — we but now received it. 

Sal. Tlien why here ? 

Arh. On duty. 

Sal. On what duty ? 

Bel. On the state's. 

We have the privilege to approach the presence ; 
But found the monarch absent. 

Sal. And I too 

Am upon duty. 

Arh. ' May we crave its purport ? 

Sal. To arrest two traitors. Guards ! Within there ! 

Enter Guards. 
Sal. {continuing). Satraps, 

Your swords. 
Bel. {delivering his). Mylord, behold my scimitar. 
Arh. (drawing his sword). Take mine. 
Sal. (advancing). I will. 

Arh. But in your heart the blade— 

The hilt quits not this liand. 

Sal. (draiving). How ! dost thou brave me ? 

'T is well— this saves a trial, and false mercy. 
Soldiers, hew down the rebel ! 

Arh. Soldiers! Ay — 

Alone you dare not. 

Sal. Alone ! foolish slave — 

What is there in thee tliat a prince should shrink 

from 
Of open force ? We dread thy treason, not 
Thy strength: thy tooth is nought without its 

venom — 
Tiie serpent's, not the lion's. Cut him down. 
Bel. (interposing). Arbaces! are you mad? Have 
I not render 'd 
My sword? Then trust like me our sovereign's 
justice. 
Arh. N'o — I will sooner trust the stars thou 
prat'st of, 
And this slight arm, and die a king at least 
Of my own breath and body— so far tliat 
N^one else shall chain them'. 

Sal. {to the Guards). You hear him, and me. 

Take him not, — kill. 

[The Guards attack Arhaces., who defends him- 
self valiantly and dexterously till they waver. 
Sal. Is it even so ; and must 

I do the hangman's office ? Kecreants ! see 
How you should fell a traitor. 

[Salemenes attacks Arhaces. 

203 



ACT IT. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Enter Sardanapalus and Train. 

Sa.r. Hold your hands— 

Upon your lives, I say. What, deaf or drunken ? 
My sword ! O fool, I wear no sword : liere, fellow. 
Give me thy weapon. [To a Guard. 

[Sardanapalus snatches a sword from one of the 
soldiers, and rushes between the combatants — 
they separate. 
Sar. ' In my very palace ! 

T^^hat hinders me from cleaving you in twain, 
Audacious brawlers ? 
Bel. Sire, your justice. 

Sal. Or— 

Your weakness. 

Sar. {raising the sicord,). TToav ? 
SaJ. Strike ! so the blow 's repeated 

Upon yon traitor— whom you spare a moment, 
I trust, for torture — I 'm content. 

Sar. What— him I 

Who dares assail Arbaces ? 
Sal. I! 

Sar. Indeed! 

Prince, you forget yourself. Upon what warrant ? 
Sal. {showing the signet). Thine. 
Arh. {confused}. The kinpj's ! 

Sal. Yes! and let the king confirm it. 

Sar. T parted not from this for such a purpose. 
Sal. You parted with it for your safety— I 
Employ'd it for the best. Pronounce in person. 
Here I am but your slave— a moment past 
I was your representative. 

Sar. Then sheathe 

Your swords. 

[Arhaces and Salemenes return their sioords to 
the scahhards. 
Sal. Mine 's sheathed : I pray you sheathe not 
yours ; 
'T is the sole sceptre left you now with safety. 

Sar. A heavy one •. the hilt, too, hurts my Iiand. 
(To a Guard.) Here, fellow, take tliy weapon back. 

Weil, sirs, 
What doth this mean ? 
Bel. The prince must answer that. 

Sal. Truth upon my part, treason upon theirs. 
Snr. Treason — Arbaces! treachery and Beleses! 
That were an union I will not believe. 
Pel. Where is the proof ? 

Sa''. I '11 answer that, if once 

The king demands your fellow-traitor's sword. 
Arh. (to Sal.). A sword which hath been drawn 
as oft as thine 
Against his foes. 

'Sal. And now^ against his brother, 

And in an hour or so against himself. 

Sar. That is not possible : he dared not; no— 
Xo— I '11 not hear of such things. These vain bick- 
erings 
Are spawn 'd in courts by base intrigues, and baser 
Hirelings, who live by lies on good men's lives. 
You must have been deceived, my brother. 

Sal. First 

Let him deliver up his weapon, and 
Proclaim himself your subject by that duty, 
And I w^ll answer all. 

Sar. Wh\ , if I thought so— 

But no, it cannot be : the Mede Arbaces— 
The trusty, rough, true soldier— the best captain 

Of all who discipline our nations jSTo, 

I '11 not insult him thus, to bid him render 
The scimitar to me he never yielded 
Unto our enemies. Chief, keep your weapon. 
Sal. (delivering hack the signet). Monarch, take 

back your signet. 
Sar. No, retain it ; 

But use it with more moderation . 
Sal. Sire, 

204 



T used it for your honor, and restore it 
Because I cannot keep it with my own. 
Bestow it on Arbaces. 

Sar. So I should : 

He never ask'd it. 

Sal. Doubt not, he will have it, 

Witliout that hollow semblance of respect. 

Bel. I know not what hath prejudiced the prince 
So strongly 'gainst two subjects, tlian whom none 
Have been more zealous for Assyria's weal. 

Sal. Peace, factious priest and faithless soldier! 
thou 
Unit'st in thy own person the worst vices 
Of the most dangerous orders of mankind. 
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies 
For those who know thee not. Thy fellow's sin 
Is, at the least, a bold one, and not temper'd 
By the tricks taught thee in Chaldea. 

Bel. Hear him. 

My liege — the son of Belus ! he blasphemes 
The worship of the land, which bows the knee 
Before your fathers. 

Sar. Oh ! for that I pray you 

Let him have absolution. I dispense with 
The w^orship of dead men; feeling that I 
Am mortal, and believing that the race 
From whence I sprung are — what I see them— ashes. 

Bel. King! do not deem so: they are with the 
stars, 
And 

Sar. You shall join them there ere they will rise, 
If von preach further— Why, this is rank treason. 

Sal. My lord ! 

Sar. To school me in the worship of 

Assyria's idols ! Let him be released — 
Give him his sword. 

Sal. My lord, and king, and brotlier, 

I pray ye pause. 

Sar. Yes, and be sermonized. 

And dinn'd, and deafen'd with dead men and Baal, 
And all Chaldea's starry mysteries. 

Bel. Monarch ! respect them. 

Sar. Oh ! for that — I love them ! 

I love to watch them in the deep blue vault. 
And to compare them with my Myrrha's eyes ; 
I love to see their rays redoubled in 
The tremulous silver of Euphrates' w^ave. 
As the light breeze of midnight crisps the broad 
And rolling water, sighing through the sedges 
Wliich fringe his banks : but whetlier they may be 
Gods, as some say, or the abodes of gods. 
As others hold, or simjily lamps of night. 
Worlds, or the lights of worlds, I know nor care not. 
There 's something sweet in my uncertainty 
I w^ould not change for your Chaldean lore ; 
Besides, I know of these all clay can know 
Of aught above it, or below it— nothing. 
I see their brilliancy and feel their beauty — 
When they shine on my grave I shall know neither. 

Bel. For neither, sire, say better. 

Sar. I will wait. 

If it so please you, pontiff, for that knowledge. 
In the mean time receive your sw^ord, and know 
That I prefer your service militant 
Unto your ministry— not loving either. 

Sal. [aside). His lusts have made him mad. Then 
must I save him, 
Spite of himself. 

Sar. Please you to hear me, satraps ! 

And chiefly thou, my priest, because I doubt thee 
More than the soldier ; and would doubt thee all 
Wert thou not half a warrior : let us part 
In peace — I '11 not say pardon— which must be 
Earn'd by the guilty^: this I *11 not pronounce ye, 
Although upon this breath of mine depends 
Your own ; and, deadlier for ye, on my fears. 
But fear not— for that I am soft, not fearful — 



ACT II. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



And so live on. Were I the thing some think nie, 
Your heads would now be dripping the last drops 
Of their attainted gore from the high gates 
Of this our palace, into the drj^ dust, 
Their only portion of the coveted kingdom 
They would be crown 'd to reign o'er — let that pass. 
As I have said, I will not deem ye guilty, 
Nor doom ye guiltless. Albeit better men 
Than ye or I stand ready to arraign you ; 
And should I leave your fate to sterner judges, 
And proofs of all kinds, I might sacrifice 
Two men, who, whatsoe'er they now are, were 
Once honest. Ye are free, sirs. 

Arh. Sire, this clemency 

Bel. [interrupting him). Is worthy of yourself ; 
and, although innocent, 
We thank 

Sar. Priest ! keep your thanksgivings for Belus ; 
His offspring needs none. 

Bel But being innocent 

Sar. Be silent— Guilt is loud. If ye are loyal, 
Ye are injured men, and should be sad, not grateful. 

Bel. So we should be, were justice always done 
By earthly power omnipotent ; but innocence 
Must oft receive her right as a mere favor. 

Sar. Tliat 's a good sentence for a homily. 
Though not for this occasion. Prithee keep it 
To plead thy sovereign's cause before his people. 

Bel. I trust there is no cause. 

Sar. No cause, perhaps ; 

But many causers :— if ye meet with such 
In the exercise of your inquisitive function , 
On earth, or should you read of it in heaven 
In some mysterious twinkle of the stars, 
Which are your chronicles, I pray you note, 
That there are worse things betwixt earth and 

heaven 
Than him who ruleth many and slays none ; 
And, hating not himself, yet loves his fellows 
Enough to spare even those who would not spare him 
Were they once masters— but that 's doubtful. Sa- 
traps ! 
Your swords and persons are at liberty 
To use them as ye will — but from this hour 
I have no call for either. Salemenes ! 
Follow me. 

[Exeunt Sardanapalus, Salemenes, and the 
Train, etc., leaving Arbaces and Beleses. 

Arh. Beleses ! 

Bel. Now what think you ? 

Arh. That we are lost. 

Bel. That we have won the kingdom. 

Arb. What ? thus suspected— with the sword 
slung o'er us 
But by a single hair, and that still wavering. 
To be blown down by his imperious breath 
AVhich spared us— wliy, I know not. 

Bel. Seek not why ; 

But let us profit by the interval. 
The hour is still our own — our power the same — 
The night the same we destined. He hath changed 
Nothing except our ignorance of all 
Suspicion into sucli a certainty 
As must make madness of delay. 

Arb. And yet 

Bel. What, doubting still ? 

Arb. Pie spared our lives, nay, more. 

Saved them from Salemenes. 

Bel. And how long 

Will he so spare ? till the first drunken minute. 

Arb. Or sober, rather. Yet he did it nobly; 
Gave royally what we had forfeited 
Basely 

Bel. Say bravely. 

Arb. Somewhat of both, perhaps. 

But it has touch 'd me, and, whate'er betide, 
I will no further on. 



Bel. And lose the world ! 

Arb. Lose anything except my own esteem. 

Bel. I blush that we should owe our lives to such 
A king of distaffs ! 

Arb. But no less we owe them ; 

And I' should blush far more to take the grantor's ! 

Bel. Thou mayst endure whate'er thou wilt — the 
stars 
Have written otherwise. 

Arb. Though they came down. 

And marshall'd me the way in all their bright- 
ness, 
I w^ould not follow. 

Bel. This is weakness— worse 

Tlian a sacred beldam's dreaming of the dead. 
And waking in the dark. — Go to — go to ! 

Arb. Methought he look'd like Nimrod as he 
spoke, 
Even as the proud imperial statue stands 
Looking the monarch of the kings around it. 
And sw^ays, while they but ornament, the temple. 

Bel. I told you that you had too much despised 
him, 
And til at there was some royalty within him— 
What then ? he is the nobler foe. 

Arb. But we 

The meaner.— Would he had not spared us ! 

Bel. So— 

Wouldst thou be sacrificed thus readily ? 

Arb. No— but it had been better to have died 
Than live ungrateful. 

Bel. Oh, the souls of some men ! 

Thou wouldst digest what some call treason, and 
Fools treachery— and, behold, upon the sudden, 
Because for something or for nothing, this 
Rash reveller steps, ostentatiously, 
'Twixt thee and Salemenes, thou art turn'd 
Into— what shall I say ? — Sardanapalus ! 
I know no name more ignominious. 

Arb. But 

An hour ago, who dared to term me such 
Had held his life but lightly — as it is, 
I must forgive you, even as he forgave us — 
Semiramis herself would not have done it. 

Bel. No — the queen liked no sharers of the king- 
dom. 
Not even a husband. 

Arb. I must serve him truly 

I el. And humbly ? 

Arb. No, sir, proudly — being honest. 

I shall be nearer thrones than you to heaven ; 
And if not quite so hauglity, yet more lofty. 
You may do your own deeming— you have codes, 
And mysteries, and corollaries of 
Right and wrong, which I lack for my direction, 
And must pursue but what a plain heart teaches. 
But now you know me. 

Bel. Have you finish 'd ? 

Arb. Yes— 

With you. 

Bel. And would, perhaps, betray as well 

As quit me ? 

Arb. That 's a sacerdotal thought, 

And not a soldier's. 

Bel. Be it what you will — 

Truce with these wrangiings, and but hear me. 

Arb. No- 

There is more peril in your subtle spirit 
Than in a phalanx. 

Bel. If it must be so— 

I '11 on alone. 

Arb. Alone ! 

Bel. Thrones hold but one. 

Arb. But this is fiU'd. 

Bel. With worse than vacancy — 

A despised monarch. Look to it, Arbaces : 
I have still aided, cherish 'd, loved, and urged you ; 
205 



ACT II. 



SABDAXAFALUS, 



SCENE I. 



Was willing even to serve you, in the hope 
To serve and save Assyria. Heaven itself 
Seem'd to consent, and all events were friendly, 
Even to the last, till that your spirit shrunk 
Into a shallow softness ; but now, rather 
Than see my country languish, I will be 
Her saviour or the victim of her tyrant, 
Or one or both, for sometimes both are one; 
And, if I win, Arbaces is my servant. 

Arh. Your servant ! 

Bel. Why not ? better tlmn be slave, 

The pardoned slave of she Sardanapalus ! 

Enter Pania. 

Fan. My lords, I bear an order from the king. 

Arh. It is obey'd ere spoken. 

Bel. Notwithstanding, 

Let 's hear it. 

Pan. Forthwith, on this very night, 

Repair to your respective satrapies 
Of Babylon and Media. 

Bel. ^ With our troops ? 

Pan. My order is unto the satraps and 
Their household train. 

Arh. But 

Bel. It must be obey'd : 

Say, we depart. 

Pan. My order is to see you 

Depart, and not to bear your answer. 

Bel. (aside). Ay! 

Well, sir, we will accompany you hence. 

Pan. I will retire to marshal forth the guard 
Of honor which befits j'our rank, and wait 
Your leisure, so that it the hour exceeds not. 

[Exit Pania. 

Bel. JSfow then obey ! 

Arh. Doubtless. 

Bel. Yes, to the gates 

That grate the palace, which is now our prison- 
No further. 

^7-5. Thou hast harp'd the truth indeed ! 

The realm itself, in all its wide extension. 
Yawns dungeons at each step for thee and me. 

Bel. Graves ! 

Arh. If I thought so, this good sword should dig 
One more than mine. 

Bel. It shall have work enough. 

Let me hope better than thou augurest ; 
At present, let us hence as best we may. 
Thou dost agree with me in understanding 
This order as a sentence '? 

Arh. Why, what other 

Interpretation should it bear ? it is 
Tlie very policy of orient monarchs — 
Pardon and poison — favors and a sword— 
A distant voyage, and an eternal sleep. 
How many satraps in liis father's time — 
Eor he I own is, or at least teas, bloodless— 

Bel. But v:ill not, can not be so now. 

Arh. 1 doubt it. 

How many satraps have I seen set out 
In his sire's day for mighty viceroyalties. 
Whose tombs are on their path ! I know not how, 
But they all sicken'd by the way, it was 
So long and heavy. 

Bel. Let us but regain 

The free air of the city, and we '11 shorten 
The journey. 

Arh. 'Twill be shorten'd at the gates, 

It may be. 

Bel. , No ; they hardly will risk that. 
They mean us to die privately, but not 
Within the palace or the city walls, 
Where we are known, and may have partisans : 
If they had meant to slay us here, we were 
No longer with the living. Let us hence. 

Arh. If I but thought he did not mean my life 

. 206 



Bel. Pool! hence— what else should despotism 
alarm 'd 
Mean ? Let us but rejoin our troops, and marcli. 

Arh. Towards our provinces ? 

Bel. No ; towards your kingdom. 

There 's time, there 's heart, and hope, and power, 

and means, 
Which their half measures leave us in full scope. — 
Away ! 

Arh. And I even yet repenting must 
Relapse to guilt ! 

Bel. Self-defence is a virtue, 

Sole bulwark of all right. Away, I say ! 
Let 's leave this place, the air grows tliick and 

choking, 
And the walls have a scent of nightshade— hence ! 
Let us not leave them time for further council. 
Our quick departure proves our civic zeal : 
Our quick departure hinders our good escort, 
The worthy Pania, from anticipating 
The orders of some parasangs from hence : 
Nay, there's no other choice', but— hence, I say ! 

[Exit with Arhaces, who follovjs reluctantly. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes. 

So.r. Well, all is remedied, and without bloodshed, 
That worst of mockeries of a remedy ; 
We are now secure by these men's exile. 

Sal. ■ Yes, 

As he who treads on flowers is from the adder 
Twined round their roots. 

Sar. Why, what wouldst have me do ? 

Sal. Undo what you have done. 

Sar. Revoke my pardon ? 

Sal. Replace the crown now tottering on your 
temples. 

Sar. That were tyrannical. 

Sal. But sure. 

Sar. We are so. 

What danger can they work upon the frontier ? 

Sal. They are not there yet— never should they 
be so, 
Were I well listen 'd to. 

Sar. Nay, I have listened 

Impartially to thee— why not to them ? 

Sal. You may know that hereafter ; as it is, 
I take my leave, to order forth the guard. 

Sar. And you will join us at the banquet ? 

Sal. Sire, 

Dispense with me — I am no wassailer : 
Command me in all service save the Bacchant's. 

Sar. Nay, but 'tis'fit to revel now and then. 

Sal. And fit that some should watch for those 
who revel 
Too oft. Am I permitted to depart ? 

Sar. Yes Stay a moment, my good Salemenes, 

My brother, my best subject, better prince 

Than I am king. You should have been the monarch, 

And I— I know not what, and care not; but 

Think not I am insensible to all 

Thine honest wisdom, and thy rough j^et kind. 

Though oft-reproving, sufferance of my follies. 

If I have spared these men against thy counsel, 

That is, their lives— it is not that I doubt 

The advice was sound ; but, let them live: we will 

not 
Cavil about their lives— so let them mend them. 
Their banishment will leave me still sound sleep, 
Which their death had not left me. 

Sal. Thus you run 

The risk to sleep forever, to save traitors— 
A moment's pang now changed for years of crime. 
Still let them be made quiet. 

Sar. Tempt me not : 

My word is past. 

Sal. But it may be recall'd. j 

Sar. 'T is royal. - 



ACT III. 



SAEDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Sal. And should therefore be decisive. 

This half indulgence of an exile serves 
But to provoke — a pardon should be full, 
Or it is none. 

Sar. And who persuaded me 

After I had repeal'd them, or at least 
Only dismissed them from our presence, who 
Urged me to send them to their satrapies ? 

Sal. True; that I had forgotten; that is, sire, 
If they e'er reach'd their satrapies— why, then, 
EeproVe me more for my advice ? 

Sav. And if 

They do not reach them— look to it !— in safety. 
In safety, mark me— and security — 
Look to thine o^n. 

Sal. Permit me to depart ; 

Their safety shall be cared for. 

Sar. Get thee hence, then ; 

And, prithee, think more gently of thy brother. 

Sal. Sire, I shall ever duly serve my sovereign. 

{Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. {solus). That man is of a temper too severe ; 
Hard but as lofty as the rock, and free 
From all the taints of common earth— while I 
Am softer clay, impregnated with flowers : 
But as our mould is, must the produce be. 
If I have err'd this time, 'tis on the side 
Where error sits most lightly on that sense, 
I know not what to call it ; but it reckons 
With me ofttimes for pain, and sometimes pleas- 
Tire: 
A spirit which seems placed about my heart 
To count its throbs, not quicken them, and ask 
Questions which mortal never dared to ask me, 
Nor Baal, though an oracular deity— 
Albeit his marble face majestical 
Frowns as the shadows of the evening dim 
His brows to changed expression, till at times 
I think the statue looks in act to speak. 
Away with these vain thoughts ! I will be joyous — 
And here comes Joy's true herald. 

Enter Myrrha. 

Myr. King ! the sky 

Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder, 
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show 
In forked flashes a commanding tempest. 
Will you then quit the palace '? 

Sar. Tempest, sayst thou ? 

Ifyr. Ay, my good lord. 

Sar. For my own part, I should be 

Not ill content to vary the smooth scene, 
And watch the warring elements ; but this 
Would little suit the silken garments and 
Smooth faces of our festive friends. Say, Myrrha, 
Art thou of those who dread the roar of clouds ? 

Myr. In my own country we respect their voices 
As augm'ies of Jove. 

Sar. Jove I— ay, your Baal — 

Ours also has a property in thunder. 
And ever and anon some falling. bolt 
Proves his divinity,— and yet sometimes 
Strikes his own altars. 

Myr. That were a dread omen. 



Sar. Yes— for the priests. Well, we will not go 
forth 
Beyond the palace walls to-night, but make 
Our feast within. 

Myr. Now, Jove be praised ! that he 

Hath heard the prayer thou wouldst not hear. The 

gods 
Are kinder to thee than thou to thyself. 
And flash this storm between thee and thy foes. 
To shield thee from them. 

Sar. Child, if there be peril, 

Methinks it is the same w^ithin these walls 
As on the river's brink. 

Myr. Not so ; these walls 

Are "high, and strong, and guarded. Treason has 
To penetrate through many a winding way, 
And massy portal ; but in the pavilion 
There is no bulwark. 

Sar. No, nor in the palace, 

Nor in the fortress, nor upon the top 
Of cloud-fenced Caucasus, where the eagle sits 
Nested in pathless clefts, if treachery be : 
Even as the arrow finds the airy king. 
The steel-will reach the earthly. But be calm : 
The men, or innocent or guilty, are 
Banish'd, and far upon their way. 

Myr. They live, then ? 

Sar. So sanguinary ? T/iou ! 

Myr. I would not shrink 

From just infliction of due punishment 
On those who seek your life : were 't otherwise, 
I should not merit mine. Besides, you heard 
The princely Salemenes. 

Sar. This is strange ; 

The gentle and the austere are both against me. 
And urge me to revenge. 

Myr. 'T is a G-reek virtue. 

Sar. But not a kingly one— I '11 none on 't ; or 
If ever I indulge in 't, it shall be 
With kings — my equals. 

Myr. These men sought to be so. 

Sar. Myrrha, this is too feminine, and springs 
From fear 

Myr. For you. 

Sar. No matter, still 't is fear. 

I have observed your sex, once roused to \^Tath, 
Are timidly vindictive to a pitch 
Of perseverance, which I would not copy. 
I thought you were exempt from this, as from 
The childish helplessness of Asian women. 

Myr. My lord, I am no boaster of my love. 
Nor of my attributes ; I have shared your splendor. 
And will partake your fortunes. You may live 
To find one slave more true than subject myriads : 
But this the gods avert ! I am content 
To be beloved on trust for what I feel, 
Bather than prove it to you in your griefs. 
Which might not yield to any cares of mine. 

Sar. Grief cannot come where perfect love exists. 
Except to heighten it, and vanish from 
That which it could not scare away. Let 's in— 
The hour approaches, and we must prepare 
To meet the invited guests, who grace our feast. 

{Excv.rd. 



^CT III. 



SCENE l.— The Hall of the Palace illuminated.— 
Sardanapalus and Ms Guests at TaUe. — A Storm 
without, and Thunder occasionally heard during the 
Banquet. 

Sar. Fill full ! why this is as it should be : here 
Is my true realm, amidst bright eyes and faces 
Happy as fair ! Here sorrow cannot reach. 



Zam. Nor elsewhere— where the king is, pleasure 

sparkles. 
Sar. Is not this better now than Nimrod's hunt- 
ings. 
Or my wild grandam's chase in search of kingdoms 
She could not keep when conquer'd ? 

Alt. Mighty though 

They were, as all thy roval line have been, 
207 



ACT III. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Yet none of those who went before have reach 'd 

Tlie acme of Sardanapahis, avIio 

Has placed his joy in peace— the sole true glory. 

^ar. And pleasure, good Altada, to which glory 
Is but the path. What is it that we seek ? 
Enjoyment ! We have cut the way short to it, 
And not gone tracking it through human ashes, 
Making a grave with every footstep. 

Zam. No ; 

All hearts are happy, and all voices bless 
Tlie king of peace, who holds a world in jubilee. 

Sar. Art sure of that ? I have heard otherwise ; 
Some say that there be traitors. 

Zam. Traitors they 

Who dare to say so !— 'T is impossible. 
What cause ? 

Sar. What cause ? true,— fill the goblet up ? 
We will not think of them : there are none such, 
Or if there be, they are gone. 

Alt. Guests, to my pledge ! 

Down on your knees, and drink a measure to 
The safety of the king — ^the monarch, say I ? 
The god Sardanapalus ! 

[Zaiiies and the Guests hneel^ and' exclaim — 
Mightier than 
His father Baal, the god Sardanapalus ! 

\It thunders as they kneel ; some start up in 
confusion. 

Zam. Wliy do you rise, my friends ? in that strong 
peal 
His father gods consented. 

3fyr. Menaced, rather. 

King, wilt thou bear this mad impiety ? 

Sar. Impiety ! — nay, if the. sires who reign'd 
Before me can be gods, I '11 not disgrace 
Their lineage. But arise, my pious friends; 
Hoard your devotion for the thunderer there : 
I seek but to be loved, not worshipp'd. 

Alt. Both— 

Both you must ever be by all true subjects. 

Sar. Methinks the thunders still increase : it is 
An awful night. 

3Ii/r. Oh yes, for those who have 

Xo palace to protect their worshippers. 

Sar. That 's true, my Myrrha ; and could I convert 
]Mv realm to one wide shelter for the wretched, 
I 'd do it. 

Myr. Thou 'rt no god, then, not to be 
Able to work a will so good and general. 
As thy wish would imply. 

Sar. And your gods, then, 

Who can, and do not ? 

Myr. Do not speak of that, 

Lest we provoke them. 

.Sar. True, they love not censure 

Better than mortals. Friend, a thought has struck 

me : 
Were tliere no temples, would there, think ye, be 
Air worsliippers ? that is, when it is angry, 
And pelting as even now. 

3Iyr. The Persian prays 

Upon his mountain. 

Sar. Yes, when the sun shines. 

3Iyr. And I would ask, if this your palace were 
Unroof 'd and desolate, how many flatterers 
Would lick the dust in which the king lay low ? 

Alt. The fair Ionian is too sarcastic 
Upon a nation whom she knows not well ; 
The Assyrians know no pleasure but their king's, 
And homage is their pride. 

Sar. Nay, pardon, guests, 

The fair Greek's readiness of speech. 

Alt. Pardon ! sire : 

We honor her of all things next to thee. 
Hark ! what was that ? 

Zam. That I nothing but the jar 

Of distant portals shaken by the wind. 
208 



Alt. It sounded like the clash of— Hark again ! 

Zam. The big rain pattering on the roof. 

Sar. No more. 

Myrrha, my love, hast thou thy shell in order ? 
Sing me a song of Sappho, her, thou know'st, 
Who in thy country threw 

Enter Pania, with his sword and garments bloody and 
disordered. The Guests rise in confusion. 

Pan. [to the Guards). Look to the portals; 

And with your best speed to the walls without. 
Your arms! To arms! The king 's in danger. Mon- 
arch, • 
Excuse this haste, — 'tis faith. 

Sar. Speak on. 

Pan. It is 
As Salem. enes fear'd ; the faithless satraps 

Sar. You are wounded— give some wine. Take 
breath, good Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis nothing— a mere flesh wound. I am 
worn 
More with my speed to warn my sovereign, 
Than hurt in his defence. 

3£yr. Well, sir, the rebels ? 

Pan. Soon as Arbaces and Beleses reach 'd 
Their stations in the city, tliey refused 
To march ; and on my attempt to use the power 
Which I was delegated with, they call'd 
Upon their troops, who rose in fierce defiance. 

3fyr. All? 

Pan. Too many. 

Sar. Spare not of thy free speech 

To spare mine ears the truth. 

Pan. My own slight guard 

Were faithful, and what 's left of it is still so. 

3fyr. And are these all the force stiU faithful ? 

Pan. No — 

The Bactrians, now led on by Salemenes, 
Who even then was on his way, still urged 
By strong suspicion of the Median chiefs. 
Are numerous, and make strong head against 
The rebels, fighting inch by inch, and forming 
An orb around the palace, where they mean 
To centre all their force, and save the king. 
(He hesitates.) I am charged to 

3Tyr. 'T is no time for hesitation. 

Pan. Prince Salemenes doth implore the king 
To arm himself, although but for a moment, 
And show himself unto the soldiers : his 
Sole presence in this instant might do more 
Than hosts can do in his behalf. 

Sar. What, ho ! 

My armor there. 

3fi/r. And wilt thou ? 

Sar. Will I not ? 

Ho, there !— But seek not for the buckler : 't is 
Too hea^^ :— a light cuirass and my sword. 
Where are the rebels ? 

Pan. Scarce a furlong's length 

Erom the outward wall, the fiercest conflict rages. 

Sar. Then I may charge on horseback. Sfero, ho ! 
Order my horse out. — There is space enough 
Even in our courts, and by the outer gate. 
To marshal half the horsemen of Arabia. 

[Exit Sfero for the armor, 

Myr. How I do love thee ! 

Sar. I ne'er doubted it. 

3[yr. But now I know thee. 

Sar. {to his Attendant). Bring down my spear, 
too— 
Where 's Salemenes ? 

Pan. Where a soldier should be, 

In the thick of the fight. 

Sar. Then hasten to him Is 

The path still open, and communication 
Left 'twixt the palace and the phalanx ? 

Pan. 'T was 



ACT III. 



SARDANAPALUS, 



SCENE I. 



When I late left him, and I have no fear : 

Our troops were steady, and the phalanx form'd. 

Sar. Tell him to spare his person for the present, 
And that I will not spare my own— and say, 
I come. 

Pan, There 's victory in the very w^ord. 

\_ExU Pania. 

■Sar. Altada—Zames— forth, and arm ye ! There 
Is all in readiness in tlie armory. 
See that the women are bestow 'd in safety 
In the remote apartments : let a guard 
Be set before them, with strict cliarge to quit 
The post but with their lives— command it, Zames. 
Altada, arm yourself, and return here ; 
Your post is near our person. 

[Exeunt Zames, Altada, and all save Myrrha. 

Enter Sfero and others with the Kiiufs Arms, etc. 

Sfe. King ! your armor. 

Sar. {arming himself). Give me the cuirass — so: 
my baldric ; now 
My sword : I had forgot the helm— where is it ? 
That's well— no, 'tis too heavy: you mistake, 

too— 
It was not this I meant, but that which bears 
A diadem around it. 
*Sfe. Sire, I deem 'd 

That too conspicuous from tlie precious stones 
To risk your sacred brow beneath — and, trast me. 
This is of better metal, though less rich. 

Sar. You deem'd I Are you too turn'd a rebel V 
Fellow ! 
Your part is to obey: return, and— no— 
It is too late— I will go forth without it. 

>Sye. At least, wear this. 

Sar. Wear Caucasus ! why, 't is 

A m.ountain on my temples. 

Sfe. Sire, the meanest 

Soldier goes not forth thus exposed to battle. 
All men will recognize you— for the storm 
Plas ceased, and the moon breaks forth in her bright- 
ness. 

Sar. 'I go forth to be recognized, and thus 
Shall be so sooner. Now — my spear ! I 'm arm'd. 

[In going stops short, and turns to 'Sfero. 
Sfero — I liad forgotten — bring the mirror. 

Sfe. The mirror, sire ? 

Sar. Yes, sir, of polish 'd brass. 

Brought from the spoils of India — but be speedy. 

[ExH Sfero. 

Sar. Myrrha, retire unto a place of safety. 
Wliy went you not forth with tlie other damsels ? 

Myr. Because my place is here. 

Sar. And wh*n I am gone 

Myr. I follow. 

Sar. Tou ! to battle ? 

Myr. If it v/ere so, 

'T were not the first Greek girl had trod the path. 
I will await here your return. 

Sar. The place 

Is spacious, and the first to be sought out, 
If they prevail ; and if it be so. 
And I return not 

3Iyr. Still we meet again. 

Sar. How? 

Myr. In the spot where all must meet at last- 
In Hades! if there be, as I believe, 
A shore beyond the Stjx : and if there be not, 
In ashes. 

Sar. Barest thou so much ? 

Myr. I dare all things, 

Except survive what I have loved, to be 
A rebel's booty: forth, and do your bravest. 

Jie-enter Sfero with the mirror. 

Sar. {holding at himself). This cuirass fits me well, 
the baldric better, 

14 



And the helm not at all. Methinks I seem 

[Flings away the helmet after trying it again. 
Passing well in these toys ; and now to prove them. 
Altada !. Where 's Altada ? 

Sfe. Waiting, sire, 

Without : he has your shield in readiness. 

Sar. True ; I forgot he is my shield-bearer 
By right of blood, derived from age to age. 
M^'rrha, embrace me ; — yet once more— once more — 
Love me, whate'er betide. My chiefest glory 
Shall be to make me worthier of your love. 

Jf^/r. Go forth, and conquer! 

[Exeimt Sardanapaliis and Sfero. 
Now, I am alone. 
All are gone forth, and of that all how few 
Perhaps return ! Let him but vanquish, and 
Me perish ! If he vanquish not, I perish ; 
For I will not outlive him. He has wound 
About my heart, I know not how nor why. 
Not for that he is king ; for now his kingdom 
Rocks underneath his throne, and the earth yawns 
To yield liim no more of it than a grave ; 
And yet I love him more. Oh, mighty Jove I 
Forgive this monstrous love for a barbarian, 
Who knows not of Olympus ! yes, I love him 
Now, now, far more than — ^Hark— to the war 

shout ! 
Methinks it nears me. If it should be so, 

[She draws forth a small vial. 
This cunning Colcliian poison, which my father 
Learn VI to compound on Euxine shores, and taught 

me 
How to preserve, shall free me ! It had freed me 
Long ere this hour, but that I loved, until 
I half forgot I was a slave : — where all 
Are slaves save one, and proud of servitude, 
So they are served in turn by something lower 
In the degree of bondage, we forget 
That shackles worn like ornaments no less 
Are chains. Again that shout ! and now the clash 
Of arms — and now — and now 

Enter Altada. 

Alt. Ho, Sfero, ho! 

Myr. He is not here; what wouldst thou with 
him ? How 
Goes on the conflict ? 

Alt. Dubiously and fiercely. 

Myr. And the king ? 

Alt. Like a king. I must find Sfero, 

And bring him a new spear and his own helmet. 
He tights till now bareheaded, and by far 
Too much exposed. The soldiers knew his face, 
And the foe too ; and in the moon's broad light. 
His silk tiara and his flowing hair 
Make him a mark too royal. Every arrow 
Is pointed at the fair hair and fair features. 
And the broad fillet which crowns both. 

Myr. Ye gods, 

Who fulminate o'er my father's land, protect him ! 
Were you sent by the king ? 

Alt. By Salemenes, 

Who sent me privily upon this charge. 
Without the knowledge of the careless sovereign. 
The king ! the king fights as he revels ! ho ! 
What, Sfero ! I will seek the armory- 
He must be there. [Exit Altada. 

Myr. 'Tis no dishonor — no— 

'T is no dishonor to have loved this man. 
I almost wish now, what I never wisli'd 
Before, that he were Grecian. If Alcides 
Were shamed in wearing Lydian Omphale's 
She-garb, and wielding her vile distaff, surely 
He, who springs up a Hercules at once. 
Nursed in effeminate arts from youth to manhood, 
And rushes from the banquet to the battle, 
As though it were a bed of love, deserves 
200 



ACT ITT. 



SAEDANAFALUS, 



SCENE T. 



That a Greek girl should be his paramour, 
And a Greek bard his minstrel, a Greek tomb 
His monument. How goes the strife, sir V 

Enter an Officer, 

Officer. ' Lost, 

Lost almost paSt recovery. Zames! Where 
Is Zames ? 

Myr. Posted with the guard appointed 

To watch before the apartment of the women. 

\Exit Officer. 

Mi/r. [f^ola). He's gone; and told no more than 
that all's lost ! 
What need have I to know more ? In those words, 
Those little words, a kingdom and a king, 
A line of thirteen ages, and the lives 
Of thousands, and the fortune of all left 
With life, are merged ; and I, too, with the great. 
Like a small bubble breaking with the wave 
AVhich bore it, shall be nothing. At the least, 
My fate is in my keeping : no proud victor 
Shall count me with his spoils. 

Enter Pania. 

Pan. Away with me, 

Myrrha, without delay ; we must not lose 
A moment — all that 's left us now. 

3fy): The king ? 

Pan. Sent me here to conduct you hence, beyond 
The river, by a secret passage. 

Mi/r. Then 

He lives 

Pan. And charged me to secure your life, 

And beg 5^ou to live on for his sake, till 
He can rejoin you. 

Myr. Will he then give way ? 

Pan. Not till the last. Still, still he does wh ate 'er 
Despair can do ; and step by step disputes 
The very palace. 

3fyr. They are here, then :— ay. 

Their shouts come ringing through the ancient halls, 
Never profaned by rebel echoes till 
This fatal night. Farewell, Assyria's line ! 
Farewell to all of Nimrod ! Even the name 
Is now no more. 

Pan. Away with me— away ! 

Myr. No: I'll die here! — Away, and tell your 
king 
I loved him to the last. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Salemenes with Sol- 
diers. Pania quits Myrrha, and ranges kimself 
with them. 
Sar. Since it is thus. 

We '11 die where we were born — in our own halls. 

Serry your ranks— stand firm. I have despatch 'd 

A trusty satrap for the guard of Zames, 

All fresh and faithful ; they '11 be here anon. 

All is not over. — Pania, look to Myrrha. 

[Pania returns toioards Myrrha. 
Sal. We have breathing time : yet once more 
charge, my friends — 

One for Assyria ! 

Sar. Rather say for Bactria ! 

My faithful Bactrians, I will henceforth be 

King of your nation, and we '11 hold together ■ 

This realm as province. 
Sal. Hark ! they come— they come. 

Enter Beleses and Arbaces loith the Rebels. 
Arh. Set on, we have them in the toil. Charge ! 

charge ! 
Bel. On ! on ! — Heaven fights for us, and with us. 
—On! 

[They charge the King and Salemenes with 
their Troops, who defend themselves till the 
arrival of Zames, loith the Guard before 
210 



mentioned. The Bcbels are then driven o/f, 
and pursued by Salemenes^ etc. As the King 
is going to join the pursuit, Beleses crosses 
him. 
Bel. Ho ! tyrant — J will end this war. 
Sar. Even so, 

My warlike priest, and precious prophet, and 
Grateful and trusty subject : — yield, I pray thee. 
I would reserve thee for a fitter doom. 
Bather than dip my hands in holy blood. 
Bel. Thine hour is come. 

Sar. No. thine. — I 've lately read, 

Though but a young astrologer, the stars ; 
And ranging round the zodiac, found thy fate 
In the sign of the Scorpion, which proclaims 
That thou wilt now be crush'd. 
Bel. But not by thee. 

[Tlieyfght; Beleses is wounded and disarmed. 
Sar. {raising his sword to despatch him, exclaims) — 
Now call upon thy planets, will they shoot 
From the sky to preserve their seer and credit ? 

[A party of Rebels enter and rescue Beleses. 
They assail the King, who, in turn, is rescued 
by a party of his Soldiers, who drive the Rebels 
off. 
The villain was a prophet after all. ^ 

Upon tliem — ho ! there— victory is ours. 

[Exit in pursuit. 
Myr. [to Pan.). Pursue ! Why stand'st thou here, 
and leav'st the ranks 
Of fellow soldiers conquering without thee ? 
Pan. The king's command was not to quit thee. 
Myr. Me I 

Think not of me — a single soldier's arm 
Must not be wanting now. I ask no guard, 
I need no guard : what, with a world at stake. 
Keep watch upon a woman ? Hence, I say, 
Or thou art shamed ! Nay, then, J will go forth, 
A feeble female, 'midst their desperate strife, 
And bid thee guard me i/iere— where thou shouldst 

shield 
Thy sovereign. [Exit Myrrha. 

Pan. Yet stay, damsel !— She is'gone. 

If aught of ill betide her, better I 
Had lost my life. Sardanapalus holds her 
Far dearer than his kingdom, yet he fights 
For that too ; and can I do less than he, 
Who never flash'd a scimitar till now ? 
Myrrha, return, and I obey you, though 
In disobedience to the monarch. [Exit Pania. 

Enter Altada and Sfero by an opposite door. 

Alt. Myrrha ! 

What, gone ? yef she was here when the fight raged. 
And Pania also. Can aught have befallen them ? 

Sfe. I saw both safe, when late the rebels fled : 
They probably are but retired to make 
Their way back to the harem. 

Alt. If the king 

Prove victor, as it seems even now he must, 
And miss his own Ionian, we are doom'd 
To worse than captive rebels. 

Sfe. Let us trace them : 

She cannot be fled far ; and, found, she makes 
A richer prize to our soft sovereign 
Than his recover 'd kingdom. 

Alt. Baal himself 

Ne'er fought more fiercely to win empire, than 
His silken son to save it ; he defies 
All augury of foes or friends ; and like 
The close and sultry summer's day, which bodes 
A twilight tempest, bursts forth in such thunder 
As sweeps the air and deluges the earth. 
The man 's inscrutable. 

Sfe. Not more than others. 

All are the sons of circumstance ; away — 
Let 's seek the slave out, or prepare to be 



ACT III. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Tortured for his infatuation, and 
Condemn 'd without a crime. 



{Exeunt. 



Enter Salemenes and Soldiers^ etc. 
Scd. The triumph is 

Flattering: they are beaten backward from the 

palace, 
And we have open'd re,f?ular access 
To the troops station 'd on the other side 
Euphrates, who may still be true ; nay, must be, 
When they hear of our victory. But where 
Is the chief victor ? where 's the king ? 

Enter Sardanapalus, cum suis^ etc., and Myrrha. 

Sar. Here, brother. 

Sal. Unhurt, I hope. 

Sar. Not quite ; but let it pass. 
We 've clear 'd the palace 

Sal. And I trust the city. 

Our numbers gather; and I 've order'd onward 
A cloud of Parthians, Ijitherto reserved, 
All fresh and fiery, to be pour'd upon them 
In their retreat, which soon will be a flight. 

Sar. It is already, or at least they march 'd 
Faster than I could follow with my Bactrians, 
Who spared no speed. I am spent : give me a seat. 

Sal. There stands the throne, sire. 

Sar. 'T is no place to rest on, 

For mind nor body : let me have a couch, 

[Tliet/ 2)Iace a seat. 
A peasant's stool, I care not what : so— now 
I breathe more freely. 

Sal. This great hour has proved 

The brightest and most glorious of your life. 

Sar. And the most tiresome. Where 's my cup- 
bearer ? 
Bring me some water. 

Sal. {smiling). 'T is the first time he 

Ever had such an order : even I, 
Your most austere of couui 
Suggest a purpler beverage. 

iSar. Blood — doubtless. 

But there's enough of tliat slied ; as for wine, 
I have learn 'd to-night the price of the pure ele- 
ment : 
Tlirice have I drank of it, and thrice renew 'd, 
Witli greater strength than tlie grape ever gave me, 
My charge upon the rebels. VVhere 's the soldier 
Who gave me water in his lielmet ? 

One of the Guards. Slain, sire ! 

An arrow pierced his brain, while, scattering 
The last drops from his helm, he stood in act 
To place it on his brows. 

Sar. • Slain! unrewarded! 

And slain to serve my thirst : that 's hard, poor 

slave ! 
Had he but lived, I would have gorged him with 
Gold : all the gold of earth could ne'er repay 
The pleasure of that draught : for I was parch 'd 
As I am now. [Thei/ bring 'water— he drinks. 

I live again— from lienceforth 
The goblet I reserve for hours of love. 
But war on water. 

Sal. And that bandage, sire, 

Which girds your arm ? 

Sar. A scratch from brave Beleses. 

Myr. Oh! he is wounded! 

Sar. Not too much of that ; 

And yet it feels a little stiff and painful. 
Now I am cooler. 

Mgr. You have bound it with 

Sar. The fillet of my diadem : the first time 
That ornament was ever aught to me 
Save an incumbrance. 

Myr. {(0 the Attendants). Summon speedily 
A leech of the most skilful : pray, retire: 
I will unbind your wound and tend it. 



Sar. Do so, 

For now it throbs sufficiently: but what 
Know'st thou of wounds V yet wherefore do I ask ? 
Know'st thou, my brother, where I lighted on 
This minion ? 

Sal. Herding with the other females, 

Like frighten'd antelopes. 

Sar. No ; like the dam 

Of the young lion, femininely raging 
(And femininely meaneth furiously, 
Because all passions in exc(^s are female) 
Against the hunter tlying with her cub. 
She urged on with her voice and gesture, and 
Her floating hair and flashing eyes, the soldiers. 
In the pursuit. • 

Sal. Indeed ! 

Sar. You see, this night 

Made warriors of more than me. I paused 
To look upon her, and her kindled cheek ; 
Her large black eyes, that flash 'd through her long 

hair 
As it stream'd o'er her ; her blue veins that rose 
Along her most transparent brow; her nostril 
Dilated from its symmetry : her lips 
Apart ; her voice that clove through all the din, 
As a lute's pierceth through the cymbals' clash, 
Jarr'd but not drown 'd by the loud brattling ; her 
AVaved arms, more dazzling with their own born 

whiteness 
Than the steel her hand held, which she caught up 
From a dead soldier's grasp;— all these things 

made 
Her seem unto the troops a prophetess 
Of victory, or Victory herself, 
Come down to hail us hers. 

Sal. {aside). This is too much. 

Again the love-fit 's on him, and all 's lost, 
Unless we turn his thoughts. 

(Aloud.) But pray thee, sire, 
Think of your wound— you said even now 'twas 
painful. 

Sar. That 's true, too : but I must not think 
of it. 

Sal. I have look'd to all things needful, and will 
now 
Receive reports of progress made in such 
Orders as I had given, and then return 
To hear your further pleasure. 

Sar. Be it so. 

Sal. {in retiring). Myrrha ! 

Myr. Prince ! 

Sal. You have shown a soul to-night, 

Which, were he not my sister's lord But now 

I have no time ; thou lovest the king ? 

Myr. I love 

Sardanapalus. 

Sal. But wouldst have him king still ? 

3fyr. 1 w^ould not have him less than what he 
should be. 

Sal. Well then, to have him king, and yours, and 
all 
He should, or should not be ; to have him live, 
Let him not sink back into luxury. 
You have more power upon his spirit than 
Wisdom within these walls, or fierce rebellion 
Raging without : look well that he relapse not. 

Myr. There needed not the voice of Salemenes 
To urge me on to this : I will not fail. 
All that a woman's weakness can 

Sal. Is power 

Omnipotent o'er such a heart as his: 
Exert it wisely. [Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. Myrrha ! w^hat, at whispers 

With my stern brother ? I shall soon be jealous. 

Myr. {smiling). You have cause, sire; for on the 
earth there breathes not 
A man more wojthv of a woman's love — 
211 



ACT IV. 



SARDANAPALUS, 



SCENE T. 



A soldier's trust — a subject's reverence — 

A king's esteem — the whole world's admiration ! 

Sar. Praise him, but not so warmly. I must not 
Hear those sweet lips grow eloquent in auglit 
That throws me into shade : yet you speak truth. 



Myr. And now retire, to liave your wound look'd 
to. 
Pray, lean on me. 
Sar. Yes, love ! but not from pain. 

^Exeunt omnes. 



^CT IV. 



SCENE I, — Sardanapalus discovered sleepimj 
upon a Courh^ and occasionally disturbed in his 
Slumbers, icith Myrrha ivatcfiing. 

Myr. [sola, gazing). I have stolen upon his rest, if 
rest it be, 
Which thus convulses slumber: shall I wake him ? 
No, he seems calmer. Oh, thou God of Quiet ! 
Whose reign is o'er seal'd eyelids and soft dreams, 
Or deep, deep sleep, so as to be unfathom'd. 
Look like thy brother, Death— so still— so stirless— 
For then we are happiest, as it may be, we 
Are happiest of all witliin the realm 
Of thy stern, silent, and unwakenii^g twin. 
Again he moves— again the play of pain 
Shoots o'er his features, as the sudden gust 
Crisps the reluctant lake that lay so calm 
Beneath the mountain shadow ; or the blast 
Ruffles the autumn leaves, that drooping cling 
Faintly and motionless to their loved boughs. 
I must awake him — yet not yet ; who knows 
From what I rouse him ? It seems pain ; but if 
I quicken him to heavier pain ? The fever 
Of this tumultuous night, the grief too of 
His wound, though slight, may cause all this, and 

shake 
Me more to see than him to suffer. No : 
Let Nature use her own maternal means, 
And I await to second, not disturb her. 

Sar. [awakening). Not so— although ye multiplied 
the stars. 
And gave them to me as a realm to share 
From you and with you ! I would not so purchase 
The empire of eternity. Hence— hence — 
Old hunter of the earliest brutes ! and ye, 
Who hunted fellow creatures as if brutes ! 
Once bloody mortals— and now bloodier idols. 
If your priests lie not ! And thou, ghastly beldam ! 
Dripping with dusky gore, and trampling on 
The carcasses of Ind— away ! away I 

Where am I? Where the spectres? Where 

No— that 
Is no false phantom : I should know it 'midst 
All that the dead dare gloomily raise up 
From their black gulf to daunt the living. Myrrha I 
Myr. Alas ! thou art pale, and on thy brow the 
drops 
Gather like night dew. My beloved, hush — 
Calm thee. Thy speech seems of another world. 
And tliou art lord of this. Be of good clieer ; 
All will go well. 

Sar. Thy hamd — so — 't is thy hand ; 

. 'Tis flesh; grasp— clasp — yet closer, till 1 feel 
Myself that which I was. 

'M jr. At least know me 

For what I am, and ever must be — tliine. 

Sar. I know it now. I know this life again. 
Ah, Myrrha! I have been where we shall be. 
Myr. My lord ! 

Sar. I've been i' the grave— where worms are 
lords. 

And kings are But I did not deem it so ; 

I thought 't was nothing. 

Myr. So it is ; except 

ITnto the timid, who anticipate 
That which may never lie. 
212 



Sar. Oh, Myrrha! if 

Sleep shows such things, what may not death dis- 
close ? 

Myr. I know no evil death can show, which life 
Has not already shov\ai to those wlio live 
Embodied longest. If there be indeed 
A shore where mind survives, 't will be as mind. 
All unincorporate : or if there flits 
A shadow of this cumbrous clog of clay. 
Which stalks, methinks, between our souls and 

heaven. 
And fetters us to earth — at least the phantom, 
Wliate'er it have to fear, will not fear death. 

Sar. I fear it not : but I have felt — have seen— 
A legion of the dead. 

Myr. And so have I. 

The dust we tread upon was once alive. 
And wretched. But proceed : what hast thou seen? 
Speak it, 'twill lighten thy dimm'd mind. 

Sar. Methought— 

Myr. Yet pause, thou art tired — in pain — ex- 
hausted; all 
Which can impair both strength and spirit : seek 
Eather to sleep again. 

Sar. * Not now — I v^^ould not 

Dream ; though I know it now to be a dream 
What I have dreamt:— and canst thou bear to 
hear it ? 

Myr. I can bear all things, dreams of life or death , 
Which I participate with you, in semblance 
Or full reality. 

Sar. And this look'd real, 

I tell you : after that these eyes were open, 
I saw them in their flight — ^for then they fled. 

Myr. Say on. 

Sar. I saw, that is, I dream 'd myself 

Here— here— even where we are, guests as we were. 
Myself a host that deem'd himself but guest, 
Willing to equal all in social freedom ; 
But, on my right hand and my left, instead 
Of thee and Zames, and our custcm'd meeting. 
Was ranged on my left hand a haughty, dark. 
And deadly face ; I could not recognize it. 
Yet I had seen it, though I knew not where : 
The features were a giant's, and the eye 
Was still, yet lighted ; his long locks curl'd down 
On his vast bust, whence a huge quiver rose 
With shaft-heads feather'd from the eagle's wing, 
That peep'd up bristling through his serpent hair. 
I invited him to fill the cup which stood 
Between us, but he ansAver'd not ; I fill'd it — 
He took it not, but stared upon me, till 
I trembled at the fix'd glare of his eye: 
I frown 'd upon him as a king should frown ; 
He frown'd not in his turn, but look'd upon me 
With the same aspect, which appall'd me more, 
Becan.se it changed not : and I turn'd for refuge 
To milder guests, and sought them on the right. 

Where thou wert wont to be. But 

[^He pauses. 

Myr. What instead ? 

Sar. In thyo-wm chair— thy OT^^l place in the ban- 
quet — 
I sought thy sweet face in the circle- but 
Instead— a gray-hair'd, Avither'd, bloody-eyed, 
And bloody-handed, ghastly, ghostly thing. 



ACT IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Female in garb, and crown'd upon the brow, 
Fiirrow'd with years, yet sneering with the pas- 
sion 
Of vengeance, leering too with that of lust, 
Sate :— my veins curdled. 

Myr. Is this all? 

iSdr. Upon 

Her right hand — ^lier lank, bird-like, right hand — 

stood 
A goblet, bubbling o'er with blood ; and on 
Her left, another, fill'd with— what I saw not, 
But turn'd from it and her. But all along 
The table sate a range of crowned wretches, 
Of various aspects^ but of one expression. 

Myr, And felt you not this a mere vision ? 

Sar. No : 

It was so palpable, I could have tonch'd them. 
I turn'd from one face to another, in 
The hope to find at last one which I knew 
Ere I saw theirs : but no— all turn'd upon me, 
And stared, but neither ate nor drank, but stared, 
Till I grew stone, as they seem'd half to be. 
Yet breathing stone, for I felt life in them, 
And life in me : there was a liorrid kind 
Of sympathy between us, as if they 
Had lost a part of death to come to me, 
And I the half of life to sit by them. 
We were in an existence all apart 

From heaven or eartli And rather let me see 

Death all than such a being ! 

Myr. And the end ? 

Sar. At last I sate, marble, as they, when rose 
The hunter and the crone ; and smiling on me — 
Yes, the enlarged but noble aspect of 
The hunter smiled upon me — I should say, 
His lips, for his eyes moved not— and the woman's 
Thin lips relax 'd to something like a smile. 
Both rose, and the crown'd figures on each hand 
Hose also, as if aping their chief shades — 
Mere mimics even in death— but I sate still : 
A desperate courage crept through every limb, 
And at the last I fear'd them not, but laugh 'd 
Full in their phantom faces. But then — then 
The hunter laid his hand on mine; I took it, 
And grasp'd it — but it melted from my own ; 
While he too vanish'd, and left nothing but 
The memory of a hero, for he look'd so. 

Myr. And was : the ancestor of heroes, too, 
And thine no less. 

Sar. Ay, Myrrha, but the w^oman, 

The female who remain 'd, she flew upon me, 
And burnt my lips with her noisome kisses ; 
And, flinging down the goblets on each hand, 
Methought tlieir poisons flow'd around us, till 
Each form'd a hideous river. Still she clung ; 
The other phantoms, like a row of statues, 
Stood dull as in our temples, but she still 
Embraced me, while I shrunk from her, as if, 
In lieu of her remote descendant, I 
Had been the son who slew her for her incest. 
Then— then — a chaos of all loathsome things 
Throng 'd thick and shapeless : I was dead, yet feel- 
ing- 
Buried, and raised again — consumed by worms. 
Purged by the flames, and wither 'd in the air ! 
I can fix nothing further of my thoughts, 
Save that I long'dfor thee, and sought for thee. 
In all these agonies, — and woke and found thee. 

Myr. So shalt thou find me ever at thy side, 
Here and hereafter, if the last may be. 
But think not of these things — the mere creations 
Of late events, acting upon a frame 
Unused to toil, "yet overwrought by toil 
Such as might try the sternest. 

Sar. I am better. 

Now that I see thee once more, what was seen 
Seems nothing. 



Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. Is the king so soon awake ? 

Sar. Yes, brother, and I would I had not slept ; 
For all the predecessors of our line 
Rose up, methought, to drag me down to them. 
My father was amongst them, too ; biit he, 
I know not why, kept from me, leaving me 
Between the hunter-founder of our race, 
And her, the homicide and husband-killer, 
Whom you call glorious. 

Sal. So I term you also, 

Now you have shown a spirit like to hers. 
By daybreak I propose that we set forth; 
And charge once more the rebel crew, who still 
Keep gathering head, repulsed, but not quite 
quell 'd. 

Sar. How wears the night ? 

Sal. There yet remains some hours 

Of darkness : use them for your further rest. 

Sar. No, not to-night, if 'tis not gone: me- 
tli ought 
I pass'd hours in that vision. 

Myr. Scarcely one ; 

I watch 'd by you : it was a heavy hour. 
But an hour only. 

Sar. Let us then hold council : 

To-morrow we set forth. 

Sal. But ere that time 

I had a grace to seek. 

Sar. 'T is granted. 

Sal. Hear it 

Ere you reply too readily ; and 't is 
For your ear only. 

Myr. Prince, I take my leave. 

[Exit Myrrha. 

Sal. That slave deserves her freedom. 

Sar. Freedom only ! 

That slave deserves to share a throne. 

Sal. Your patience — 

'Tis not yet vacant, and 'tis of its partner 
I come to speak with you. 

Sar. How ! of the queen ? 

Sal. Even so. I judged it fitting for their safety, 
That, ere the dawn, she sets forth with her children 
For Paphlagonia, v\^here our kinsman Cotta 
Governs ; and there at all events secure 
My nephews and your sons their lives, and with 

them 
Their just pretensions to the crown in case 

Sar. I perish — as is probable ; well thought — 
Let them set forth with a sure escort. 

Sal. That 

Is all provided, and the galley ready 
To drop down the Euphrates ; but ere they 
Depart, will you not see 

Sar. My sons ? It may 

Unman my heart, and the poor boys will weep ; 
And what can I rei.'ly to comfort them. 
Save with some hollow hopes, and ill-worn smiles ? 
You know I cannot feign. 

Sal. But you can feel ! 

At least, I trust so : in a word, the queen 
Bequests to see you ere you part — for ever. 

Sar. Unto what end ? what purpose ? I will grant 
Aught — all that she can ask — but such a meeting. 

Sal. You know, or ought to know, enough of 
women. 
Since 5^ou have studied them so steadily, 
That what they ask in aught that touches on 
The heart, is dearer to their feelings or 
Their fancy, than the whole external world. 
I think as you do of my sister's wish ; 
But 't was her wish — she is my sister — you 
Her husband— will you grant it ? 

Sar. 'T will be useless : 

But let her come. 

213 



ACT lY. 



SARDANAPALUS, 



SCENE T. 



Sal. I go. {Exit Salemenes. 

Sar. We have lived asunder 

Too long to meet again— and now to meet ! 
Have I not cares enow, and pangs enow, 
To bear alone, that we must mingle sorrows, 
Who have ceased to mingle love V 

He-enter Salemenes and Zarina, 

iS'aZ. My sister ! Courage : 

Shame not our blood with trembling, but remember 
From whence we sprung. The queen is present, sire. 

Zar, I pray thee, brother, leave me. 

Sal. Since you ask it. 

{Exit Salemenes. 

Zar. Alone with him! How many a year has 
pass'd, 
Though we are still so young, since we have met. 
Which I have worn in widowhood of heart ! 
He loved me not ; yet he seems little cb.anged— 
Changed to me only— would the change were 

mutual ! 
He speaks not— scarce regards me— not a word, 
Nor look — yet he wa,s soft of voice and aspect, 
Indifferent', not austere. My lord ! 

Sar. Zarina ! 

Zar. No, not Zarina — do not say Zarina. 
That tone— that word— annihilate long years. 
And things which make them longer. 

Sar. 'T is too late 
To think of these past dreams. Let 's not reproach — 
That is, reproach me not — for the last time 

Zar. A\\& first. I ne'er reproach'd yon. 

Sar. 'T is most true ; 

And that reproof comes heavier on my heart 
Than But our hearts are not in our own power. 

Zar. Nor hands ; but I gave both. 

Sar. Your brother said 

It was your will to see me, ere you went 
From Nineveh with [He hesitates.) 

Zar. Our children : it is true. 

I wish'd to thank you that you have not divided 
My heart from all that -s left it now to love — 
Those who are yours and mine, who look like you. 
And look upon me as you looked upon me 
Once But they have not changed. 

Sar. Nor ever will.. 

I fain would have them dutiful. 

Zar. ' I cherish 

Those infants, not alone from the blind love 
Of a fond mother, but as a fond woman. 
They are now the only tie between us. 

Sar. Deem not 

I have not done you justice: rather make them 
Resemble your own line, than their own sire. 
I trust them with you— to you : fit them for 

A throne, or, if that be denied You have heard 

Of this night's tumults ? 

Zar. I had half forgotten. 

And could have welcomed any grief, save yours, 
Which gave me to behold your face again. 

Sar. The throne — I say it not in fear — but 't is 
In peril : they perhaps may never mount it ; 
But let them not for this Tose sight of it. 
I will dare all things to bequeath it them ; 
But if I fail, then they must win it back 
Bravely — and. won, wear it wisely, not as I 
Have wasted down my royalty. 

Zar. They ne'er 

Shall know from me of aught but what may honor 
Their father's memory. 

Sar. Rather let them hear 

The truth from you than from a trampling world. 
If they be in adversity, they '11 learn 
Too soon the scorn of crowds for crownless princes, 
And find that all their father's sins are theirs. 
My boys ! — I could have borne it were I childless. 

Zar. Oh ! do not say so— do not poison all 
214 



My peace left, by unwishing that thou wert 
A father. If thou conquerest, they shall reign, 
And honor him who saved the realm for them, 
So little cared for as his own ; and if 

Sar. 'T is lost, all earth will cry out, Thank your 
father ! 
And they will swell the echo with a curse. 

Zar. That they shall never do : but rather honor 
The name of him, who, dying like a king. 
In his last hours did more for his own memory 
Tlian many monarchs in a length of days, 
Which date the flight of time, but make no annals. 

Sar. Our annals draw perchance unto their close ; 
But at the least, whate'er the past, their end 
Shall be like their beginning — memorable. 

Zar. Yet, be not rash— be careful of your life, 
Live but for those who love. 

Sar. And who are they ? 
A slave, who loves from passion— I '11 not say 
Ambition— she has seen thrones shake, and loves : 
A few friends who have re veil 'd till we are 
As one, for they are nothing if I fall ; 
A brother I have injured — children whom 
I have neglected, and a spouse 

Zar. Who loves. 

Sar. And pardons ? 

Zar. I have never thought of this, 

And cannot pardon till I have condemn 'd. 

Sar. My wife ! 

Zar. Now blessings on thee for that word ! 

I never thought to hear it more— from thee. 

Sar. Oh! thou wilt hear it from my subjects. 
Yes— 
These slaves, whom! have nurtured, pamper'd, fed. 
And swoln with peace, and gorged with plenty, till 
They reign themselves— all monarchs in their man- 
sions— 
Now swarm forth in rebellion, and demand 
His death, who made their lives a jubilee ; 
While the few upon whom I have no claim 
Are faithful ! This is true, yet monstrous. 

Zar. Tis 

Perhaps too natural ; for benefits 
Turn poison in bad minds. 

Sar. And good ones make 

Good out of evil. Happier than the bee. 
Which hives not but from wholesome flowers. 

Zar. Then reap 

The honey, nor inquire whence 'tis derived. 
Be satisfied — you are not all abandon'd. 

Sar. My life insures me that. How long, bethink 

you. 

Were not I yet a king, should I be mortal; 

That is, where mortals are, not where they must be ? 

Zar. 1 know not. But yet live for my — that is, 
Your children's sake ! 

Sar. My gentle, wrong'd Zarina I 

I am the very slave of circumstance 
And impulse— borne away with every breath ! 
Misplaced upon the throne — misplaced in life. 
I know not what I could have been, but feel 
I am not what I should be— let it end. 
Bnt take this with thee: if I was not form'd 
To prize a love like thine, a mind like thine, 
Nor dote even on thy beauty — as I 've doted 
On lesser charms, for no cause save that such 
Devotion was a duty, and I hated 
All that look'd like a chain for me or others 
(This even rebellion must avouch) ; yet hear 
These words, perhaps among my last— that none 
E'er valued more thy virtues, though he knew not 
To profit by them— as the miner lights 
Upon a vein of virgin ore, discovering 
That which avails liim nothing: he hath found it, 
But 't is not his— but some superior's, who 
Placed him to dig, but not divide the wealth 
Which sparkles at his feet ; nor dare he lift 



ACT IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE r. 



Nor poise it, but must grovel on, upturning 
The sullen earth. 

Zar. Oh ! if thou hast at length 

Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, 
I ask no more— but let us hence together, 
And 7— let me say -w.^e— shall j^i be happy. ■ 
Assyria is not all the earth— we 'U find 
A world out of our owti- and be more bless'd 
Than I have ever been, or thou, with all 
An empire to indulge thee. 

Enter Salemenes. 

Sal. I must part ye— 

The moments, which must not be lost, are passing. 

Zar. Inhuman brother! wilt thou thus weigh out 
Instants so high and blest ? 

Sal. Blest! 

Zar. He hath been 

So gentle with me, that I cannot think 
Of quitting. 

Sal. So— this feminine farewell 

Ends as such partings end, in no departure. 
I thought as much, and yielded against all 
Mv better bodings. But it must not be. 

Zar. Not be ? 

Sal. Kemain, and perish 

Zar. With my husband 

Sal. And children. 

Zar. Alas ! 

Sal. Hear me, sister, like 
My sister :— all 's prepared to make your safety 
Certain, and of the boys too, our last hopes : 
'Tis not a single question of mere feeling, 
Though that were much— but 't is a point of state: 
The rebels would do more to seize upon 
The offspring of their sovereign, and so crush 

Zar. Ah ! do not name it. 

Sal. Well, then, mark me : when 

Tiiey are safe beyond the Median's grasp, the rebels 
Have miss'd their chief aim — the extinction of 
The line of Nimrod. Though the present king 
Fall, his sons live for victory and vengeance. 

Zar. But could not I remain, alone V 

Sal. What! leave 

Your children, with two parents and yet orphans — 
In a strange land— so young, so distant ? 

Zar. No — 

My heart will break. 

Sal. Now you know all — decide. 

Sar. Zarina, he hath spoken well, and v/e 
Must yield awhile to this necessity. 
Remaining here, you may lose all": departing, 
You save the better part of what is left. 
To both of us, and to such loyal hearts 
As yet beat in these kingdoms. 

Sal. The time presses: 

Sar. Go, then. If e'er we meet again, perliaps 
I may be worthier of you — and, if not. 
Remember that my faults, though not atoned for, 
Are ended. Yet, t dread thy nature will 
Grieve more above the blighted name and ashes 

Which once were mightiest in Assyria — than 

But I grow womanish again, and must not ; 
I must learn sternness now. My sins have all 
Been of the softer order — hide thy tears — 
I do not bid thee not to shed them — 't were 
Easier to stop Euphrates at its source 
Than one tear of a true and tender heart- 
But let me not behold them ; they unman me 
Here when I had remann'd myself. My brother, 
Lead her away. 

Zar. Oh, God ! I never shall 

Behold him more ! 

Sal. (striving to conduct her). Nay, sister, I 7nust 
be obey'd. 

Zar. I must remain — away ! you shall not hold me. 
What, shall he die alone ?— /live alone ? 



Sal. He shall not die alone; but lonely you 
Have lived for years. 

Zar. That 's false ! I knew he lived. 

And lived upon his image— let me go ! 

Sal. (conducting her off the stage). Nay, then, I 
must use some fraternal force, 
Which you will pardon. 

Zar. Never. Help me ! Oh ! 

Sardanapalus, wilt thou thus behold me 
Torn from thee V 

Sal. Nay— then all is lost again, 

If tljat this moment is not gain'd. 

Zar. My brain turns— 

My eyes fail— where is he ? [She faints. 

Sar. (advancing). No — set her dow^n — 

She 's dead — and you have slain her. 

Sal. 'T is the mere 

Faintness of o'erwrought passion : in the air 
She will recover. Fray, keep back.— [vlside.] I must 
Avail myself of this sole moment to 
Bear her to where* her children are embarked, 
1' the royal galley on the river. [Salemenes bears her 

Sar. (solus). This, too— [off. 

And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang'! But that is false- 
She loved me, and I loved her.— Fatal passion I 
Why dost thou not expire at once in hearts 
Which thou hast lighted up at once ? Zarina ! 
I must pay dearly for the desolation 
Now brought upon thee. Had I never loved 
But thee, I should have been an unopposed 
Monarch of honoring nations. To what gulfs 
A single deviation from the track 
Of human duties leads even those who claim 
The homage of mankind as their born due, 
And find it, till they forfeit it themselves ! 

Enter Myrrha. 

Sar. You here ! Who call'd you ? 

Myr. No one— but I heard 

Far off a voice of wail and lamentation, 
And thought 

Sar. It forms no portion of your duties 

To enter here till sought for. 

Myr. Though I might, 

Perhaps, recall some softer words of yours 
( Although they too were chidmg) , which reproved me, 
Because I ever dreaded to intrude ; 
Resisting my own wish and your injunction 
To heed no time nor presence, but approach j'ou 
Uncall'd for :— I retire. 

Sar. Yet stay— being here. 

I pray j^ou pardon me : events have sour'd me 
Till I wax peevish— heed it not : I shall 
Soon be myself again. 

Myr. I wait with patience, 

What I shall see with pleasure. 

Sar. Scarce a moment 

Before your entrance in this hall, Zarina, 
Queen of Assyria, departed hence. 

3[yr. Ah! 

Sar. Wherefore do you start ? 

3fyr. Did I do so? 

Sar. 'Twas well you enter'd by another portal. 
Else you had met. That pang at least is spared her I 

3Iyr. I know to feel for her. 

Sar. That is too much, 

And beyond nature— 'tis not mutual 
Nor possible. You cannot pity her. 
Nor she aught but 

Myr. Despise the favorite slave ? 

Not more than I have ever scorn 'd myself. 

Sar. Scorn 'd ! what, to be the envy of your sex, 
And lord it o'er the heart of the world's lord ? 

Myr. Were you the lord of twice ten thousand 
worlds — 

215 



ACT IV. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



As you are like to lose the one you sway'd— 
I did abase myself as much in being 
Your paramour, as though you were a peasant- 
Nay, more, it' that the peasant were a Greek. 

Sar. You talk it well 

Miir. And truly. 

Sar. In the hour 

Of man's adversity all things grow daring 
Against the falling ; but as I am not 
Quite falPn, nor now disposed to bear reproaches, 
Perhaps because I merit them too often, 
Let us then part while peace is still between usj 

Mtir, Part ! 

Sar. Have not all past human beings parted, 
And must not all the present one day part ? 

Mqr. Why ? 

Sar. For your safety, which I will have look'd 
to. 
With a strong escort to your native land ; 
And such gifts, as, if you had not been all 
A queen, shall make your dowry worth a kingdom. 

Mqr. I pray you talk not thus. 

Sar. The queen is gone : 

You need not shame to follow. I would fall 
Alone — I seek no partners but in pleasure. 

Myr. And I no pleasure but in parting not. 
You shall not force me from you. 

Sar. Think well of it- 

It soon may be too late. 

Mijr. So let it be ; 

For "then you cannot separate me from you. 

Sar. Aud will not ; but I thought you wish'd it. 

Miir. 1 ! 

Sar. 'You spoke of your abasement. 

Myr. And I feel it 

Deeply— more deeply than all things but love. 

Sar. Then tly from it. 

Myr. 'T will not recall the past— 

'T will not restore my honor, nor my heart. 
No— here I stand or fall. If that you conquer, 
I live to joy in your great triumph : should 
Your lot be different, I'll not weep, but share it. 
You did not doubt me a few hours ago. 

Sar. Your courage never — nor your love till 
now ; 
And none could make me doubt it save yourself. 
Those words 

Myr. Were words. I pray you, let the proofs 
Be in the past acts you were pleased to praise 
This very night, and in my further bearing. 
Beside, wherever you are iDorne by fate. 

Sar. I am content ; and, trusting in my cause. 
Think we may yet be victors and return 
To peace— the only victory I covet. 
To me war is no glory— conquest no 
Renown. To be forced thus to uphold my right 
Sits heavier on my heart than all the wrongs 
These men would bow me down with. Never, 

never 
Can I forget this night, even should I live 
To add it to the memory of others. 
I thought to have made mine inoffensive rule 
An era of sweet peace 'midst bloody annals, 
A green spot amidst desert centuries. 
On which the future would turn back and smile. 
And cultivate, or sigh when it could not 
Recall Sardanapalus' golden reign. 
•I thought to liave made my realm a paradise. 
And every moon an epoch of new pleasures. 
I took the rabble's shouts for love— the breath 
Of friends for truth — the lips of woman for 
My only guerdon— so they are, my Myrrha : 

\He kisses her. 
Kiss me. Now let them take my realm and life ! 
They shall have both, but never thee ! 

Myr. No, never 

Man may despoil his brother man of all 
21G 



That's great or glittering — kingdoms fall— hosts 

yield — 
Friends tail— slaves fly — and all betray — and, more 
Than all, the most indebted- but a heart 
That loves without self-love! 'Tis here— now 

prove it. 

^nter Salemenes. 

Sal. I sought you — How I she here again V 

Sar. Return not 

Now to reproof : methinks your aspect speaks 
Of higher matter than a woman's presence. 

Sal. The only woman whom it much imports me 
At such a moment now is safe in absence— 
The queen 's embark'd. 

Sar. And well ? say that much. 

Sal. Yes. 

Her transient weakness has pass'd o'er ; at least, 
It settled into tearless silence : her 
Pale face and glittering eye, after a glance 
Upon her sleeping children, were still fix'd 
Upon the palace towers as the swift galley 
Stole down the hurrying stream beneath the star- 
light ; 
But she said nothing. 

Sar. Would I felt no more 

Than she has said ! 

Sal. 'T is now too late to feel. 

Your feelings cannot cancel a sole pang : 
To change them, my advices bring sure tidings 
That the rebellious Medes and Chaldees, marshall'd 
By their two leaders, are already up 
In arms again ; and, serrying their ranks. 
Prepare to attack : they have apparently 
Been joined by other satraps. 

Sar. What ! more rebels ? 

Let us be first,-then. 

Sal. That were hardly prudent 

Now, though it was our first intention. If 
By noon to-morrow we are join'd by those 
I 've sent for by sure messengers, we shall be 
In strength enough to venture an attack. 
Ay, and pursuit too : but till then, my voice 
Is to await the onset. 

Sar. I detest 

That waiting: though it seems so safe to fight 
Behind high walls, and hurl down foes into 
Deep fosses, or behold them sprawl on spikes 
Strew'd to receive them, still I like it not — 
My soul seems lukewarm; but when I set on 

them. 
Though they were piled on mountains, I would 

have 
A pluck at them, or perish in hot blood ! — 
Let me then charge ! 

Sal. You talk like a young soldier. 

Sar. I am no soldier, but a man : speak not 
Of soldiership, 1 loathe the word, and those 
Who pride themselves upon it ; but direct me 
Where I may pour upon them. 

Sal. You must spare 

To expose your life too hastily : 't is not 
Like mine or any other subject's breath ; 
The whole war t\irns upon it— with it ; this 
Alone creates it, kindles, and may quench it- 
Prolong it — end it. 

Sar. Then let us end both ! 

'T were better thus, perhaps, than prolong either; 
I 'm sick of one, perchance of both. 

[A trumpet sounds rcithout. 

Sal. Hark! 

Sar. Let us 

Reply, not listen. 

Sal. And your wound ! 

Sar. 'T is bound — 

'T is heal'd— I had forgotten it. Away ! 
A leech's lancet wouldjiave scratch'd me deeper; 



ACT V. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCEIS^E T. 



The slave that gave it might be well ashamed 
To have struck so weakly. 

Sal. ' Kow, may none this hour 

Strike with a better aim ! 

Sar. Ay, if we conquer ; 

But if not, they will only leave to me 



A task they might have spared their king. Upon 
them! 

[Trumjyet sounds again. 
Sal. I am with you. 

Sar. Ho, my arms ! again, my arms ! 

[Exeunt. 



J^CT V". 



SCENE I. — The same Hall in the Palace. 

Myrrha and Balea. 
Myr. {at a window). The day at last has broken. 
What a night 
Hath usher'd it ! How beautiful in heaven ! 
Though varied with a transitory storm, 
More beautiful in that variety ! 
How hideous upon earth ! where peace and hope. 
And love and revel, in an hour were trampled 
By human passions to a human chaos, 
I^ot yet resolved to separate elements.— 
T is warring still ! And can tlie sun so rise. 
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into 
"Vapors more lovely than the unclouded sky, 
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains. 
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making 
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth, 
So like we almost deem it permanent ; 
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught 
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently 
Scatter'd along the eternal vault : and yet 
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul. 
And blends itself into the soul, until 
Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch 
Of sorrow and of love; which they who mark not. 
Know not the realms where those twin genii 
(VV^ho chasten and who purify our hearts, 
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes 
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook 
The air with clamor) build the palaces 
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe . 
Briefly ; — but in that brief cool calm inhale 
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear 
The rest of common, heavy, human hours. 
And dream them through in placid sufferance ; 
Though seemingly employ 'd like all the rest 
Of toiling breathers in allotted tasks 
Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling. 
Which our internal, restless agony 
Would vary in the sound, although the sense 
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy. 

Bal. You muse right calmly: and can you so 
watch 
The sunrise which may be our last ? 

Myr. It is 

Therefore that I so watch it, and reproacli 
Tliose eyes, which never may behold it more. 
For having look'd upon it oft, too oft, 
Without tlie reverence and the rai)ture due 
To that whicli keeps all earth from being as fragile 
As I am in this form. Come, look upoii it. 
The Chaldee's god, which, when 1 gaze upon, 
I grow almost a convert to your Baal. 

Bal. As now he reigns in heaven, so once on earth 
He sway'd. 

Myr. He sways it now far more, then ; never 

Had earthly monarcli half the power and glory 
Which centres in a single ray of his. 

Bal. Surely he is a god ! 

Myr. So we Greeks deem too ; 

And yet I sometimes think that gorgeous orb 
Must rather be the abode of gods than one 
Of the immortal sovereigns. Kow he breaks 
Through all the clouds, and fills my eyes with light 
That shuts the world out. I can look no more. 



Bal. Hark ! heard you not a sound ? 

Myr. ^o, 'twas mere fancy; 

They battle it beyond the wall, and not 
As in late midnight conflict in the very 
Chambers : the palace has become a fortress 
Since that insidious hour ; and here, within 
Tlie very centre, girded by vast courts 
And regal halls of pyramid proportions, 
Which must be carried one by one before 
They penetrate to where they then arrived. 
We are as much shut in even from the sound 
Of peril as from glory. 

Bal. But they reach'd 

Thus far before. 

Myr. Yes, by surprise, and were 

Beat back by valor: now at once Ave have 
Courage and vigilance to guard us. 

Bal. May they 

Prosper ! 

Myr. That is the prayer of many, and 
Thedread of more : it is an anxious hour; 
I strive to keep it from my thoughts. Alas ! 
How vainly ! 

Bal. It is said the king's demeanor 

In the late action scarcely more appall'd 
The rebels than astonish 'd liis true subjects. 

3fyr. 'T is easy to astonish or appall 
The vulgar mass which moulds a horde of slaves ; 
But he did bravely. 

Bal. Slew he not Beleses ? 

I heard the soldiers say he struck him down. 

3fyr. The wretch was overthrown, but rescued to 
Triumph, perhaps, o'er one wlio vanquish 'd him 
In fight, as he had spared him in his peril; 
And by that heedless pity risk'd a crown. 

Bal. Hark! 

Myr. You are right: some steps approach, but 
slowly. 

Enter Soldiers^ hearing in Salemenes wounded^ wiih 
a broken Javelin in Jiis Side : they seat him vpon 
one of the Couches ivhich furnish the axjartment. 

Myr. Oh, Jove! 

Bal. Then all is over. 

Sal. That is false. 

Hew dowTi the slave who says so, if a soldier. 
Mijr. Spare him — ^he 's none : a mere court butter- 

■ fly. 

That flutters in the pageant of a monarch. 

Sal. Let him live on, then. 

Myr. So wilt thou , I trust. 

Sal. I fain would live this hour out, and the event, 
But doubt it. Wherefore did ye bear me liere ? 

Sol. By the king's order. When the javelin struck 
you. 
You fell and fainted : 't was his strict command 
To bear you to this hall. 

Sal. 'T was not ill done : 

For seeming slain in that cold dizzy trance, 
The sight might shake our soldiers — but — 't is vain, 
I feel it ebbing ! 

Myr. Let me see the wound ; 

I and not quite skilless : in my native land 
'T is part of our instruction. AVar being constant, 
We are nerved to look on such things. 
217 



ACT V. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCEI^E T. 



8nl. Best extract 

The javelin. 

Mifr. Hold ! no, no, it cannot be. 

Sal. I am spp<i, then ! 

Mfir. AVith the blood that fast must follow 

The extracted weapon, I do fear thy life. 

Sal. And I not death. Where was tlie king when 
you 
Convey'd me from the spot where I was stricken ? 

Sol. Upon tlie same ground, and encouraging 
Witli voice and gesture tlie dispirited troops 
Who had seen you fall, and falter 'd back. 

Sal. Whom heard ye 

Named next to the command ? 

Sol. I did not hear. 

Sal. Fly, then, and tell him, 'tw^as my last re- 
quest 
That Zames take my post until the junction, 
So hoped for, yet delay 'd, of Ofratanes, 
Satrap of Susa. Leave me here : our troops 
Are not so numerous as to spare your absence. 

Sol. But, prince 

Sal. Hence, I say ! Here 's a courtier and 

A woman, the best chamber company. 
As you would not permit me to expire 
Upon the field, I '11 have no idle soldiers 
About my sick couch. Hence ! and do my bidding ! 

[Exeunt the Soldiers. 

M'lr. Gallant and glorious spirit ! must the earth 
So soon resign thee ? 

Sal. Gentle Myrrli a, 'tis 

The end T would have chosen, had I saved 
The monarch or the monarchy by this ; 
As 'tis, I have not outlived them. 

M]ir. You wax paler. 

Sal. Your hand ; this broken weapon but prolongs 
My pangs, without sustaining life enough 
To make me useful : I would draw it forth. 
And my life with it, could I but hear how 
The figiit goes. 

Enter Sardanapalus and Soldiers. 

Sar. My best brother ! 

Sal. And the battle 

Is lost ? 

Sar. {despondingly). You see nie here. 

Sal. ' I 'd rather see you thn.'i I 

[He draws out the weapon from the wound., 
and dies. 

Sar. And thus 1 will be seen ; unless the succor, 
Tlie last frail reed of our beleaguer'd hopes, 
Arrive with Ofratanes. 

Mi./r. Did you not 

Receive a token from your dying brother, 
Appointing Zames chief ? 

Sar. 1 did. 

Mijr. Where 's Zames ? 

Sar. Dead. 

3[i/r. And Altada ? 

Snr. Dying. 

Mi/r. ' Pania ? Sfero V 

Sar. Pania yet lives : but Sfero 's fled, or captive. 
I am alone. 

Mi/r. And is all lost ? 

Sar. Our walls. 

Though thinly mann'd, may still hold out against 
Their present force, or aught save treachery : 
But i' the field 

Mijr. I thought 'twas the intent 

Of Salemenes not to risk a sally 
Till ye were strengthen'd by the expected succors. 

Sar. /overruled him. 

3f!/r. Well, the fault 's a brave one. 

Sar. But fatal. Oh, my brother ! I would give 
These realms, of which thou wert the ornament, 
The sword and shield, the sole redeeming honor. 

To call back But I will not weep for thee ; 

218 



Thou Shalt be moum'd for as thou wouldst be 

mourn 'd. 
It grieves me most that thou crouldst quit this life 
Believing that I could survive what thou 
Hast died for — our long royalty of race. 
If I redeem it, I will give thee blood 
Of thousands, tears of millions, for atonement 
(The tears of all the good are thine already). 
If not, we meet again soon, — if the spirit 
Within us lives beyond;— thou readest mine, 
And dost me justice now. Let me once clasp 
That yet warm hand, and fold that throbless heart. 

[Embraces the body. 
To this lyhich beats so bitterly. Now, bear 
The body hence. 

Soldier. Where ? 

Sar. To my proper chamber. 

Place it beneath my canopy, as though 
The king lay there : when this is done, we will 
Speak further of the rites due to such ashes. 

[Exeunt Soldiers with the body of Salemenes. 

Enter Pania. 

Sar. Well, Pania! have you placed the guards, 
and issued 
The orders fix'd on ? 

Pan. Sire, I have obey'd. 

Sar. And do the soldiers keep their hearts up ? 

Pan. Sire ? 

Sar. I 'm answer'd ! When a king asks twice, 
and has 
A question as an answer to his question. 
It is aportent. What ! they are dishearten'd ? 

Pan. The death of Salemenes, and the shouts 
Of the exulting rebels on his fall, 
Have made them 

Sar. Rage — not droop — it should have been. 
We '11 find the means to rouse them. 

Pan. Such a loss 

Might sadden even a victory. 

Sar. Alas ! 

Who can so feel it as I feel ? but yet. 
Though coop'd within these walls', they are strong, 

and w^e 
Have those without will break their way through 

hosts. 
To make their sovereign's dwelling what it was— 
A palace ; not a prison, nor a fortress. 

Enter a?i Officer, hastily. 

Snr. Thy face seems ominous. Speak ! 

Offi. I dare not. 

S'ar. Dare not ? 

While millions dare revolt with sword in hand I 
That 's strange. I pray thee break that loyal silence 
Which loathes to shock its sovereign ; we can hear 
Worse than thou hast to tell. 

Pan. Proceed, thou hearest. 

Offi. The wall which skirted near the river's brink 
Is thrown down by the sudden inundation 
Of the Euphrates, which now rolling, swoln 
From the enormous mountains where it rises, 
By the late rains of that tempestuous region, 
O'erfloods its banks, and hath destroy 'd the bul- 
wark. 

Pan. That 's a black augury ! it has been said 
For ages, " That the city ne'er should yield 
To man, until the river grew its foe." 

Sar. I can forgive the omen, not the ravage. . 
How much is swept down of the wall ? 

Offi. About 

Some twenty stadia.* 

Sar. And all this is left 

Pervious to the assailants ? 

Offi. For the present 



♦ About two miles and a half. 



ACT Y. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCETs^E T. 



The river's fnry must impede the assault ; 
But when he si i rinks into liis wonted channel, 
And may be cross 'd by the accustom 'd barks, 
The palace is their own. 

Sar. That shall be never. 

Though men, and gods, and elements, and omens. 
Have risen up 'gainst one who ne'er provoked them. 
My fathers' house shall never be a cave 
For wolves to horde and howl in. 

Pan. With your sanction, 

I will proceed to the spot, and take such measures 
Eor the assurance of the vacant space 
As time and means permit. 

Sar. About it straight, 

And bring me back, as speedily as full 
And fair investigation may permit, 
Keport of the true state of this irruption 
Of waters. [Exeunt Pania and the Officer. 

Myy. Thus the very waves rise up 

Against you. 

Sar. They are not my subjects, girl, 

And may be pardon'd, since they can't be pun- 
ish'd. 

Myr. I joy to see this portent shakes you not. 

Sar. I am past the fear of portents : they can tell 
me 
Xothing I have not told myself since midnight. 
Despair anticipates such things. 

Mijv. Despair ! 

Sar. No : not despair precisely. When we know 
All that can come, and how to meet it, our 
liesolves, if firm, may merit a more noble 
AVord than this to give it utterance. 
But what are w^ords to us ? w^e have well nigh done 
With them and all things. 

3/yr. Save one deed — ^the last 

And greatest to all mortals ; crowning act 
Of all that was— or is— or is to be — 
Tlie only thing common to all mankind, 
So different in their births, tongues, sexes, natures. 
Hues, features, climes, times, feelings, intellects, 
AVithout one point of union save in this. 
To which we tend, for which we 're born, and thread 
The labyrinth of mystery, call'd life. 

Sar. Onr clew being well nigh wound out, let 's 
be clieerful. 
They who have nothing more to fear may w^ell 
Indiilge a smile at that which once appall 'd; 
As children at discover'd bugbears. 

He-enter Pania. 

Pan. 'Tis 

As was reported : I have order'd there 
A double guard, withdrawing from the wall 
Where it was strongest the required addition. 
To w^atch the breach occasion 'd by tlie waters. 

Sar. You have done your duty faithfully, and as 
My worthy Pania ! further ties between us 
Draw near a close— I pray you take this key : 

[Gii'es a Tcey. 
It opens to a secret chamber, placed 
Behind the coucli in my own chamber. fXow 
Press'd by a nobler weight than e'er it bore- 
Though a long line of sovereigns have lain down 
Along its golden frame — as bearing for 
A time wliat late was Salemenes.) Search 
Tlie secret covert to wdiich this will lead you ; 
'T is full of treasure; * take it for yourself 
And your companions : there 's enough to load ye. 
Though ye be many. Let the slaves be freed, too ; 
And all the inmates of the palace, of 
Whatever sex, now quit it in an hour. 

* "Athena?us makes these treasures amount to a thou- 
sand myriads of talents of g-old, and ten times as manj' tal- 
ents of silver, which is a sum that exceeds all credibiiitj'. 
A man is lost if he attempts to sum up the whole value; 



Thence launch the regal barks, once form'd for 

pleasure, 
And now to serve for safety, and embark. 
The river 's broad and swohi, and uncommanded 
(More potent than a king) by these besiegers. 
Fly ! and be happy ! 

Pan. Under your protection ! 

So you accompany your faithful guard. 

Sar. No, Pania! that must not be ; get thee hence, 
And leave me to my fate. 

Pan. 'T is the first time 
I ever disobey 'd : but now 

Sar. So all men 

Dare beard me now, and Insoleiice within 
Apes Treason from without. Question no further ; 
'T is my command, my last command. Wilt thou 
Oppose it ? thou ! 

Pan. But yet— not yet. 

Sar. Well, then, 

Swear that you will obey when I shall give 
The signal. 

Pan. With a heavy but true heart, 

I promise. 

Sar. 'T is enough. Now order here 

Fagots, pine-nuts, and wither'd leaves, and such 
Things as catch fire and blaze with one sole spark ; 
Bring cedar, too, and precious drugs, and spices, 
And mighty planks, to nourish a tall pile ; 
Bring frankincense and myrrh, too, for it is 
For a great sacrifice I build the pyre I 
And heap them round yon throne. 

Pan. My lord ! 

Sar. 1 have said it, 

And you have sworn. 

Pan. And could keep my faith 

Without a vow. [Exit Pania. 

Myr, What mean you ? 

Sar. You shall know 

Anon — what the whole earth shall ne'er forget. 

Pania, returning with a Herald. 

Pan. My king, in going forth upon my duty, 
This herald has been brought before me, craving 
An audience. 

Sar. Let him speak. 

Her. The King Arbaces 

Sar. What, crown'd already '? — But, proceed. 

Her. Beleses, 

The anointed high-priest 

Sar. Of what god, or demon ? 

With new kings rise new^ altars. But, proceed : 
You are sent to prate your masters' will, and not 
Reply to mine. 

Her. And Satrap Ofratanes 

Sar. Why, he is ours. 

Her. {showing a ring). Be sure that he is now 
In the camp of the conquerors : behold 
His signet-ring. 

Sar. ' 'Tis his. A worthy triad ! 

Poor Salemenes ! thou hast died in time 
To see one treachery the less : this man 
Was thy true friend and my most trusted subject. 
Proceed. 

Her. They offer thee thy life, and freedom 
Of choice to single out a residence 
In any of the further provinces. 
Guarded and watch 'd, but not confined in person, 
Where thou shalt pass thy days in peace ; but on 
Co]]dition that the three young ininces are 
Given up as hostages. 

Sar. {ironically). 

Her. I w^ait tlie answer. 



which induces me to believe that Athenaeus must have 
very much exajrg-erated ; however, we may be assured, from 
his account, that the treasures were immensely great."— 

ROLLIN. 

219 



ACT V. 



SARDANAPALUS. 



SCENE I. 



Sar. Answer, slave ! How long 

Have slaves decided on the doom of kings ? 

Her. Since they were free. 

Sar. Mouthpiece of mutiny ! 

Thou at the least shalt learn the penalty 
Of treason, though its proxy only. Pania ! 
Let his head be thrown from our walls within 
The rebels' lines, his carcass down the river. 
Away with him ! 

[Pania and the Guards seizing him. 

Pan. I never yet obey'd 

Your orders with more pleasure than the present. 
Hence with him, soldiers ! do not soil this hall 
Of royalty with treasonable gore ; 
Put him to rest without. 

Her. A single word : 

My office, king, is sacred. 

Sar. And what 's ^nine ? 

That thou shouldst come and dare to ask of me 
To lay it down ? 

Her. I but obey'd my orders 

At the same peril, if refused, as now^ 
Incurr'd by my obedience. 

Sar. So there are 

New monarchs of an hour's growth as despotic 
As sovereigns swathed in purple, and enthroned 
From birth to manhood ! 

Her. My life waits your breath. 

Yours (I speak humbly)— but it may be— yours 
May also be in danger scarce less imminent : 
Would it then suit the last hours of a line 
Such as is that of Nimrod. to destroy 
A peaceful herald, unarm'd. in his oiffice ; 
And violate not only all that man 
Holds sacred between man and man— but that 
More holy tie which links us with the gods? 

Sar. He's right. — Let him go free.— My life's 
last act 
Shall not be one of wrath. Here, fellow, take 

[Gives liira a golden cup from a table near. 
This golden goblet, let it hold your wine, 
And think of me; or melt it into ingots, 
And think of nothing but their weight and value. 

Her. I thank you doubly for my life, and this 
Most gorgeous gift, which renders it more precious. 
But must I bear no answer V 

Sar. Yes, — I ask 

An hour's truce to consider. 

Her. But an hour's ? 

Sar. An hour's : if at the expiration of 
That time your masters hear no further from me, 
They are to deem that I reject their terms, 
And act befittingly. 

Her. " I shall not fail 

To be a faithful legate of your pleasure. 

Sar. And hark ! a word more. 

Her. I shall not forget it, 

Whate 'er it be. 

Sar. Commend me to Beleses; 

And tell him, ere a year expire, I summon 
Him hence to meet me. 

Her. Where ? 

Sar. At Babylon. 

At least from thence he will depart to meet me. 

Her. I shall obey you to the letter. [Exit Herald. 

Sar. " Pania ! — 

N^ow, my good Pania ! — quick — with what i order'd. 

Pan. My lord,— the soldiers are already charged. 
And, see ! they enter. 

[Soldiers enter., and. form a Pile about the 
Throne., etc. 

Sar. Higher, my good soldiers. 

And thicker yet ; and see that the foundation 
Be such as will not speedily exhaust 
Its o\\Ti too subtle flame; nor yet be quench 'd 
With aught officious aid would bring to quell it. 
Let the throne form the core of it ; I would not 
220 



Leave that, save fraught with fire unquenchable, 
To the new comers. Frame the whole as if 
'T were to enkindle the strong tower of our 
Inveterate enemies. Now it bears an aspect ! 
How say j^ou, Pania, will this pile suffice 
For a king's obsequies ? 

Pan. Ay, for a kingdom's. 

I understand you, now. 

Sar: And blame me ? 

Pan. :N'o— 

Let me but fire the pile, and share it with you. 

3fyr. That duty 's mine. 

Pan, A woman's! 

Myr. . 'T is the soldier's 

Part to die for his sovereign, and why not 
The woman's wath her lover? 

Pan . 'T is most strange ! 

Jylyr. But not so rare, my Pania, as thou think 'st 
it. 
In the mean time, live thou.— Farewell ! the pile 
Is ready. 

Pan. I should shame to leave my sovereign 
With but a single female to partake 
His death. 

Sar. Too many far have heralded 

]\Ie to the dust, already. Get thee hence ; 
Enrich thee. 

Pan. And live wretched! 

Sar. Think upon 

Thy vow : — 't is sacred and irrevocable. 

Pan. Since it is so, farewell. 

Sar. Search well my chamber, 

Feel no remorse at bearing off the gold ; 
Remember, what you leave you leave the slaves 
Who slew me : and v%'hen you have borne away 
All safe off to j-our boats, blow one long blast 
Upon the trumpet as you quit the palace. 
The river's brink is too remote, its stream ' 

Too loud at present to permit the echo 
To reach distinctly from its banks. Then fly, — 
And as you sail, turn back; but still keep on 
Your way along the Euphrates : if j-ou reach 
The land of Paphlagonia, where the queen 
Is safe with my three sons in Cotta's court, 
Say \^'hat you satD at parting, and request 
That she remember what I said at one 
Parting more mournful still. 

Pan. That royal hand ! 

Let me then once more press it to my lips ; 
And these poor soldiers who throng round you, and 
Would fain die with you I 

[The Soldiers and Pania throng round him, 
kissing his hand and the hem of his robe. 

Sar. My best ! my last friends ! 

Let 's not unman each other— part at once : 
All farewells should be sudden, when for ever, 
Else they make an eternity of moments. 
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears. 
Hence, and be happy: trust me, I am not 
Koto to be pitied; or far more for what 
Is past than present ; — for the future, 'tis 
In the hands of the deities, if such 
There be : I shall know soon. Farewell — Farewell. 
[Exeunt Pania and Soldiers. 

3fyr. These men were honest : it is comfort still 
That our last looks should be on loving faces. 

Sar. And lovely ones, my beautiful !— but hear me ! 
If at this moment,— for we now are on 
The brink, — thou feel'st an inward shrinking from 
This leap through flame into the future, say it : 
I shall not love thee less : nay, perhaps more, 
For yielding to thy nature ; and there 's time 
Yet for thee to escape hence. 

3fyr. Shall Ilight 

One of the torches which lie heap'd beneath 
The ever-burning lamp that burns without, 
Before Baal's shrine, in the adjoining hall? 



ACT V. 



SARDANAPALUS, 



SCENE I. 



Sar. Do so. Is that thy answer ? 

Myr. Thou shalt see. 

{^Exit Myrrha. 

Sar. (solus). She's firm. My fathers ! whom I 
will rejoin, 
It may be, purified by death from some 
Of the gross stains of too material being, 
I would not leave your ancient first abode 
To the defilement of usurping bondmen ; 
If I have not kept your inheritance 
As ye bequeath'd it, this bright part of it, 
Your treasure, your abode, your sacred relics 
Of arms and records, monuments and spoils. 
In which they would have revell'd, I bear with me 
To you in that absorbing element. 
Which most personifies the soul as leaving 
The least of matter unconsumed before 
Its fiery workings:— and the light of this 
Most royal of funereal pyres shall be 
Not a mere pillar form'd of cloud and flame, 
A beacon in the horizon for a day. 
And then a mount of ashes, but a light 
To lesson ages, rebel nations, and 
Voluptuous princes. Time shall quench full many 
A people's records, and a hero's acts ; 
Sweep empire after empire, like tliis first 
Of empires, into nothing ; but even then 
Sliall spare this deed of mine, and hold it up 
A problem few dare imitate, and none 
Despise — ^but, it may be, avoid the life 
Which led to such a consummation. 

Myrrha returns with a lighted Torch in one Hand., 
and a Cup in the other. 
Myr. Lo ! 

I 've lit the lamp which lights us to the stars. 
Sar. And the cup ? 

Myr. 'T is my country's custom to 

Make a libation to the gods. 

Sar. And mine 

To make libations amongst men. I 've not 
Forgot the custom ; and although alone, 
Will drain one drauglit in memory of many 
A joyous banquet past. 

[Sardanapalus takes the cuj)^ and after drink- 
ing and tinkling the reversed cup^ as a drop 
falls, exclaims — 

And this libation 
Is for the excellent Beleses. 

Myr. Why 

Dv>t11s thy mind rather upon that man's name 
Tiian on his mate's in villainy ? 

Sar. The one 

Is a mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind 
Of human sword in a friend's hand; the other 
Is master-mover of his warlike puppet : 
-But I dismiss them from my mind. — Yet pause, 



' My Myrrha ! dost thou truly follow me, 
Ereely and fearlessly Y 

3Iyr. And dost thou think 

A Greek girl dare not do for love, that which 
An Indian widow braves for custom ? 

Sar. Then 

We but await the signal. 

Myr. It is long 

In sounding. 

Sar. Now, farewell : one last embrace. 

Myr. Embrace, but not the last; there is one 
more. 

Sar. True, the commingling fire will mix our 
ashes. 

Myr. And pure as is my love to thee, shall they. 
Purged from the dross of earth, and earthly pas- 
sion. 
Mix pale with thine. A single thought yet irks me. 

Sar. Say it. 

3£yr. It is that no kind hand will gather 

The dust of both into one urn. 

Sar. The better : 

Rather let them be borne abroad upon 
The winds of heaven, and scatter'd into air. 
Than be polluted more by human hands 
Of slaves and traitors. In tliis blazing palace, 
And its enormous walls of reeking ruin, 
We leave a nobler monument than Egypt 
Hath piled in lier brick mountains, o'er dead kings, 
Or kine, for none know whetlier those proud piles 
Be for their monarch, or their ox-god Apis : 
So miuch for monuments that have forgotten 
Tlieir very record! 

3Iyr. Then farewell, thou earth ! 

And loveliest spot of earth ! farev/ell, Ionia ! 
Be thou still free and beautiful, and far 
Aloof from desolation ! My last prayer 
Was for thee, my last thoughts, save one, were of 
thee ! 

Sar. And that ? 

31 yr. Is yours. 

[The trumpet of Pania sounds vnthout. 

Sar. Hark ! 

3Tyr. Now I 

Sar. Adieu, Assyria ! 

I loved thee well, my own, my fathers' land. 
And better as niy country tlian my kingdom. 
I sated thee with peace and joys; and this 
Is my reward ! and now I owe thee nothing, ,. 
Kot even a grave. [He mounts the pile. 

Now, Myrrha ! 

Myr. Art thou ready ? 

Sar. As the torch in thy grasp. 

[Myrrha fires the pile. 

Myr. 'T is fired ! I come. 

[As Myrrha springs forward to throw herself 
into the flames, the Curtain falls. 




THE BANNERS OF ASSVRIA. 
IFrom the Monuments.] 



221 



THE TWO FOSCARI 



'The father softens, but the governor's resolved."— Critic. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



MEN. 
Francis Poscari, Doge of Venice. 
Jacopo Foscari, Son of the Doge. 
James Loredano, a Patrician. 
Marco Memmo, a Chief of the Forty. 
Barbarigo, a Senator. 



Other Senators, the Council of Ten, Guards, Attendants, 
etc., etc. 

WOMAN. 
Marina, Wife of young Foscari. 

SCENE. —TlieD ucal Pala ce, Ven ice. 



^CT I 



• • 



SCEISTB I.— A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo, meeting. 

Lor. Where is the prisoner ? 

Bar. Keposing from 

The Question. 

Lor. The hour 's past— fix'd j^esterday 

For the resumption of his trial.— Let us 
Rejoin our colleagues in the council, and 
Urge his recall. 

Bar. Nay, let him profit by 

A few brief minutes' for his tortured limbs ; 
He was o'erwrought by the Question yesterday, 
And may die under it if now repeated. 

Lor. Well? 

Bar. I yield not to you in love of justice, 

Or hate of the ambitious Foscari, 
Father and son, and all their noxious race ; 
But the poor ^^Tetch has suffer'd beyond nature's 
Most stoical endurance. 

Lor. Without owning 

His crime. 

Bar. Perhaps without committing any. 

But he avow'd the letter to the Duke 
Of Milan, and his sufferings half atone for 
Such weakness. 

Lor. We shall see. 

Bar. You, Loredano, 

Pursue hereditary hate too far. 

Lor. How far ? 

Bar. To extermination. 

Lor. Wlien they are 

Extinct, you may say this. — Let 's in to council. 

Bar. Yet pause — the number of our colleagues is 
not 
Complete yet ; two are wanting ere we can 
Proceed. 

Lor. And the chief judge, the Doge ? 

Bar. No— he, 

With more than Ptoman fortitude, is ever 

* " Begun June the 12th, completed July the 9th, Ravenna, 
1821.— Byron."— MS. An account of the incidents on which 
this play is founded, is given in the Appendix, Note 46. 
222 



First at the board in this unhappy process 
Against his last and only son. 

Lor. True— true — 

His last. 

Bar. Will nothing move you ? 

Lor. Feels he, think you V 

Bar. He shows it not. 

Lor. I have marked that — the wretch ! 

Bar. But yesterday, I liear, on his return 
To the ducal chambers, as he pass'd the threshold, 
The old man fainted. 



Lor. 



It besjins to work, then. 



Bar. The work is half your own. 

Lor. And should be all mine — 

My father and my uncle are no more. 

Bar. I have read their epitaph, which says they 
died 
By poison. t 

Lor. When the Doge declared that he 

Should never deem himself a sovereign till 
The death of Peter Loredano, both 
The brothers sicken 'd shortly :— he is sovereign. 

Bar. A wretched one. 

Lor. What should they be who make 

Orphans ? 

Bar. But did the Doge make you so ? 

Lor. Yes. 

Bar. What solid proofs ? 

Lor. When princes set themselves 

To work in secret, proofs and process are 
Alike made difficult ; but I have such 
Of the first, as shall make the second needless. 

Bar. But you will move by law ? 

Lor. By all the laws 

Which he would leave us. 

Bar. They are such in this 

Our state as render retribution easier 
Than -mongst remoter nations. Is it true 
That you have written in your books of commerce 
(The wealthy practice of our highest nobles). 



+ '■^Veneno sublattis." 
Elena. 



The tomb is in the church of Santa 



i 



ACT r. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



*' Do2;e Foscari, my debtor for the deaths 
Of Marco and Pietro Loredano, 
My sire and uncle " ? 

Lor. It is written thns. 

Bar. And will you leave it unerased ? 

Lor. Till balanced. 

Bar. And how ? 

[^Two Senators pass over the stage, as in their way 
to " the Hall of the Council of Ten.''"' 

Lor. You see the number is complete. 

Follow me. [Exit Loredano. 

Bar. [solus). Follow thee ! I have follow'd long 
Thy path of desolation, as the wave 
Sweeps after that before it, alike whelming 
The wreck that creaks to the wild winds, and wretch 
Who shrieks within its riven ribs, as gush 
The waters through them ; but this son and sire 
Might move the elements to pause, and yet 
Must I on hardily like them— Oh ! would 
I could as blindly and remorselessly ! — 
Lo, w^here he comes !— Be still, my heart ! tliey are 
Thy foes, must be thy victims : wilt thou beat 
For those who almost broke thee ? 

Miter Guards^ with young Foscari as prisoner, etc. 

Guard. Let him rest. 

Signor, take time. 

Jac. Fos. I thank thee, friend, I 'm feeble : 

But thou mayst stand reproved. 

Guard. I '11 stand the hazard. 

Jac. Fos. That 's kind :— I meet some pity, but no 
mercy ; 
This is the first. 

Guard. And might be last, did they 

Who rule behold us. 

Bar. {advancing to the Guard). There is one who 
does : 
Yet fear not ; I will neither be thy judge 
Nor thy accuser : though the hour is past, 

Wait tlieir last summons 1 am of " the Ten," 

And waiting for that summons, sanction you 
Even by my presence : when the last call sounds. 
We '11 in together. — Look well to the prisoner ! 

Jac. Fos. What voice is that ? — 'T is Barbarigo 's ! 
Ah! 
Our house's foe, and one of my few judges. 

Bar. To balance such a foe, if such there be, 
Thy father sits amongst thy judges. 

Jac. Fos. ' True, 

He judges. 

Bar. Then deem not the laws too harsh 
Which yield so much indulgence to a sire 
As to allow his voice in such high matter 
As the state's safety 

Jac. Fos. And his son's. I'm faint; 

Let me approach, I pray you, for a breath 
Of air, yon window which o'erlooks the waters. 

Miter an Officer., who whispers Barbarigo. 

Bar. [to the Guard). Let him approach. I must 
not speak with him 
Further than thus : I have transgress'd my duty 
In this brief parley, and must now redeem it 
Within the Council Chamber. [Exit Barbarigo. 
[Guard conducting Jacopo Foscari to the window. 

Guard. There, sir, 't is 

Open— how feel you ? 

Jac. Fos. Like a boy— Oh, Venice ! 

Guard. And your limbs ? 

Jac. Fos. Limbs ! how often have they borne me 
Bounding o'er yon blue tide, as I have skimm'd 
The gondola along in childish race, 
And, masqued as a young gondolier, amidst 
My gay competitors", noble as I, 
Raced for our pleasure, in the pride of strength ; 
Wiiile the fair populace of crowding beauties. 
Plebeian as patrician, cheer'd us on 



With dazzling smiles, and wishes audible, 
And waving kerchiefs, and applauding hands, 
Even to the goal ! How many a time have I 
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring, 
The wave all roughen 'd ; with a swimmer's stroke 
Flinging the billows back from my drench 'd hair, 
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, 
Which kiss'd it like a wine-cup, rising o'er 
The waves as they arose, and prouder still 
The loftier they uplifted me ; and oft. 
In wantonness of spirit, plunging down 
Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making 
My way to shells and sea-weed, all unseen 
By those above, till they wax'd fearful; then 
Returning with my grasp full of such tokens 
As show'd that I had search 'd the deep : exulting, 
With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep 
The long-suspended breath, again I spurn 'd 
The foam which broke around me, and pursued 
My track like a sea-bird.— I was a boy then. 

Guard. Be a man now : there never was more need 
Of manhood's strength. 

Jac. Fos. [looking from the lattice). My beautiful, 
my own, 
My only Venice — this is breath ! Thy breeze, 
Thine Adrian sea-breeze, how it fans my face! 
Thy very winds feel native to my veins, 
And cool them into calmness ! How unlike 
The hot gales of the horrid Cyclades, 
Which howl'd about my Candiote dungeon, and 
Made my heart sick ! 

Guard. I see the color comes 

Back to your cheek : Heaven send you strength to 

bear 
What more may be imposed ! — I dread to think on 't. 

Jac. Fos. They will not banish me again? — ^o — no. 
Let them wring on ; I am strong yet. 

Guard. Confess, 

And the rack will be spared you. 

Jac. Fos. I confess'd 

Once— twice before : both times they exiled m.e. 

Guard. And the third time will slay you. 

Jac. Fos. Let them do so. 

So I be buried in my birthplace : better 
Be ashes here than aught that lives elsewhere. 

Guard. And can you so much love the soil which 
hates you ? 

Jac. Fos. TUe soil ! — Oh no, it is the seed of the soil 
Which persecutes me ; but my native earth 
Will take me as a mother to her arms. 
I ask no more than a Venetian grave, 
A dungeon, what they will, so it be here. 

Enter an Officer. 

Offi.. Bring in the prisoner ! 

Guard. Signor, you hear the order. 

Jac. Fos. Ay, I am used to such a summons : 'tis 
The third time they have tortured me ;— then lend 

me 
Thine arm. [To the Guard. 

Offi. Take mine, sir ; 'tis my duty to 

Be nearest to your person. 

Jac. Fos. You !— you are he 

Who yesterday presided o'er my pangs — 
Away 1-1 '11 walk alone. 

Offi. As you please, signor ; 

The sentence was not of my signing, but 
I dared not disobey the council when 
They 

Jac. Fos. Bade thee stretch me on their horrid 
engine. 
I pray thee touch me not — ^that is, just now ; 
The time will come they will renew that order, 
But keep off from me till 'tis issued. As 
I look upon thy hands, my curdling limbs 
Quiver with the anticipated wrenching, 

And the cold drops strain through my brow, as if 

223 



ACT I. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE T. 



But onward— I liave borne it— I can bear it. — 
How looks my father V 

Offi.. With his wonted aspect. 

Jac. Fos. So does the earth, and sky, the blue of 
ocean, 
The brightness of our city, and her domes, 
The mirth of her Piazza, even now 
Its merry hum of nations pierces here. 
Even here, into these chambers of the unknown 
AV ho govern, and the unknown and the unnumbered 
Judged and destroyed in silence, — all things wear 
The self-same aspect, to my very sire! 
Nothing can sympvathize with Foscari, 
Not even a Eoscari. — Sir, I attend you. 

[Exeunt Jacopo Foscari^ Officer, etc. 

Miter Memmo and another Senalor. 

Mem. He's gone — we are too late :— think 3^ou 
"the Ten" 
Will sit for any length of time to-day ? 

Sen. They say the prisoner is most obdurate, 
Persisting in liis first avowal ; but 
More I know not. 

Mem. And that is mucli ; the secrets 

Of yon terrific chamber are as iiividen 
From us, the premier nobles of the state. 
As from the people. 

Se7i. Save the wonted rumors, 

Wliich— like the tales of spectres, that are rife 
Near ruin'd bnildings— never liave been proved, 
Nor wholly disbelieved: loen know as little 
Of the state's real acts as of the grave's 
Unfathom'd mysteries. 

31cm. But with length of time 

We gain a step in knowledge, and I look 
Forward to be one day of the decemvirs. 

Sen. Or Doge? 

Mem. Why, no ; not if I can avoid it. 

Sen. 'T is the first station of the state, and may 
Be lawfully desired, and lawfully 
Attain 'd by noble aspirants. 

Mem. To such 

I leave it ; though born noble, my ambition 
Is limited : I "d rather be an unit 
Of an united and imperial '' Ten," 
Tluin shine a lonely, though a gilded cipher. — 
Wliom have we here ? the wife of Eoscari ? 

Enter Marina, icith a female Attendant. 
Mar. What, no one ? — I am wrong, there still are 
two ; 
But they are senators. 

Mem. Most noble lady. 

Command us. 

3Iar. I command! — Alas! my life 

Has been one long entreaty, and a vain one. 
3Iem. I understand thee!^ but I must not answer. 
JIar. {fierceJij). True — none dare answer here 
save on the rack. 

Or question save those 

Mem. {interriqjting her). High-born dame!* be- 
think thee 
Where thou now art. 

Mar. Wliere I now^ am !— It was 

My husband's father's palace. 
'Mem. The Duke's palace. 

Mar. And his son's, prison !— True, I have not 
forgot it ; 
And if there were no other nearer, bitterer 
Remembrances, would thank the illustrious Memmo 
F'or pointing out the pleasures of the place. 



* She was a Contarini— 

"A daughter of the house that now among 
Its ancestors in monumental brass 
Numbers eight doges."— Rogers. 
On the occasion of. her marriage with the younger Foscari, 
224 



Mem. Be calm I 

3far. [looking up totoards heaven). I am ; but oh, 
thou eternal God ! 
Canst thou continue so, with such a world ? 

3£em. Thy husband yet may be absolved. 

Mar. He is, 

In heaven. I pray you, signor senator. 
Speak not of that; you are a man of office, 
So is the Doge ; he has a soii at stake 
Now, at this moment, and I have a husband, 
Or had ; they are there within, or were at least 
An hour since, face to face, as judge and culprit : 
Will he condemn himf 

Mem. I trust not. 

3Iar. But if 

He does not, there are those will sentence both. 

3Iem. They can. 

3Inr. And with them power and will are one 
In wickedness : — my husband 's lost ! 

3fe7n. Not so ; 

Justice is judge in Venice. 

3iar. If it w^re so. 

There now would be no Venice. But let it 
Live on, so the good die not, till the hour 
Of nature's summons ; but " the Ten's " is quicker, 
And we must wait on 't. Ah ! a voice of wail ! 

[A faint cry within. 

Sen. Hark! 

Mem. 'T was a cry of — 

3[ar. No, no; not my husband's — 

Not Foscari's. 

3fem. The voice was — 

3iar. Not his : no. 

He shriek! No ; that should be his father's part. 
Not his— not his — he '11 die in silence. 

[A faint groan again within. 

3fem. AVhal ! 

Again ? 

3Iar. His voice ! it seem'd so : I will not 
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease 
To love; but — no — no — ^no— it must have been 
A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him. 

Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs, 
v>'ouldst thou 
Have him bear more than mortal pain in silence ? 

3Iar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not 
Left barren the great house of Foscari, 
Though they sweep both the Doge and son from 

life ; 
I have endured as much in giving life 
To those who will succeed them, as they can 
In leaving it : but mine were joyful pangs: 
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek 'd. 
But did not ; for my hope w^as to bring forth 
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. 

Mem. All 's silent now\ 

3Iar. Perhaps all 's over; but 

I will not deem it : he hath nerved himself, 
And now defies them. 

Enter an Officer hastily. 

Mem. How now, friend, what seek you ? 

Offi. A leech. Tiie prisoner has fainted. 

[Exit Officer. 

3Iem. Lady, 

'T were better to retire. 

Sen. [offering to assist her). I pray thee do so. 

3Iar. Off! /will tend him. 

3fem. You ! Remember, lady ! 

Ingress is given to none within those chambers. 
Except " the Ten," and their familiars. 



the Bucentaur came out in its splendor; and a bridge of 
boats was thrown across the Canal Grande for the bride- 
groom, and his retinue of three hundred horse. According 
to Sanuto, the tournaments in the place of St. Mark lasted 
three days, and were attended by thirty thousand people. 



ACT T. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Mar. Well 

I know that none who enter there return 
As they have enter'd— nianj^ never; but 
Tliey shall not balk my entrance. 

Mem. Alas! this 

]s but to expose yourself to harsh repulse, 
And worse suspense. 

Mar. Who shall oppose me ? 

Mem, They 

Whose duty 'tis to do so. 

Mar. 'T is their duty 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing ! Yet t '11 pass. 

Mem. It is impossible. 

Mar. That shall be tried. 

Despair defies even despotism : there is 
That in my heart would make its way through hosts 
With leveil'd spears ; and think you a few jailers 
Shall put me from my path ? Give me, then, way ; 
This is the Doge's palace ; I am wife 
Of the Duke's son, the innocent Duke's son. 
And they shall hear this ! 

Mem . It will only serve 

More to exasperate his judges. 

Mar. What 

Are judges who give way to anger r they 
Who do so are assassins. Give me way. 

[Exit Marina. 

Sen. Poor lady! 

3fem. 'T is mere desperation : she 

Will not be admitted o'er the threshold. 

Sen. And 

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband. 
But, see, the officer returns. 

[The Officer passes over the stage vcith another 
person. 

Mem. I hardly 

Thought that " the Ten " had even this touch of pity, 
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer. 

Sen. Pity ! Is 't pity to recall to feeling 
The wretch too happy to escape to death 
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last 
Kesource against the tjTanny of pain ? 

Mem. I marvel they condemn himx not at once. 

Sen. That 's not their policy : they 'd have him live, 
Because he fears not death ; and banish him, 
Because all earth, except his native land. 
To him is one wide prison, and each breath 
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison, 
Consuming but not killing. 

Mem. Circumstance 

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not. 

Sen. jSTone, save tlie Letter, which he says was 
written, 
Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge 
That it would fall into the senate's hands. 
And thus he should be reconveyed to Venice. 

Mem. But as a culprit. 

Sen. Yes, but to his country ; 

And that was all he sought.— so he avouclies. 

Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved. 

Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide 
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession 
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late 
Chief of "the Ten."* 

Mem. Then why not clear him ? 



*The extraordinary sentence pronounced ag-ainst him, still 
existing- among the archives of Venice, runs thus :— " Giacopo 
Foscari, accused of the murder of Hermolao Donato, has been 
arrested and examined ; and from the testimony, evidence, 
and documents exhibited, it distinctly appears that he is g-uilty 
of the aforesaid crime ; nevertheless, on account of his obsti- 
nacy, and of enchantments and spells in his possession, of which 
there are manifest proofs, it has not been possible to extract 
15 



Sen. That 

They ought to answer ; for it is well known 
Thai Almoro Donato, as I said. 
Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance. 
Mem. There must be more in this strange process 
than 
The apparent crimes of the accused disclose — 
But here come two of " the Ten; " let us retire. 

[Exeunt Memmo and Senator. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. [addressing Lor.). That were too much : be- 
lieve me, 't was not meet 
The trial should go further at this moment. 

Lor. And so the council must break up, and Jus- 
tice 
Pause in her full career, because a woman 
Breaks in on our deliberations ? 

Bar. No, 

That 's not the cause ; you saw the prisoner's state. 

Lor. And had he not recover'd? 

Bar. ' To relapse 

Upon the least renewal. 

Lor. 'T was not tried. 

Bur. 'T is vain to murmur ; the majority 
In council were against you. 

Lor. Thanks to you, sir, 

And the old ducal dotard, who combined 
The worthy voices which o 'erruled my own. 

Bar. 1 am a judge ; but must confess that part 
Of our stern duty, v/hich prescribes the Question, 
And bids us sit and see its sharp infliction. 
Makes me wish 

Lor. What ? 

Bar. That you would sometimes feel, 

As I do always. 

Lor. Go to, you 're a child, 

Infirm of feeling as of purpose, blown 
About by every breath, shook by a sigh, 
And melted by a tear — a precious judge 
For Venice ! and a worthy statesman to 
Be partner in my policy ! 

Bar. ' He shed 

No tears. 

Lor. He cried out twice. 

Bar. A saint had done so, 

Even with the crowm of glory in his eye. 
At such inhuman artifice of pain 
As was forced on him ; but he did not cry 
Eor pity ; not a word nor groan escaped him. 
And those two shrieks were not in supplication. 
But wrung from pangs, and follow 'd by no prayers. 

Xo?\ He mutter'd many times between his teeth, 
But inarticulately. 

Bar. That I heard not ; 

You stood more near him. 

Lor. I did so. 

Bar. Methought, 

To m.y surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy, 
And wTre the first to call out for assistance 
When he was failing. 

Lor. I believed that swoon 

His last. 

Bar. And have I not oft heard thee name 
His and his father's death your nearest wish ? 

Lor. If he dies innocent, that is to say. 
With his guilt unavow'd, he '11 be lamented. 

Bar. What, wouldst thou' slay his memory ? 



from him the truth, which is clear from parole and written 
evidence ; for while he was on the cord, he uttered neither 
word nor groan, but onl}' murmured something to himself 
indistinctly and under his breath ; therefore, as the honor of 
the state requires, he is condemned to a more distant banish- 
ment in Candia." Will it be credited that a distinct proof 
of his innocence, obtained bj' the discovery of the real assas- 
sin, wroug-ht no change in his unjust and cruel sentence? 
225 



ACT II. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Lor. Won Id st tb o u h ave 

llis state descend to his children, as it must, 
If he die unattainted ? 

Bar. War with them too ? 

Lor. With all their house, till theirs or mine are 
nothing. 

Bar. And the deep agonj^ of his pale wife, 
And tlie repressed convulsion of the \\\^\\ 
And princely brow of his old father, \vhich 
"Broke forthin a slight shuddering, though rarely, 
Or in some clammy drops, soon wiped away 
In stern serenity ; "these moved you not ? 

\_ExH Loredano. 
He 's silent in his hate, as Foscari 
Was in his suffering ; and the poor wretch moved me 
More by his silence than a thousand outcries 
Could liave effected. 'T was a dreadful sight 
When his distracted wife broke throua-h into 



The hall of our tribunal, and beheld 

AVhat we could scarcely look upon, long used 

To such sights. I must think no more of this, 

Lest I forget in this compassion for 

Our foes, their former injuries, and lose 

The hold of vengeance Loredano plans 

For him and me ; but mine would be content 

With lesser retribution tlian he thirsts for, 

And I would mitigate his deeper hatred 

To milder thoughts ; but for the present, Foscari 

Has a short hourly respite, granted at 

The instance of the eiders of the council, 

Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in 

The hall, and his own sulf erings. — Lo ! they come : 

How feeble and forlorn ! I cannot bear 

To look on them again in this extremity : 

I '11 hence, and try to soften Loredano. 

[_Exit Barharigo. 



ACT II, 



SCENE l.—A Hall in the Bone's Balace. 

The Doge and a Senator. 

Sen. Is it your pleasure to sign the report 
Now, or postpone it till to-morrow ? 

Boge. Now ; 

I overlooked it yesterday : it wants 
Merely the signature. Give me the pen— 

[The Boge sits down and signs the paper. 
There, signor. 

Sen. {looking at the paper). You have forgot ; it is 
not sign'd. 

Boge. Not sign'd? Ah, I perceive my eyes be- 
gin 
To wax more weak wdth age. I did not see 
That I had dipp'd the pen w^ithout effect. 

Sen. [dipping the pen into the ink and placing the 
paper before the Boge. ) Your hand, too^ shakes, 
my lord : allow me, thus — 

Boge. 'T is done, I thank you. 

Sen. Thus the act confirm 'd 

By you and by " the Ten " gives peace to Venice. 

Boge. 'T is long since she enjoy 'd it : may it be 
As long ere she resume her arms ! 

Sen. 'T is almost 

Thirty-four years of nearly ceaseless warfare 
With the Turk, or the powers of Italy; 
The state had need of some repose. 

Boge. " No doubt : 

I found her Queen of Ocean, and I leave her 
Lady of Lombardy : it is a comfort 
That I have added to her diadem 
The gems of Brescia and Ravenna : Crema 
And Bergamo no less are hers ; her realm 
By land has grown by thus much in my reign, 
While her sea-sway has not shrunk. 

Sen. 'T is most true. 

And merits all our country's gratitude. 

Boge. Perhaps so. 

Sen. AVhich should be made manifest. 

Boge. 1 have not complain 'd, sir. 

Sen. My good lord, forgive me. 

Boge. For what ? 

Sen. My heart bleeds for you. 

Boge. For me, signor? 

Sen. And for your 

Boge. Stop ! 

Sen. It must liave way, my lord: 

I have too many duties tov/ards you 
And all your house, for past and present kindness, 
Not to feel deeply for your son. 

Boge. Was this 

In your commission ? 

2-26 



Sen. What, my lord ? 

Boge. Tills prattle 

Of things you know not : but the treaty 's sign'd : 
Return with it to them who sent you. 

Sen. ' 1 

Obey. I had in charge, too, from the council. 
That you would fix an hour for their reunion. 
Boge. Say, when they will— now, even at this 
moment, 
If it so jilease them : I am the state's servant. 
Sen. They would accord some tim.e for your re- 
pose. 
Boge. I have no repose ; that is, none which shall 
cause 
The loss of an hour's time unto the state. 
Let them meet when they will, I shall be found 
Where I should be, and what I have been ever. 

[Exit Senator. 
[Tlie Boge remains in silence. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. Prince! 
Boge. Say on. 

Att. The illustrious lady Foscari 

Requests an audience. 

Boge. Bid her enter. Poor 

Marina ! [Exit Attendant. 

[Tlie Boge remains in silence as before. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
Your privacy. 

Boge. 1 have none from you, m.y child. 

Command my time, when not commanded by 
The state. 

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 

Boge. Your husband? 

3far. ' And your son. 

Boge. Proceed, my daughter ! 

3Idr. I had obtain 'd permission from " the Ten " 
To attend my husband for a limited number 
Of hours. 

Boge. You had so. 

Mar. 'T is revoked. . 

Boge. By whom ? 

3Iar. " The Ten."— When we had reach 'd '* the 
Bridge of Sighs," 
Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
Hemurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
'' The Ten ; " but as the court no longer sate. 
And no permission had been given in writing, 
I was thrust back, with the assurance that 



ACT IL 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Until that high tribunal reassembled, 
The dungeon walls must still divide us. 

Doge. True, 

Tlie form has been omitted in the haste 
With which the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
'T is dubious. 

3Iar. Till it meets ! and when it meets. 

They '11 torture him again ; and he and I 
Must purchase, by renewal of the rack, 
Tlie interview of husband and of wife, 
The holiest tie beneath the heavens I— Oh, God ! 
Dost thou see this ? 

Doge, Child— child 

Mar. {abruptly). Call me not " child ! " 

You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
You, who can talk thus calmly of a sou 
In circumstances which would call forth tears 
Of blood from Spartans I Though these did not weep 
Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
That they beheld them perisli piecemeal, nor 
Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 

Doge. You behold me : 

I cannot weep — T would I could ; but if 
Each white hair on tliis head were a young life, 
This ducal cap the diadem of earth. 
Tins ducal ring with whicli I wed the waves 
A talisman to still them — I 'd give all 
For him. 

3Iar. With less he surely nnght be saved. 

Doge. That answer only shows you know not 
Venice. 
Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself. 
In all her mystery.*^ Hear me— they who aim 
At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
They work by different means to the same end. 
And that is but they have not conquer 'd yet. 

3{ar. But they have crush 'd. 

Doge. Nor crush 'd as yet — I live. 

Mar. And your son— hov/ long v^^ill he live ? 

Doge. I trust. 

For all that yet is past, as many years 
And happier than his father. The rash boy. 
With womanish impatience to return. 
Hath xuin'd all by that detected letter : 
A high crime, which I neither can deny 
Xor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
Had he but borne a little, little longer 

His Candiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 

them— 
He must return. 

Mar. To exile ? 

Doge. I have snid it. 

3Iar. And can I not go with him V 

Doge. You well know 

This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
Will be accorded to a third request. 
Since aggravated errors on the part 
Of your lord renders them still more aufstere. 

Mar. Austere? Atrocious! The old human 
fiends. 
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange 
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white 
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads 
As palsied as their hearts are liard. they counsel. 
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life 
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish 'd 
In their accursed bosoms. 

Doge. You know not 

Mar. I do — I do — and so should you, methinks — 
That these are demons : could it be else that 
Men, who have been of women born and suckled — 
Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love— have 

given 
Their hands in sacred vows— have danced their 
babes 



Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn 'd above 

them — 
In pain, in peril, or in death — who are, 
Or were at least in seeming, human, could 
Do as they have done by yom's, and you yourself — 
You^ w^ho abet them ? 

Doge. I forgive this, for 

You know not what you say. 

Mar. You know it well, 

And feel it nothing. 

Doge. I have borne so much, 

That words have ceased to shake me. 

Mar. Oh, no doubt ! 

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh 

shook not : 
And, after that, what are a woman's words ? 
Xo more than woman's tears, that they should shake 
you. 

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I 
tell thee. 
Is no more in the balance weigh 'd with that 
Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina ! 

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me ; 
Pity thy son ! Thou pity !— 't is a word 
Strange to thy heart— how came it on thy lips ? 

Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they 
A;\Tong me. 
Couldst thou but read 

Mar. 'T is not upon thy brow, 

Xor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, — where then 
Should I behold this sympathy ? or shall ? 

Doge {pointing downwards). There. 

Mar. In the earth ? 

Doge. To which I am tending : when 

It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though 
Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it 
i^ow, you will know me better. 

Mar. Are you, then, 

Indeed, thus to be pitied ? 

Doge. Pitied! None 

Shall* ever use that base word, with which men 
Cloak their soul's hoarded triumph, as a fit one 
To mingle witli my name ; that name shall be, 
As far as /have borne it, what it was 
When I received it. 

Mar. But for the poor children 

Of him thou canst not, or thou wilt not save. 
You vrere the last to bear it. 

Doge. Would it were so! 

Better for him he never had been born ; 
Better for me. — I have seen our house dishonor'd. 

Mar. That 's false ! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
More loving, or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. I would not change 
My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband, 
Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush 'd, overwhelm'd. 
Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin 
In story or in fable, with a world 
To back his suit. Dishonor'd ! — he dishonor'd ! 
I tell thee. Doge, 't is Venice is dishonor'd I 
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach, 
For what he suffers, not for what he did. 
'T is ye who are all traitors, tyrant ! — ye ! 
Did you but love your country like this victim 
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and 
Submits to all things rather than to exile. 
You 'd fling yourselves before him, and implore 
His grace for your enormous guilt. 

Doge. He was 

Indeed all you have said. I better bore 
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me, 
Than Jacopo's disgrace. 

Mar. That word again ? -■: 

Doge. Has he not been condemn 'd ? 

Mar. Is none but guilt so ? 

Doge. Time may restore his memory — I would 
hope so. 

227 



ACT IT. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



He was my pride, my but 't is useless now— 

I am not given to tears, but wept for joy 
When he was born : tliose drops were ominous. 

Mar. I say he 's innocent I And were he not so, 
Is our own blood and kin to shrink from us 
In fatal moments ? 

Bocje. I shrank not from him : 

But i have other duties than a father's ; 
The state would not dispense me from those duties; 
Twice I demanded it. but was refused: 
They must then be fuhiird. 

Enter an Attendant. 

Att. A message from 

"The Ten." 

Doge. Who bears it ? 

Att. Noble Loredano. 

Doge. He !— but admit him. [Exit Attendant. 

3far. Must I then retire ? 

Doge. Perhaps it is not requisite, if this 

Concerns your luisband, and if not W^ell, signor, 

Your pleasure ! [To Loredano., entering. 

Lor. I bear that of '' the Ten." 

Doge. They 

Have chosen w^ell their envoy. 

Lor. 'T is their choice 

Which leads me here. 

Doge. It does their wisdom honor, 

And no less to their courtesy.— Proceed. 

Lor. We have decided. 

Doge. We ? 

Lor. " The Ten " in council. 

Doge. What! have they met again, and met 
" \vithout 
Apprising me ? 

Lor. They wish'd to spare your feelings, 

N'o less than age. 

Doge. That 's new — when spared they either ? 
I thank them, notwithstanding. 

Lor. " You know well 

That they have power to act at their discretion, 
With or without the presence of the Doge. 

Doge. 'T is some years since I learn 'd this, long 
before 
I became Doge, or dream 'd of such advancement. 
You need not school me, signor: I sate in 
That council when you were a young patrician. 

Lor. True, in my father's time ; I have heard him 
and 
The admiral, his brother, say as much. 
Your highness may remember them ; theyl^oth 
Died suddenly. 

Doge. And if they did so. better 

So die than live on lingeringly in pain. 

Lor. No doubt : yet most men like to live their 
days out. 

Doge. And did not they ? 

Lor. The grave knows best : they died, 

As I said, suddenly. 

Doge. Is that so strange, 

That you repeat the word emphatically ? 

Lor. So far from strange, that never was there 
death 
In my mind half so natural as theirs. 
Think you not so ? 

Doge. What should I think of mortals ? 

Lor. That they have mortal foes. 

Doge. I understand you ; 

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things. 

Lor. You best know if I should be so. 

Doge. I do. 

Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard 
Foul rumors were abroad : I have also read 
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths 
To poison. 'T is perhaps as true as most 
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less 
A fable. 

228 



Lor. ^Yho dares say so ? 

Doge. I! 'T is true 

Your fathers Avere mine enemies, as bitter 
As their son e'er can be, and I no less 
Was theirs ; but I was openly their foe : 
I never work'd by plot in council, nor 
Cabal in co mm. on wealth, nor secret means 
Of practice against life by steel or drug. 
The proof is, your existence. 

Lor. I fear not. 

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am ; but 
were I 
That you would have me thought, you long ere 

now 
Were>. past the sense of fear. Hate on ; I care not. 

Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life 
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown, 
That is, by open means. 

Doge. But I, good signor, 

Am, or at least was, more than a mere duke. 
In blood, in mind, in means ; and that they know 
Who dreaded to elect me, and have since 
Striven all they dare to weigh me down : be sure, 
Before or since that period, had I held you 
At so much price as to require your absence, 
A word of mine had set such spirits to work 
As would liave made you nothing. But in all things 
I have observed the strictest reverence ; 
Not for the laws alone, for those you have strain'd 
(I do not speak of yon but as a single 
Voice of the many") som.ewhat beyond what 
I could enforce for my authority. 
Were I disposed to brawl ; but, as I said, 
I have observed with veneration, like 
A priest's for the high altar, even unto 
The sacrifice of my own blood and quiet, 
Safety, and all save honor, the decrees. 
The health, the pride, and welfare of the state. 
And now, sir, to your business. 

Lor. 'T is decreed, 

That, without further repetition of 
The Question, or continuance of the trial. 
Which only tends to show how stubborn guilt is 
(" The Ten," dispensing with the stricter law 
Which still prescribes the Question till a full 
Confession, and the prisoner partly having 
Avow'd his crime in not denying that 
The letter to the Duke of Milan 's his), 
James Foscari return to banishment. 
And sail in the same galley which. convey 'd him. 

3Iar. Thank God ! At least tliey will not drag 
him more 
Before that horrid tribunal. W^ould he 
But think so, to my mind the happiest doom, 
Not he alone, but all who dv.ell here, could 
Desire, were to escape from such a land. 

Doge. That is not a Venetian thought, my 
daughter. 

Mar. No, 'twas too human. May I share his 
exile . 

Lor. Of this " the Ten " said nothing. 

Mar. So I thought I 

Tliat were too human, also. But it was not 
Inhibited? 

Lor. It was not named. 

3far. {to the Doge). Then, father, 

Surely you can obtain or grant me thus much : 

[To Loredano, 
And you, sir, not oppose my prayer to be 
Permitted to accompany my husband. 

Doge. I will endeavor. 

Mar. And you, signor ? 

Lor. ' Lady ! 

'Tis not for me to anticipate the pleasure - 
Of the tribunal. 

Mar. Pleasure ! what a word 
To use for the decrees of 



ACT IT. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Boqe. Daufifhter. know you 

In what a presence you pronounce these things ? 

Mm\ A prince's and his subject's. 

Lor, Subject ! 

Mar. Oh ! 

It galls you : — well, you are his equal, as 
You think ; but that you are not, nor would be, 
Were he a peasant : — well, then, you 're a prince, 
A princely noble ; and what then am I ? 

Lor. The offspring of a noble house. 

Mar. And wedded 

To one as noble. What, or whose, then, is 
The presence that should silence my free thoughts ? 

Lor. The presence of your husband's judges. 

Doge. And 

The deference due even to the lightest word 
Tliat falls from those who rule in Venice. 

Mar. Keep 

Those maxims for your mass of scared meclianics. 
Your merchants, your Dalmatian and Greek slaves, 
Your tributaries, your dumb citizens, 
And mask'd nobility, your sbjrri, and 
Your spies, your galley and your other slaves. 
To whom your midnight carryings off and drown- 
ings. 
Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
The water's level ; your mysterious meetings. 
And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
Your " Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, 

and 
Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem. 
The beings of another and worse world ! 
Keep such for them : I fear ye not. I know ye : 
Have known and proved your worst, in the infernal 
Process of my poor husband ! Treat me as 
Ye treated him : — you did so, in so dealing 
With him. Then what have I to fear/ro77i you, 
Even if I were of fearful nature, which 
I trust I am not '? 

Doge. You hear, she speaks wildly. 

Mar, Not wisely, yet not wildly. 

Lor. Lady! words 

Utter'd within tliese walls I bear no further 
Tlian to the tlireshold, saving such as pass 
Between the Duke and me on the state's service. 
Doge ! have you aught in answer ? 

Doge. Something from 

The Doge ; it may be also from a parent. 

Lor. My mission here is to the Doge. 

Doge. ' Then say 

Tlie Doge will choose his o-wn ambassador. 
Or state in person what is meet ; and for 
The father 

Lor. I remember 777 f Tie.— Farewell ! 

I kiss the hands of the illustrious lady. 
And bow me to the Duke. [Exit Loredano. 

Mar. Are you content V 

Doge, I am what you behold. 

Mar. And that 's a mysterv. 

Doge. All things are so to mortals ; who can read 
them 
Save he who made ? or, if they can, the few 
And gifted spirits, wlio have studied long 
That loathsome volume— man, and pored upon 
Those black and bloody leaves, his heart and brain. 
But learn a magic which recoils upon 
The adept who pursues it ; all the sins 
We find in others, nature made our own ; 
All our advantages are those of fortune ; 
Birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents, 
And when we cry out against Fate, 'twere well 
We should remember Fortune can take nought 
Save what she gave — the rest was nakedness. 
And lusts, and appetites, and vanities. 
The universal heritage, to battle 
With as we may, and least in humblest stations, 
Where hunger swallows all in one low want, 



And the original ordinance, that man 
Must sweat for his poor pittance, keeps all passions 
Aloof, save fear of famine ! All is low, 
And false, and hollow— clay from first to last, 
The prince's urn no less than potter's vessel. 
Our fame is in men's breath, our lives upon 
Less than their breath ; our durance upon days, 
Our days on seasons ; our whole being on 
Something which is not us!— So, Ave are slaves. 
The greatest as the meanest— nothing rests 
Upon our will ; the will itself no less 
Depends upon a straw than on a storm ; 
And when we think we lead, we are most led, 
And still towards death, a thing which comes as 

much 
Without our act or choice as birth, so that 
Methinks we must have sinn'd in some old world, 
And this is hell : the best is, that it is not 
Eternal. 

3Iar. These are things we cannot judge 
On earth. 

Doge. And how then shall we judge each other, 
Who are all earth, and I, who am call'd upon 
To judge my son ? I have administer 'd 
My country faithfidly — victoriously — 
I dare them to the proof, the chart of what 
She was and is : my reign has doubled realms 
And, in reward, the gratitude of Venice 
Has left, or is about to leave, 7ne single. 

Mar. And Foscari? I do not think of such things, 
So I be left with him. 

Doge. You shall be so : 

Thus much they cannot well deny. 

Mar. And if 

They should, I will fly with him. 

Doge. That can ne'er be. 

And whither would you fly ? 

Jyfur. I know not, reck not— 

To SjTia, Egypt, to the Ottoman — 
Any where, where we might respire unfetter 'd, 
And live nor girt by spies, nor liable 
To edicts of inquisitors of state. 

Doge. What, wouldst thou have a renegade for 
husband. 
And turn him into traitor ? 

Mar. He is none ! 

The country is the traitress, which thrusts forth 
Her best arid bravest from her. Tyranny 
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem 
Xone rebels except subjects ? The prince who 
Neglects or violates his trust is more 
A brigand than the robber-chief. 

Doge. I cannot 

Charge me with such a breach of faith. 

Mar. No; thou 

Observ'st, obey'st such laws as make old Draco's 
A code of mercy by comparison. 

Doge. 1 found the law ; I did not make it. Were I 
A subject, still I might find parts and portions 
Fit for amendment ; but as prince, I never 
Would change, for the sake of my house, the charter 
Left by our fathers. 

Mar. Did they make it for 

The ruin of their children ? 

Doge. Under such lav»'s, Venice 

Has risen to what she is — a state to rival 
In deeds, and days, and sway, and, let me add, 
In glory (for we have had Roman spirits 
Amongst us), all that history has bequeath 'd 
Of Eome and Carthage in their best times, when 
The people sway'd by senates. 

3Iar. Rather say, 

Groan 'd under the stern oligarchs. 

Doge. Perhaps so ; 

But yet subdued the world : in such a state 
An individual, be he richest of 
Such rank as is permitted, or the meanest, 
229 



ACT III. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Without a name, is alike nothing, when 

The policy, irrevocably tending 

To one great end, must be maintain'd in vigor. 

Mar. This means that you are more a Doge than 
father. 

Doge. It means, I am more citizen than either. 
If we had not for many centuries 
Had thousands of such citizens, and shall, 
I trust, have still sucli, Venice were no city. 

Mar. Accursed be the city where the laws 
Would stifle nature's ! 

Doge. Had I as many sons 

As I have years, I would have given them all, 
Not without feeling, but I would have given them 
To the state's service, to fulfill her. wishes 
On the flood, in the field, or, if it must be, 
As it, alas ! has been, to ostracism. 
Exile, or chains, or whatsoever worse 
She might decree. 



Mar. And this is patriotism ? 

To me it seems the worst barbarity. 
Let me seek out my husband : the sage " Ten," 
With all its jealousy, will hardly war 
So far with a weak woman as deny me 
A moment's access to his dungeon. 

Doge. I '11 

So far take on myself, as order that 
You may be admitted. 

Mar. And what shall I say 

To Foscari from his father ? 

Doge. Tliat he obey 

Tlie laws. 

Mar. And nothing more ? Will you not see him 
Ere he depart ? It may be the last time. 

Doge. The last!— my boy!— the last time I shall 
see 
My last of children ! Tell him I will come. 

[Exeunt. 



^CT ITT. 



SCENE I. — The Prison 0/ Jacopo Foscari. 

Jac. Fos. (sohis). No light, save yon faint gleam, 
which shows me walls 
Which never echo'd but to sorrow's sounds, 
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step 
Of feet on which the iron clank'd, the groan 
Of death, the imprecation of despair! 
And yet for this T have return'd to Yenice, 
With some faint hope, 'tis true, that time, which 

wears 
The marble down, had worn away the hate 
Of men's hearts ; but I knew them not, and here 
Must I consume my own, which never beat 
For Venice but with such a yearning as 
The dove has for her distant nest, when wheeling 
High in the air on her return to greet 
Her callow brood. What letters are these which 

[Approaching the ivall. 
Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall V^ 
Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the names 
Of my sad predecessors in this place. 
The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
A grief too great for many. This stone page 
Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
His own and his beloved's name. Alas ! 
I recognize some names familiar to me. 
And blighted like to mine, which I will add. 
Fittest for such a chronicle as this. 
Which only can be read, as writ, by ^\Tetches. 

[He engraves his name. 

Enter a Familiar of " the Ten.''"' 
Fam. I bring you food. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you set it do^^la. ; 

I am past hunger: but my lips are parch 'd— 
The water ! 
Fam. There. 

Jac. Fos. {after drinking). I thank you: I am 

better. 
Fam. I am commanded to inform you that 
Your further trial is postponed. 
Jac. Fos. Till when ? 

Fam. I know not. — It is also in my orders 
That your illustrious lady be admitted. 
Jac. Fos. Ah! they relent, then,— 1 had ceased to 
hope it : 
'T was time. ^ 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My best beloved ! 

230 



Jac. Fos. {emhracing her). My true wife, 

And only friend ! What happiness f 

Mar. We '11 part 

No more. 

Jac. Fos. How ! wouldst thou share a dungeon ? 

Mar. Ay, 

The rack, the grave, all— anything with thee, 
But the tomb last of all, for there we shall 
Be ignorant of each other, yet I will 
Share that— all things except new separation ; 
It is too much to have survived the first. 
Hov/ dost thou ? How are those worn limbs ? Alas ! 
AYhy do I ask ? Thy paleness 

Jac. Fos. 'T is the joy 

Of seeing thee again so soon, and so 
Without expectancy, has sent the blood 
Back to my heart, and left my cheeks like thine, 
For thou art pale too, my Marina ! 

31 ar. 'Tis 

The gloom of this eternal cell, which never 
Knew sunbeam, and the sallow sullen glare 
Of tlie familiar's torch, Avhich seems akin 
To darkness more than light, by lending to 
The dungeon vapors its bituminous smoke. 
Which cloud whate'er we gaze on, even thine eyes- 
No, not thine eyes -they sparkle— how they si)arkle ! 

Jac. Fos. And thine !— but I am blinded by the 
torch. 

3£ar. As I had been without it. Couldst thou 
see here ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing at first ; but use and time had 
taught me 
Familiarity with what was darkness ; 
And the gray twilight of such glimmerings as 
Glide through the crevices made by tlie winds 
Was kinderl;o mine eyes than the full sun. 
When gorgeously o'ergilding any towers 
Save those of Venice : but a moment ere 
Thou camest hither I was busy writing. 

3far. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My name: look, 'tis there— recorded 
next 
The name of him who here preceded me, 
If dungeon dates say true. 

31ar. And what of him ? 

Jac. Fos. These walls are silent of men's ends ; 
they only 
Seem to liint shrewdly of them. Such stern walls 
Were never piled on high save o'er the dead. 
Or those who soon must be so. — What of him ? 
Thou askest.— What of me ? may soon "be ask'd. 
With the like answer — doubt and dreadful surmise — 
Unless thou tell'st my tale. 



ACT III. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Mar. I speak of thee ! - 

Jae. Fos. And wherefore not? All then shall 
speak of me : 
The tyranny of silence is not lasting, 
And, though events be hidden, just men's groans 
Will burst all cerement, even a living grave's I 
I do not doubt my memory, but my life ; 
And neither do I fear. 

Mar, Thy life is safe. 

Jac. Fos. And liberty ? 

Mar. Tlie mind should make its own. 

Jac. Fos. That has a noble sound; but 'tis a 
sound, 
A music most impressive, but too transient : 
The mind is much, but is not all. The mind 
Hath nerved me to endure the risk of death, 
And torture positive, far worse than death 
(If death be a deep sleep), without a groan, 
Or with a cry which rather shamed my judges 
Than me ; but 'tis not all, for there are things 
More woeful — such as this small dungeon, where 
I may breathe many years. 

Mar. Alas ! and this 

Small dungeon is all that belongs to tliee 
Of this wide realm, of which thy sire is prince. 

Jac. Fos. That thought would scarcely aid me to 
endure it. 
My doom is common ; many are in dungeons. 
But none like mine, so near their father's palace ; 
But then my heart is sometimes high, and hope 
Will stream along those moted rays of light 
Peopled with dusty atoms, which afford 
Our only day: for, save the gaoler's torch, 
And a strange fire-fly, wliich was quickly caught 
Last night in yon enormous spider's net, 
I ne'er saw aught here like a ray. Alas ! 
I know if mind may bear us up, or no. 
For I have such, and shown it before men ; 
It sinks in solitude : my soul is social. 

Mar. I will be with thee. 

Jac. Fos. Ah ! if it were so ! 

But that they never granted— nor will grant. 
And I shall be alone: no men— no books — 
Those lying likenesses of lying men. 
I ask'd for even those outlines of their kind, 
Which they term annals, history, what you will, 
Which men bequeath as portraits, and they were 
Refused me,— so these walls have been my study, 
More faithful pictures of Venetian story. 
With all their blank, or dismal stains, than is 
The Hall not far from hence, which bears on high 
Hundreds of doges, and their deeds and dates. 

Mar. I come to tell thee the result of their 
Last council on thy doom. 

Jac. Fos. I know it— look ! 

[He points to his limbs, as referring to the 
Question which he had undergone. 

Mar. No— no— no more of that : even they relent 
From that atrocity. 

Jac. Fos. What then ? 

Mar. That you 

Return to Candia. 

Jac. Fos. Then my last hope 's gone. 

I could endure my dungeon, for 'twas Venice ; 
I could support the torture, there was something 
In my native air that buoy'd my spirits up 
Like a ship on the ocean toss'd by storms, 
But proudly still bestriding the high waves. 
And holding on its course ; but there, afar. 
In that accursed isle of slaves, and captives, 
And unbelievers, like a stranded wreck. 
My very soul seem'd mouldering in my bosom. 
And piecemeal I shall perish, if remanded. 

Mar. And here f 

Jac. Fos. At once— by better means, as briefer. 
What ! would they even deny me my sires' sepulchre, 
As well as home and heritage ? 



Mar. My husband! 

I have sued to accompany thee hence. 
And not so hopelessly. This love of thine 
For an ungrateful and tyrannic soil 
Is passion, and not patriotism ; for me, 
So I could see thee with a quiet aspect. 
And the sweet freedom of the earth and air, 
I would not cavil about climes or regions. 
This crowd of palaces and prisons is not 
A paradise ; its first inhabitants 
Were wretched exiles. 

Jac. Fos. Well I know how wretched ! 

3Iar. And yet you see how, from their banish- 
ment 
Before the Tartar into these salt isles, 
Their antique energy of mind, all that 
Remain 'd of Rome for their inheritance, 
Created by degrees an ocean-Rome ; 
And shall an evil, which so often leads 
To good, depress thee thus ? 

Jac. Fos. Had I gone forth 

From my own land, like the old patriarchs, seeking 
Another region, with their flocks and herds ; 
Had I been cast out like the Jews from Zion, 
Or like our fathers, driven by Attila 
From fertile Italy, to barren islets, 
I would have given some tears to my late country, 
And many thoughts ; but afterwards address 'd 
Myself, with those about me, to create 
A new home and fresh state : perhaps I could 
Have borne this — though I know not. 

Mar. Wherefore not ? 

It was the lot of millions, and must be 
The fate of myriads more. 

Jac. Fos. Ay— we but hear 

Of the survivors' toil in their new lands. 
Their numbers and success ; but who can number 
The hearts which broke in silence at tliat parting^ 
Or after their departure ; of that malady * 
Which calls up green and native fields to view 
From the rougli deep, with such identity 
To the poor exile's fever'd eye, that he 
Can scarcely be restrain 'd from treading them ? 
That melody, which out of tones and tunes 
Collects such pasture for the longing sorrow 
Of the sad mountaineer, when far away 
From his snov/ canopy of cliffs and clouds, 
That he feeds on the sweet, but poisonous thought, 
And dies. You call this weakness ! It is strength; 
I say, — tlie parent of all honest feeling. 
He who loves not his country, can love nothing. 

Mar. Obey her, then : 't is she that puts thee fort h . 

Jac. Fos. Ay, tliere it is : 't is like a mother's curse' 
Upon my soul — the mark is set upon me. 
The exiles you speak of went forth by nations, 
Their hands upheld each other by the way. 
Their tents were pitcli'd together — I 'm alone. 

Mar. You shall be so no more— I will go with thee. 

Jac. Fos. My best Marina !— and our children ? 

Mar. ' They, 

I fear, by tlie prevention of the state's 
Abhorrent policy (which holds all ties 
As threads, wliich may be broken at her pleasure), 
Will not be suffer 'd to proceed- with us. 

Jac. Fos. And canst thou leave them ? 

Mar. Yes. With many a pang. 

But— I can leave them, children as they are, 
To teach you to be less a cliild. From this 
Learn you to sway your feelings, when exacted 
By duties paramount ; and 'tis our first 
On earth to bear. 

Jac. Fos. Have I not borne ? 

Mar. Too much 

From tyrannous injustice, and enough 



* The calenture.- 
climates. 



-A distemper peculiar to sailors in hot 
231 



ACT IIT. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



To teacli you not to slirink now from a lot, 
AVhich, as compared with wiiat you have undergone 
Of late, is mercy. 

Jac. Fos. All ! you never yet 

Were far away from Venice, never saw 
Her beautiful towers in the receding distance, 
While every furrow of the vessel's track 
Seem VI plougliing deep into your heart ; you never 
Saw day go down upon your native spires 
So calmly with its gold and crimson glory, 
And after dreaming a disturbed vision 
Of them and theirs, awoke and found them not. 

3far. I will divide this with you. Let us think 
Of our departure from tliis much-loved city 
(Since 3'ou must love it, as it seems), and this 
Chamber of state, her gratitude allots you. 
Our children will be cared for by the Doge, 
And by my uncles : we must sail ere night. 

Jac. Fos. That 's sudden. Shall I not behold my 
father ? 

Mm\ You \vill. 

Jac. Ids. Where ? 

Mcu\ Here, or in the ducal chamber- 

He said not which. I would that you could bear 
Your exile as he bears it. 

Jac. Fos. Blame him not. 

I sometimes murmur for a moment ; but 
He could not now act otherwise, A show 
Of feeling or compassion on his part 
Would have but drawn upon his aged head 
Suspicion from '' the Ten," and upon mine 
Accumulated ills. 

Mar. Accumulated ! 

What pangs are those they have spared you ? 

Jac. Fos. That of leaving 

Venice without beholding him or you, 
Which might have been forbidden now, as 't was 
Upon my former exile. 

Mar. That is true. 

And thus far I am also the state's debtor. 
And shall be more so when I see us both 
Floatiiig on the free waves— away — awaj^— 
Be it to the earth's end, from this abhorr'd. 
Unjust, and 

Jac. Fos. Curse it not. If I am silent. 

Who dares accuse my country ? 

Mar. . Men and angels! 

The blood of myriads reeking up to heaven. 
The groans of slaves in chains, and men in dun- 
geons, 
Mothers, and wdves.and sons, and sires, and subjects, 
Held in the bondage of ten bald-heads ; and 
Though last, not least, thy silence. Couldst thou say 
Aught in its favor, who would praise like thee ? 

Jac. Fos. Let us address us then, since so it must 
be. 
To our departure. Who comes here ? 

Enter Loredano, attended hy Familiars. 

Lor. {to the Familiars). Retire, 

But leave the torch. [Exeunt the two Familiars. 

Jac. Fos. Most welcome, noble signer. 

I did not deem this poor place could have drawn 
Such presence hither. 

Lor. 'T is not the first time 

I have visited these places. 

Mar. Nor would be 

The last, were all men's merits well rewarded. 
Came you here to insult us, or remain 
As spy upon us, or as hostage for us V 

Lor. Neither are of my office, noble lady ! 
I am sent hither to your husband, to 
Announce " the Ten's " decree. 

Mar. That tenderness 

Has been anticipated : it is known. 

Lor. As how V 

Mar. I have inform 'd him, not so gently, 

232 



Doubtless, as your nice feelings would prescribe, 
The indulgence of your colleagues : but he knew it. 
If you come for our thanks, take them, and hence ! 
The dungeon gloom is deep enough witliout you, 
And full of reptiles, not less loathsome, though 
Their sting is honester. 

Jac. Fos. I pray you, calm you. 

What can avail such words y 

Mar. To let him know 

That he is known. 

Lor. Let the fair dame preserve 

Her sex's privilege. 

Mar. I have some sons, sir. 

Will one day thank you better. 

Lor. You do Avell 

To nurse them wisely. Foscari— you know 
Your sentence, then ? 

Jac. Fos. Return to Candia? 

Lor. True— 

For life. 

Jac. Fos. Not long. 

Lor. I said— for life. 

Jac. Fos. " And I 

Repeat— not long. 

Lor. A year's imprisonment 

In Canea— afterwards the freedom of 
The whole isle. 

Jac. Fos. Both the same to me : the after 

Freedom as is the first imprisonment. 
Is 't true my wife accompanies me ? 

Lor. Yes, 

If she so wills it. 

Mar. Who obtain'd that justice ? 

Lor. One v/ho wars not with women. 

Mar. But oppresses 

Men : howsoever, let him have my thanks 
For the only boon I would have aisk'd or taken 
From him or such as he is. 

Lor. He receives them 

As they are offer'd. 

3far. May they thrive with him 

So much ! — no more. 

Jac. Fos. Is this, sir, your whole mission ? 

Because we have brief time for preparation. 
And you perceive your presence doth disquiet 
This lady, of a house noble as yours. 

Mar. Nobler! 

Lor. How nobler ? 

Mar. As more generous ! 

We say the "generous steed " to express the purity 
Of his high blood. Thusmuch I 've learnt, although 
Venetian (who see few steeds save of bronze). 
From those Venetians who have skimm'dthe coasts 
Of Egypt and her neighbor Araby : 
And why not say as soon tlie " generous man " f 
If race be ought, it is in qualities 
More than in years ; and mine, which is as old 
As yours, is better in its product, nay — 
Look not so stern — but get you back, and pore 
Upon your genealogic tree's most green 
Of leaves and most mature of fruits, and there 
Blush to find ancestors, who would have blush 'd 
For such a son — thou cold inveterate hater I 

Jac. Fos. Again, Marina! 

3Iar. Again ! still, Marina. 

See you not, he comes here to glut his hate 
With a last look upon our misery ? 
Let him paiiake it ! 

Jac. Fos. That were difficult. 

Mar. Nothing more easy. He partakes it now— 
Ay, he may veil beneath a marble brow 
And sneering lip the pang, but he partakes it. 
A few brief words of truth shame the devil's 

servants 
No less than master ; I have probed his soul 
A moment, as the eternal tire, ere long, 
Will reach it always. See how he shrinks from me ! 



ACT III. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



With death, and chains, and exile in his hand, 
To scatter o'er his kind as he thinks fit : 
They are his weapons, not liis armor, for 
I have pierced him to the core of his cold heart. 
I care not for his frowns ! We can but die, 
And he but live, for him the very worst 
Of destinies : each day secures him more 
His tempter's. 

Jac. Fos. This is mere insanity. 

Mar. It may be so ; aiid u:lw hath made us mad? 

Lor. Let her go on ; it irks not me. 

Mar. That 's false ! 

You came here to enjoy a heartless triumph 
Of cold looks upon manifold .o^riefs ! You came 
To be sued to in vain — to mark our tears, 
And hoard our groans— to gaze upon the wreck 
Which you have made a prince's son— my ]nisband ; 
In short, to trample on the fallen — an office 
The hangman shrinks from, as all men from him ! 
IIow have you sped ? AVe are wretched, signor, as 
Your plots "could make, and vengeance could desire 

us, 
And how/eeZ you ? 

Lor. As rocks. 

Mar. By thunder blasted : 

They feel not, but no less are shiver'd. Come, 
Foscari ; now let us go, and leave this felon. 
The sole fit habitant of such a cell. 
Which lie has peopled often, but ne'er fitly 
Till he himself shall brood in it alone. 

Enter the Doge. 

Jac. Fos. My father ! 

Doge (embracing him). Jacopo ! my son — my son! 

Jac- Fos. My father still ! How long it is since I 
Have heard tliee name my name— owr name ! 

Doge. My boy ! 

Couldst thou but know 

Jac. Fos. 1 rarely, sir, have murmur'd. 

Doge. I feel too much thou hast not. 

Mar. Doge! look there! 

[She points to Loredano. 

Doge. I see the man— what mean'st thou ? 

Mar. Caution. 

Lor. Being 

The virtue which this noble lady most 
May practice, she doth well to recommend it. 

Mar. Wretch ! 't is no virtue, but the policy 
Of those who fain must deal perforce with vice : 
As such I recommend it, as I would 
To one whose foot was on an adder's path. 

Doge. Daughter, it is superfluous ; I have long 
Known Loredano. 

Lor. You may know him better. 

Mar. Yes ; worse he could not. 

Jac. Fos. Father, let not these 

Our parting hours be lost in listening to 
Reproaches, which boot nothing. Is it — is it. 
Indeed, our last of meetings ? 

Doge. You behold 

These white hairs ! 

Jac. Fos. And I feel, besides, that mine 

Will never be so white. Embrace me, father ! 
I loved you ever — never more than now. 
Look to my children— to your last child's chil- 
dren : 
Let them be all to you which he was once, 
And never be to you what I am now. 
May I not see them also ? 

Mar. Xo— not here. 

Jac. Fos. They might behold their parent any- 
where. 

Mar. I would that they beheld their father in 
A place which would not mingle fear with love. 
To freeze their young blood in its nntural current. 
They have fed vvell, slept soft, and knew not that 
Their sire was a mere hunted outlaw. Well 



I know his fate may one day be their heritage ; 

But let it only be their heritage. 

And not their present fee. Their senses, though 

Alive to love, are yet awake to terror ; 

And these vile damps, too, and yon thiclc green 

wave 
Which floats above the place where we now stand— 
A cell so far below the water's level, 
Sending its pestilence througli every crevice. 
Might strike them : this is not their atmosphere, 
However you— and you— and, most of all, 
As w^orthiest — you, sir, noble Loredano ! 
May breathe it without prejudice. 

Jac. Fos. I have not 

Eeflected upon tliis, but acquiesce. 
I shall depart, then, without meeting them ? 

Doge. Kot so : they shall await you in my cham- 
ber. 

Jac. Fos. And must I leave them— all? 

Lor. You must. 

Jac. Fos. ^ ^N'ot one ? 

Lor. They are the state's. 

Mar. I thought they had been mine. 

Lor. They are, in all maternal things. 

3far. That is. 

In all things painful. If they 're sick, they wiU 
Be left to me to tend them ; should they die, 
To me to bury and to mourn ; but if 
They live, they '11 make you soldiers, senators. 
Slaves, exiles— what you will ; or if tliey are 
Females with portions, brides and bribes for nobles I 
Behold tlie state's care for its sons and mothers ! 

Lor. Tlie hour approaches, and the wind is fair. 

Jac. Fos. How know you that here, where the 
genial wind 
Xe'er blows in all its blustering freedom ? 

Lor. 'T was so 

When I came here. The galley floats within 
A bow-shot of the " Riva di Schiavoni." 

Jac. Fos. Father ! 1 pray you to precede me, and 
Prepare my children to behold their father. 

Doge. Be firm, my son ! 

Jac. Fos. I will do my endeavor. 

Jfar. Farewell! at least to this detested dun- 
geon. 
And liim to whose good offices you owe 
In part your past imprisonment. 

Lor. And present 

Liberation. 

Doge. He speaks truth. 

Jac. Fos. iSTo doubt ! but 't is 

Exchange of chains for heavier chains I owe liim. 
He knows this, or he had not sought to change 

them. 
But I reproach not. 

Lor. The time narrows, signor. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! I little thought so lingeringly 
To leave abodes like this : but when I feel 
That every step I take, even from this cell. 
Is one away from Venice, I look back 
Even on these dull damp walls and • 

Doge. Boy ! no tears. 

Mar. Let them flow on : he wept not on the rack 
To shame him, and they cannot shame him now. 
They will relieve his heart — that too kmd heart — 
And I will find an hour to wipe away 
Those tears, or add my own. I could weep now, 
But would not gratify "yon wretch so far. 
Let us proceed. Doge, lead the way. 

Lor. [to the Familiar). The torch, there ! 

3Iar. Yes, light us on, as to a funeral pyre. 
With Loredano mourning like an heir. 

Doge. My son, you are feeble ; take this hand. 

Jac. Fos. Alas ! 

Must youth support itself on age, and I 
WJio ought be the prop of yours ? 

Lor. Take mine. 

•233 



ACT IV. 



THE TWO FOSOARL 



SCENE r. 



. Mar. Touch it not, Foscari; 'twill sting you. 

Signor, 
Stand off 1 be sure, that if a grasp of yours 
Would raise us from the gulf wherein we are plunged , 



Nor hand of ours would stretch itself to meet it. 
Come, Foscari, take the liand the altar gave you ; 
It could not save, but Avill support you ever. 

{^Exeunt. 



^CT IV. 



■ SCENE l. — A Hall in the Ducal Palace. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. And have you confidence in such a project ? 

Lor. I have. 

Bar. 'T is hard upon his years. 

Lor. Say rather 

Kind to relieve him from the cares of state. 

Bar. 'T will break his heart. 

Lor. Age has no heart to break. 

He has seen his son's half broken, and, except 
A start of feeling in his dungeon, never 
Swerved. 

Bar. In his countenance, I grant you, never ; 
But I have seen him sometimes in a calm 
So desolate, that the most clamorous grief 
Had nought to envy him within. Where is he ? 

Lor. In his own portion of the palace, with 
His son, and the whole race of Foscaris. 

Bar. Bidding farewell. 

Lor. A last. As soon he shall 

Bid to his dukedom. 

Bar. When embarks the son ? 

Lor. Forthwith— when this long leave is taken. 
'Tis 
Time to admonish them again. 

Bar. Forbear ; 

Retrench not from their moments. 

Lor. Not I, now 

We have higher business for our own. This day 
Shall be the last of the old Doge's reign, 
As the first of his son's last banishment, 
And that is vengeance. 

Bar. In my mind, too deep. 

Lor. 'Tis moderate— not even life for life, the 
rule 
Denounced of retribution from all time ; 
They owe me still my father's and my uncle's. 

Bar. Did not the Doge deny this strongly ? 

Lor. Doubtless. 

Bar. And did not this shake your suspicion ? 

Lor. No. 

Bar. But if this deposition should take place 
By our united influence in tlie council, 
It must be done with. all the deference 
Due to his years, his station, and his deeds. 

Lor. As much of ceremony as you will. 
So that tlie thing be done. You may, for aught 
I care, depute the council on their knees 
(Like Barbarossa to the Pope), to beg him 
To have the courtesy to abdicate. 

Bar. What, if he will not ? 

Lor. We '11 elect another. 

And make him null. 

Bar. But will the laws uphold us ? 

Lor. What laws ?— " The Ten " are laws ; and if 
they were not, 
I will be legislator in this business. 

Bar. At your own peril ? 

Lor. There is none, I tell you. 

Our powers are such. 

Bar. But he has twice already 

Solicited permission to retire, 
And twice it was refused. 

Lor. The better reason 

To grant it the third time. 

Bar. Unask'd ? 

Lor. It shows 

234 



The impression of his former instances : 

If they were from liis heart, he may be thankful : 

If not, 't will punish his hypocrisy. 

Come, they are met by this time ; let us join them, 

And be thou fix'd in purpose for this once. 

I have prepared such arguments as will not 

Fail to move them, and remove him: since 

Their thoughts, their objects, have been sounded, 

do not 
You^ with your wonted scruples, teach us pause, 
And all will prosper. 

Bar. Could I but be certain 

This is no prelude to such persecution 
Of the sire as has fallen upon the son, 
I would support 5^ou. 

Lor. He is safe, I tell you ; 

His fourscore years and five may linger on 
As long as he can drag them ; 't is his throne 
Alone is aim'd at. 

Bar. But discarded princes 

Are seldom long of life. 

Ijor. And men of eighty 

More seldom still. 

Bar. And why not wait these few years ? 

Lor. Because we have waited long enougli, and lie 

Lived longer than enough. Hence! in to council I 

[Exeunt Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Enter Memmo and a Senator. 

Sen. A summons to " the Ten ! " Whv so ? 

3/em. ""Tlie Ten " 

Alone can answer : they are rarely wont 
To let their thoughts anticipate their purpose 
By previous proclamation. We are summoned — 
Til at is enough. 

Sen. For them, but not for us ; 

I would know why. 

Mem. You will know why anon. 

If you obey: and, if not, you no less 
Will know why you should have obey'd. 

Sen. I mean not 

To oppose them, hut 

3fem. In Venice " hut " 's a traitor. 

But me no " huts " unless you would pass o'er 
The Bridge which few repass. 

Sen. 1 am silent. 

Mem. Why 

Thus hesitate ? " The Ten " have call'd in aid 
Of their deliberation five and twenty 
Patricians of the senate — you are one. 
And I another ; and it seems to me 
Both honor'd by the choice or chance which leads us 
To mingle with a body so august. 

Sen. Most true. I say no more. 

Mem. As we hope, signor. 

And all may lionestly (that is, all those 
Of noble blood may) one day liope to be 
Decemvir, it is surely for the senate's 
Chosen delegates a school of wisdom, to 
Be tlius admitted, though as novices, 
To view the mysteries. 

Sen. Let us view them : they. 

No doubt, are worth it. 

Mem. Being worth our lives 

If we divulge them, doubtless they are worth 
Something, at least to you or me. 

Sen. I sought not 

A place within the sanctuary ; but being 



ACT ly. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Chosen, however reluctantly so chosen, 
I shall fulfill my office. 

Mem. Let us not 

Be latest in obeying "the Ten's " summons. 

Sen. All are not met, but I am of your thought 
So far — let 's in. 

Mem. The earliest are most welcome 

In earnest councils— we will not be least so. 

{^Exeunt. 

Enter the Doge, Jacopo Foscari, and Marina. 

Jac. Fos. Ah, father ! though I must and will 
depart, 
Yet — yet — I pray you to obtain for me 
That I once more return unto my home, 
IJowe'er remote the period. Let there be 
A point of time, as beacon to my heart, 
With any penalty annex 'd they please, 
But let me still return. 

Doge. Son Jacopo, 

Go and obey our country's will : 't is not 
For us to look bejond. 

Jac. Fos. But still I must 

Look back. I pray you think of me. 

Doge. Alas ! 

You ever were my dearest offspring, when 
They were more numerous, nor can be less so 
Now you are last ; but did the state demand 
The exile of the disinterred ashes 
Of your three goodly brothers, now in earth, 
And their desponding shades came flitting round 
To impede the act, I must no less obey 
A duty, paramount to every duty. 

Mar. My husband ! let us on : this but prolongs 
Our sorrow. 

Jac. Fos. But we are not summon'd yet; 
The galley's sails are not unfurl'd :— who know^s 
The wind may change. 

Mar. And if it do, it will not 

Change their hearts, or your lot : the galley's oars 
Will quickly clear the harbor. 

Jac. Fos. Oh, ye elements ! 

Where are your storms ? 

Mar. In human breasts. Alas! 

Will nothing calm you ? 

Jac. Fos. Never yet did mariner 

Put up to patron saint such prayers for prosperous 
And pleasant breezes, as I call upon you, 
Ye tutelar saints of my own city ! which 
Ye love not with m.ore holy love than I, 
To lash up from the deep the Adrian waves. 
And waken Auster, sovereign of the tempest ! 
Till the sea dash me back on my own shore 
A broken corse upon the barren Lido, 
Where I may mingle with the sands wliich skirt 
The land I love, and never shall see more! 

Mar, And wish you this with me beside you ? 

Jac. Fos. No — 

No— not for thee, too good , too kind ! Mayst thou 
Live long to be a mother to those children 
Thy fond fidelity for a time deprives 
Of such support ! But for myself alone, 
May all the winds of heaven liowl down the Gulf, 
And tear the vessel, till the mariners, 
Appall'd, turn their despairing eyes on me. 
As the Phenicians did on Jonah, then 
Cast me out from amongst them, as an offering 
To appease the waves. The billow which destr( 

me 
Will be more merciful than man, and bear me 
Dead, but still hear me to a native grave. 
From fishers' hands, upon the desolate strand, 
Which, of its thousand wrecks, hath ne'er received 
One lacerated like the heart which then 
Will be— But wherefore breaks it not ? why live I ? 

Mar. To man thyself, I trust, with time, to master 
Such useless passion. Until now thou wert 



destroys 



A sufferer, but not a loud one : why. 
What is this to the things thou hast borne in silence- 
Imprisonment and actual torture V 

Jac. Fos. Double, 

Triple, and tenfold torture ! But you are right. 
It must be borne. Father, your blessing. 

Doge. Would 

It could avail thee ! but no less thou hast it. 

Jac. Fos. Forgive 

Doge. What ? 

Jac. Fos. My poor mother, for my birth, 

And me for having lived, and you yourself 
(As I forgive you) for the gift of life. 
Which you bestow'd upon me as my sire. 

Mar. What hast thou done ? 

Jac. Fos. Nothing. I cannot charge 

My memory with much save sorrow: but 
1 have been so beyond the common lot 
C hasten 'd and visited, I needs must think 
That I was wicked. If it be so, may 
What I have undergone here keep me from 
A like hereafter ! 

Mar. Fear not : that 's reserved 

For your oppressors. 

Jac. Fos. Let me hope not. 

Mar. Hope not ? 

Jac. Fos. I cannot wish them all they have in- 
flicted. 

Mar. All ! the consummate fiends ! A thousand- 
fold 
May the worm wdiich ne'er dieth feed upon them ! 

Jac. Fos. They may repent. 

Mar. And if they do. Heaven will not 

Accept the tardy penitence of demons. 

Enter an Officer and Guards. 

Offi. Signor ! the boat is at the shore— the wind 
Is rising — we are ready to attend you. 

Jac. Fos. And I to be attended. Once more, father, 
Your hand ! 

Doge. Take it. Alas ! how thine owti trembles ! 

Jac. Fos. No— you mistake; 'tis yours that 
shakes, my father. 
Farewell ! 

Doge. Farewell! Is there aught else ? 

Jac. Fos. No — nothing. 

[To the Officer. 
Lend me your arm, good signor. 

Offi. You turn pale — 

Let me support you — paler — ho ! some aid there ! 
Some water ! 

Mar. Ah, he is dying ! 

Jac. Fos. Now, I 'm ready— 

My eyes swim strangely— where 's the door ? 

Mar. Away ! 

Let me support him— my best love ! Oh, God! 
How^ faintly beats this heart — this pulse ! 

Jac. Fos. The light ! 

Is it the light ?— I am faint. 

[Officer presents him icith water, 

Offi. He will be better. 

Perhaps, in the air. 

Jac. Fos. I doubt not. Father— wife — 

Your hands ! 

Mar. There 's death in that damp clammy grasp. 
Oh, God !— My Foscari, how fare you? 

Jac. Fos. Well ! 

[He dies. 

Offi. He 's gone ! 

Doge. He 's free. 

Mar. No — no, he is not dead ; 

There must be life yet in that heart — he could not 
Thus leave me. 

Doge. Daughter ! 

Mar. Hold thy peace, old man ! 

I am no daughter now — thou hast no son. 
iiri ! 



Oh, Foscari! 



235 



ACT TV. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



P^\ We must remove the body. 

Mar. Touch it not, dungeon miscreants! j^our 
base office 
Ends with his life, and goes not beyond murder. 
Even by your murderous hiws. Leave his remains 
To tliose'who know to honor tliem. 

0/?f. I must 

Inform the signory, and learn their pleasure. 

Docje. Inform the signory from me, the Doge, 
Tliey have no further powTr upon those ashes : 
While he lived, he was theirs, as fits a subject- 
Now^ he is mine— my broken-hearted bov ! 

[Exit Ojjicer. 

Mar. And I must live ! 

Doge. Your children live, Marina. 

Mar. 'My children ! true — they live, and I must 
live 
To bring them up to serve the state, and die 
As died their father. Oh ! what best of blessings 
Were barrenness in Venice ! Would my mother 
Had been so ! 

Doge. Mv unhappy children ! 

3Iar. ^ What ! 

You feel it then at last— you! — Where is now 
The stoic of the state? 

Doge [throicing himself down hy the body). Here. 

Mar. ' Ay, w^ep on ! 

I thought you had no tears— you hoarded them 
Until they are useless ; but w^eep on ! he never 
Shall weep more— never, never more. 

Enter Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Lor. What 's here ? 

Mar. Ah! the devil come to insult the dead! 
A vaunt ! 
Incarnate Lucifer ! 'tis holy ground. 
A martyr's ashes now^ lie there, which make it 
A shrine. Get thee back to thy place of torment ! 

Bar. Lady, we knew not of this sad event. 
But pass'd here merely on our path from council. 

3Iar. Pass on. 

Lor. We sought the Doge. 

Mar. ( pointing to the Doge, icho is still on the ground 
hy his son's body). He 's busy, look, 
About the business you provided for him. 
Are ye content ? 

Bar. We will not interrupt 

A parent's sorrows. 

Mar. Xo, ye only make them, 

Then leave them. 

Doge {rising). Sirs, I am ready. 
• Bar. " iSTo — not now^ 

Lor. Yet 't w^as important. 

Doge. If 'twas so, I can 

Only repeat — I am ready. 

Bar. It shall not be 

Just now, though Venice totter 'd o'er the deep 
Like a frail vessel. I respect your griefs. 

Doge. I thank you. If the tidings which you bring 
Are evil, you may say them ; nothing further 
Can touch me more than him thou look'st on there ; 
If they be good, say on : you need not fear 
That they can comfort me. 

Bar. I would they could ! 

Doge. I spoke not to you, but to Loredano. 
Hr understands me. 

Mar. Ah ! I thought it would be so. 

Doge. What mean you V 

Mar. Lo ! there is the blood beginning 

To flow through the dead lips of Fuscari— 
The body bleeds in presence of the assassin. 
[To Loredano.) Thou cowardly murderer by law^ 

behold 
How death itself bears w'itness to thy deeds ! 

Doge. My child ! tliis is a fantasy of grief. 
Bear hence the body. {To his attcnd.ants.) Signors. 
if it please you, 

236 



Within an hour I '11 hear you. 

[Exeunt Doge, Marina, and attendants icith the 
body. Manent Loredano and Barbarigo. 

Bar. He must not 

Be troubled now. 

Lor. He said himself that nought 

Could give him trouble further: 

Bar. These are w^ords ; 

But grief is lonely, and the breaking in 
Upon it barbarous. 

Lor. ^ Sorrov\^ preys upon 

Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it 
From its sad visions of the other world, 
Than calling it at moments back to this. 
The busy have no time for tears. 

Bar. And therefore 

You W'Ould deprive this old man of all business ? 

Lor. The thing 's decreed. The giunta and " the 
Ten" 
Have made it law — Tvho shall oppose that law^ ? 

-Par. Humanity! 

Lor. Because his son is dead ? 

Bar. And yet unburied. 

Lor. Had we known this when 

The act w-as passing, it might have suspended 
Its passage, but impedes it not— once past. 

Bar. I '11 not "consent. 

Lor. You have consented to 

All that 's essential— leave the rest to me. 

Bar. Why press his abdication now ? 

Lor. The feelirigs 

Of private passion may not interrupt 
! The public benefit ; and what the state 
Decides to-day must not give way before 
To-morrow for a natural accident. 

Bar. You have a son. 

Lor. I have — and had a father. 

Bar. Still so inexorable ? 

Lor. Still. 

Bar. But let him 

Inter his son before we press upon him 
This edict. 

Lor. Let him call up into life 

My sire and uncle — I consent. Men may, 
Even aged men, be, or appear to be. 
Sires of a hundred sons, but cannot kindle 
An atom of their ancestors from earth. 
The victims are not equal: he has seen 
His sons expire by natural deaths, and I 
My sires by violent and mysterious maladies. 
I used no poison, bribed no subtle master 
Of the destructive art of healing, to 
Shorten the path to the eternal cure. 
His sons— and he had four— are dead, without 
My dabbling in vile drugs. 

Bar. And art thou sure 

He dealt in such ? 

Lnr. Most sure. 

Ba.r. And yet he seems 

All openness. 

Lor. And so he seem'd not long 

Ago to Carmagnuola. 

Bar. The attainted 

And foreign traitor ? 

Lor. Even so : when he, 

After the very night in wiiicli "■ the Ten " 
(Joined with the Doge) decided his destruction, 
Met the great Duke at daybreak with a jest, 
Demanding whether he should augur liini 
" The good day or good night ? " his Dogeship an- 
swer 'd, 
" That he in truth had pass'd a night of vigil. 
In which (he added witli a gracious smile) 
There often has been question about you." * 
'T was true ; the question was the death resolved 

* An historical fact. See Daru, torn. ii. 



ACT V. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Of Carmagnuola, eight months ere lie died ; 

And the old Doge, who knew him doom'd, smiled 

on him 
With deadl}' cozenage, eight long months before- 
hand — 
Eight montlis of such hypocrisy as is 
Learnt but in eighty years. Brave Carmagnuola 
Is dead ; so is young Foscari and his brethren— 
I never smiled on them. 

Bar, "Was Carmagnuola 

Your friend ? 

Lot. He was the safeguard of the city. 

In early life its foe, but. in his manhood, 
Its saviour first, then victim. 

Bar. Ah ! that seems 

The penalty of saving cities. He 
Whom we now act against not only saved 
Our own, but added others to our sway. 

Lor. TheEomans (and we ape them) gave a crown 
To him who took a city ; and they gave 
A crown to him who saved a citizen 
In battle : the rewards are equal. Xow, 
If we should measure forth the cities taken 
By the Doge Toscari, with citizens 
Destroy'd by him, or through him, the account 
Were fearfully against him, although narrow"'d 
To private havoc, such as between him 
And my dead father. 

Bar. Are you then thus fix'd ? 

Lor. Why, what should change me V 

Bar. That which changes me : 

But you, I know, are marble to retain 
A feud. But when all is accomplish 'd, when 
The old man is deposed, his name degraded, 
His sons all dead, his family depress 'd. 
And you and yours triumphant, shall you sleep? 

Lor. More soundly. 

Bar. That 's an error, and you '11 find it 

Ere you sleep with your fathers. 

Lor. They sleep not 

In their accelerated graves, nor will 



Till Foscari fills his. Each night I see them 
Stalk frowning round my couch, and, pointing 

towards 
The ducal palace, marshal me to vengeance. 
Bar. Fancy 's distemperature ! There 's no pas- 
sion 
More spectral or fantastical than Hate ; 
ISTot even its opposite, Love, so peoples air 
With phantoms, as this madness of the heart. 

Enter an Officer. 

Lor. Where go you, sirrah ? 

Offi. By the ducal order 

To forward the preparatory rites 
For the late Foscari's interment. 

Bar. Their 

Vault lias been often open'd of late years. 

Lor. 'Twill be full soon, and may be closed for 
ever. 

Offi. May I pass on ? 

Lor. You may. 

Bar. How bears the Doge 

This last calamity ? 

Offi. With desperate firmness. 

In presence of another he says little, 
But I perceive his lips move'now and then ; 
And once or twice I lieard him, from the adjoining 
Apartment, mutter forth the words — '• My son I " 
Scarce audibly. I must proceed. [Exit Officer. 

Bar. This stroke 

Will move all Venice in his favor. 

Lor. Right ! 

We must be speedy ; let us call together 
The delegates appointed to convey 
The council's resolution. 

Bar. I protest 

Against it at this moment. 

Lor. As you please — 

I '11 take their voices on it ne'ertheless. 
And see whose most may sway them, yours or mine. 
[Exeunt Barbarigo and Loredano. 



ACT \ 



T 



SCENE l.—The Doge's Ajjartment. 



The Doge and Attendants. 

Att. My lord, the deputation is in waiting ; 
But add, that if another hour would better 
Accord with your will, they will make it theirs. 

Doge. To me all hours are alike. Let them ap- 
proach. [Exit Attendant. 

An Officer. Prince ! I have done your bidding. 

Doge^ What command ? 

OM. A melancholy one— to call the attendance 
Of-^ 

Doge. True — ^true — true : I crave your pardon. I 
Begin to fail in apprehension, and 
Wax very old— old almost as my years. 
Till now I fought them off, but"^they begin 
To overtake me. 

Enter the Dejnitation^ consisting of six of the Signory, 
and the Chief of the Ten . 

'Nohle men, your pleasure ! 
Chief of the Ten. In the first place, the council 
doth condole 
With the Doge on his late and private grief. 
Doge. ISTo more — no more of that. 
Chief of the Ten . Will not the Duke 

Accept the homage of respect ? 

Doge. I do 

Accept it as 'tis given— proceed. 

Chief of the Ten. " The Ten," 

With a selected giunta from the senate 



Of twenty-five of the best-born patricians, 
Having deliberated on the state 
Of the republic, and the o'erwhelming cares 
Which, at this m-oment, doubly must oppress 
Your years, so long devoted to your country, 
Have judged it fitting, with all reverence, 
JS'ow to solicit from jowy wisdom f which 
Upon reflection must accord in this) 
The resignation of the ducal ring, 
Which you have worn so long and venerably : 
And to prove that they are not ungrateful, nor 
Cold to your years and services, they add 
An appanage of twenty hundred golden 
Ducats, to make retirement not less splendid 
Than should become a sovereign's retreat. 

i^ogre. Did I liear rightly? 

Chief of the Ten. " JSTeed I say again ? 

Doge. Ko — Have you done ? 

Chief of the Ten. I have spoken. Twenty-four 
Hours are accorded you to give an answer. 

Doge. I shall not need so many seconds. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Will now retire. 

Doge. Stay I Four and twenty hours 

Will alter nothing which I have to sav. 

Chief of the Ten. Speak ! 

Doge. When I twice before reiterated 

My wish to abdicate, it was refused me : 
And not alone refused, but jq exacted 
An oath from me that I would never more 
Renew this instance. I liave sworn to die 
237 



ACT V. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



SCEXE I. 



In full exertion of the functions which 
M}^ country calPd rae here to exercise, 
Accordino: to my honor and my conscience — 
I cannot break my oath. 

Chief of the Ten. Reduce ns not 

To the alternative of a decree, 
Instead of your comi)liance. 

I)oge. Providence 

Prol6n.Q:s my days to prove and chasten me ; 
But ye have no right to reproach my length 
Of days, since every hour has been the country's. 
I am ready to lay down my life for her. 
As I have laid down dearer things than life : 
But for my dignitj^ — I hold it of 
The icliole republic : when the general will 
Is manifest, then you shall all "be answered. 

Chief of the Ten. We grieve for such an answer; 
but it cannot 
Avail you aught. 

Doge. I can submit to all things, 

But nothing will advance ; no, not a moment. 
What you decree— decree. 

Chief of the Ten. With this, then, must we 

Return to those who sent us ? 

Doge. You have heard me. 

Chief of the Ten. With all due reverence we retire. 
[Exeunt the Deputation^ etc. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Att. My lord, 

The noble dame Marina craves an audience. 
Doge. My time is hers. 

Enter Marina. 

Mar. My lord, if I intrude- 

Perhaps you fain would be alone ? 

Doge. Alone ! 

Alone, come all the world around me, 1 
Am now and evermore. But we will bear it. 

Mar. We will, and for the sake of those who are, 
Endeavor Oh, my husband ! 

Doge. " Give it way : 

I cannot comfort thee. 

3Iav. He might have lived, 

So form'd for gentle privacy of life. 
So loving, so beloved ; the native of 
Another land, and who so blest and blessing 
As my poor Foscari ? Nothing was wanting 
Unto his happiness and mine save not 
To be Venetian. 

Doge. Or a prince's son. 

Mar. Yes ; all things which conduce to other men's 
Imperfect happiness or high ambition. 
By some strange destiny, to him proved deadly. 
The country and the i^eople whom he loved. 
The prince of whom he was the eider born, 
And 

Doge. Soon may be" a prince no longer. 

Mar. How ? 

Doge. They have taken my son from me, and now 
aim 
At my too long worn diadem and ring. 
Let them resume the gewgaws ! 

Mar. Oh, the tyrants ! 

In such an hour too ! 

Doge. 'T is the fittest time ; 

An hour ago I should have felt it. 

Mar. And 

Will you not now resent it ?— Oh, for vengeance ! 
But he. who, had he been enough protected. 
Might have repaid jjrotection in this moment. 
Cannot assist his father. 

Doge. Nor should do so 

Against his country, had he a thousand lives 
Instead of that 

Mar. They tortured from him. This 

May be pure patriotism. I am a woman : 
238 



To me my husband and my children were 
Country and home. I loved him — how I loved him ! 
I have seen him pass through such an ordeal as 
The old martyrs would have shrunk from: he is 

gone. 
And I, who would have given my blood for him. 
Have nought to give but tears ! But could I com- 
pass 
The retribution of his wrongs !— Well, well ! 
I have^soi;is,who shall be men. 

Doge. Your grief distracts yon. 

Mar. I thought I could have borne it, when I saw 
him 
Bow'd down by such oppression : yes, I thought 
That I would rather look upon his corse 
Tlian his prolong'd captivity : — I am punish 'd 
For that thought now. Would I were in his grave ! 

Doge. I must look on him once more. 

Mar. Come with me ! 

Doge. Is he 

Mar. Our bridal bed is now his bier. 

Doge. And he is in his shroud ! 

Mar. Come, come, old man ! 

[Exeunt the Doge and Marina. 

Enter Barbarigo and Loredano. 

Bar. {to an Attendant). Where is the Doge ? 

Att. This instant retired hence 

With the illustrious lady his son's widow. 

Lor. Where ? 

Att. To the chamber where the body lies. 

Bar. Let us return, then. 
' Lor. You forget, you cannot. 

We have the implicit order of the giunta 
To await their coming here, and join them in 
Their office : they '11 be here soon after us. 

Bar. And will they press their answer on the 
Doge ? 

Lor. 'T was his own wish that all should be done 
promptly. 
He answer'd quickly, and must so be answer'd ; 
His dignity is look'd to, his estate 
Cared for— what would he more ? 

Bar. Die in his robes : 

He could not have lived long ; but I have done 
My best to save his honors, and opposed 
This proposition to the last, though vainly. 
Why would the general vote compel m,e hither ? 

Lor. 'Twas fit that some one of such different 
thoughts 
From ours should be a witness, lest false tongues 
Should whisper that a harsh majority 
Dreaded to have its acts beheld by others. 

Bar. And not less, I must needs think, for the sake 
Of humbling me for my vain opposition. 
You are ingenious, Loredano, in 
Your modes of vengeance, nay, poetical, 
A very Ovid in the art of hating; 
'Tis thus (although a secondary object, 
Yet hate has microscopic eyes) to you 
I owe, by way of foil to the more zealous, 
This undesired association in 
Your giunta's duties. 

Lor. How ! — my giunta ! 

Bar. Yours ! 

They speak your language, watch your nod, approve 
Your plans, and do your work. Are they not yours ? 

Lor. You talk unwarily. 'T were best they hear 
not 
This from you. 

Bar. Oh ! they '11 hear as much one day 

From louder tongues than mine; they have gone 

beyond 
Even their exorbitance of power : and when 
This happens in the most contemn 'd and abject 
States, stung humanity v/ill rise to check it. 

Lor. You talk but idly. 



ACT V. 



THJE TWO FOSCARL 



SCENE I. 



Bar. That remains for proof. 

Here come our colleagues. 

Enter the Deputation as before, 
Giief of the Ten. Is the Duke aware 

We seek his presence ? 
Att. He shall be inform 'd. 

{Exit Attendant. 
Bar. The Duke is with his son. 
Chief of the Ten. If it be so, 

We will remit him till the rites are over. 
Let us return. 'T is time enough to-morrow. 
Lor. {aside to Bar.). Xow the rich man's hell-fire 
upon your tongue, 
Unquench'd, unquench.able ! I '11 have it torn 
From its vile babbling roots, till you shall utter 
Nothing but sobs through blood, for this! Sage 

signers, 
I pray ye be not hasty. [Aloud to the others. 

Bar. But be human ! 

Lor. See, the Duke comes ! 

Enter the Doge. 

Boge. i have obey'd your summons. 

Chief of the Ten. We come once more to urge our 
past request. 

Doqe. And I to answer. 

Chief of the Ten. What? 

Doge. My only answer. 

You have heard it. 

Chief of the Ten. Hear you then the last decree, 
Definitive and absolute ! 

Doge. To the point- 

To tlie point ! I know of old the forms of office, 
And gentle preludes to strong acts — Go on I 

Chief of the Ten. You are no longer Doge: you 
are released 
From your imperial oath as sovereign; 
Tour ducal robes must be put off ; but for 
Your services, the state allots the appanage 
Already mention 'd in our former congress. 
Three days are left you to remove from hence, 
Under the penalty to see confiscated 
All your own private fortune. 

Doge. That last clause, 

I amproud to say, would not enricli the treasury. 

Chief of the Ten. Your answer, Duke ! 

Lor. Your answer, Francis Foscari ! 

Doge. If I could have foreseen that my old age 
Was prejudicial to the state, the chief 
Of the republic never would have shown 
Himself so far ungrateful, as to place 
His own high dignity before his country ; 
But this life having been so many years 
Not useless to that country, I would fain 
Have consecrated my last 'moments to her. 
But the decree being render'd, I obey. 

Chief of the Ten. If you would have the three 
days named extended. 
We willingly will lengthen them to eight, 
As sign of our esteem. 

Doge. ISTot eight hours, signor, 

Nor even eight minutes— there 's the ducal ring, 

[Taking off his ring and cap. 
And there the ducal diadem. And so 
The Adriatic 's free to wed another. 

Chief of the Ten. Yet go not forth so quickly. 

Doge. I am old, sir. 

And even to move but slowly must begin 
To move betimes. Methinks I see amongst you 
A face I know not — Senator ! your name. 
You, by your garb. Chief of the Forty ! 

Mem. Signor, 

I am the son of Marco Memmo. 

Doge. Ah ! 

Your father was my friend. — But sons amd fathers I— 
What, ho ! my servants there ! 



Att. My prince ! 

Doge. No prince- 

There are the princes of the prince ! {Pointing to 

the Ten's Deputatio}i.)—Frei)<\Ye 
To part from hence upon the instant. 

Chief of the Ten. Why 

So rashly V 't will give scandal. 

Doge. Answer that ; 

[To the Ten. 
It is your province. — Sirs, bestir yourselves : 

[To the Servants. 
There is one burden whicli I beg you bear 
With care, although 'tis past all further harm- 
But I will look to that myself. 

Bar. He means 

The body of his son. 

Doge. And call Marina, 

My daughter ! 

Enter Marina. 

Doge. Get thee ready ; we must mourn 

Elsewhere. 

3 far. And everyw^here. 

Doge. True; but in freedom, 

Without these jealous spies upon the great. 
Signers, you may depart : what would you more ? 
We are going : do you fear that we shall bear 
The palace with us ? Its old walls, ten times 
As old as I am, and I 'm very old. 
Have served you, so have I, and I and they 
Could tell a tale ; but I invoke them uot 
To fall upon you ! else they would, as erst 
The pillars of stone Dagon's temple on 
The Israelite and his Philistine foes. 
Such power I do believe there might exist 
In such a curse as mine, provoked by such 
As you ; but I curse not. Adieu, good signers I 
May the next duke be better than the present. 

Lor. The present duke is Paschal Malipiero. 

Doge. Not till I pass the thresliold of these doors. 

Lor. Saint Mark's great bell is soon about to toll 
For his inauguration. 

Doge. Earth and heaven ! 

Ye will reverberate this peal ; and I 
Live to hear this !— the first Doge who e'er heard 
Sach sound for his successor ! Happier he, . 
My attainted predecessor, stern Faliero — 
This insult at the least was spared him. 

Lor. What ! 

Do you regret a traitor V 

Doge. No— I merely 

Envy the dead. 

Chief of the Ten. My lord, if you indeed 
Are bent upon this rash abandonment 
Of the state's palace, at the least retire 
By the private staircase, which conducts you towards 
The landing place of the canal. 

Doge. No. I 

Will now descend the stairs by which I mounted 
To sovereignty— the Giants' Stairs, on whose 
Broad eminence I was invested duke. 
My services have calFd me up those steps. 
The malice of my foes will drive me down them. 
There five and thirty years ago was I 
Install'd, and traversed these same halls, from whicb 
I never thought to be divorced except 
A corse — a corse, it might be, fighting for them — 
But not push'd hence by fellow citizens. 
But come ; my son and I will go together — 
He to Ins grave, and I to pray for mine. 

Chief of the Ten. What ! thus in public ? 

Doge. I was publicly 

Elected, and so will I be deposed. 
Marina ! art thou willing ? 

Mar. Here 's my arm ! 

Doge. And here my staff^: thus propp'd will I go 
forth. 

239 



ACT Y. 



THE TWO FOSCARL 



ICENE I. 



Cliief of the Ten. It must not be— the people will 

perceive it. 
Doge. Tlie people ! — There 's no people, you well 
know it, 
Else you dare not deal thus by them or me. 
There is a populace^ perhaps, whose looks 
May shame you ; but they dare not groan nor curse 

Save with their hearts and eyes. 

Chief of the Ten. You speak in passion, 

Else 

Doge. You have reason. I have spoken much 
More than my wont : it is a foible which 
Was not of mine, but more excuses you, 
Inasmuch as it shows that I approach 
A dotage which may justify this deed 
Of yours, although the law does not, nor will. 
Farewell, sirs ! 

Bar. You shall not depart without 

An escort fitting past and present rank. 
We will accompany, with due respect, 
Tlie Doge unto his private palace. Say ! 
My brethren, will we not ? 

Different Voices. Ay ! — ^Ay ! 

Doge. You shall not 

Stir^n my train, at least. I entered here 
As sovereign — I go out as citizen 
By the same portals, but as citizen. 
All these vain ceremonies are base insults, 
Which only ulcerate the heart the more. 
Applying poisons there as antidotes. 
Pomp is for princes — I am none ! — That 's false, 
I am, but only to these gates. — Ah ! 

Lor. Hark! 

[The great hell of Saint Mark^s tolls. 

Bar. The bell ! 

Chief of the Ten. Saint JNIark's, which tolls for 
the election 
Of Malipiero. 

Doge. Well I recognize 

The sound ! I heard it once, but once before, 
And that is five and thirty years ago ! 
Even then I vjas not young. 

Bar. Sit down, my lord ! 

You tremble. 

Doge. 'T is the knell of my poor boy ! 

My heart aches bitterly. 

Bar. I pray you sit. 

Doge. No ; my seat here has been a throne till now. 
Marina ! let us go. 

3Iar. Most readily. 

Doge {walks a few steps^ then stops). I feel athirst— 
will no one bring me here 
A cup of water ? 

Bar. 1 

Mar. And I 

Lor. ■ And I 

\The Doge takes a goblet from the hand of 
Loredano. 

Doge. I take yours. Loredano, from the hand 
Most fit for such an hour as this. 

Lor. Why so ? 

Doge. 'T is said that our Yenetian crystal has 
Such pure antipathy to poisons as 
To burst, if aught of venom touches it. 
You bore this goblet, and it is not broken. 

Lor. Well, sir ! 

Doge. Then it is false, or you are true. 

For my own part, I credit neither ; 't is 
An idle legend. 

Mar. You talk wildly, and 

Had better now be seated, nor as yet 
Depart. Ah ! now you look as look'd my husband ! 

Bar. He sinks ! — support him !— quick -a chair- 
support him ! 

Doge. The bell tolls on !— let 's hence— my brain 's 



Bar. I do beseech you, lean upon us ! 

Doge. No ! — 

A sovereign should die standing. My poor boy ! 
OfC with your arms! — That hell! 

[llie Doge drops down and dies. 

Mar. My God ! My God ! 

Bar. {to Lor.). Behold ! your work 's completed ! 

Chief of the Ten. " Is there then 

jSTo aid ? Call in assistance ! 

Att. 'T is all over. 

Chief of the Ten. If it be so, at least his obsequies 
Shall be such as befits his name and nation, 
His rank, and his devotion to the duties 
Of the realm, while his age permitted him 
To do himself and them full justice. Brethren, 
Say, shall it not be so ? 

Bar. He has not had 

The misery to die a subject where 
Pie reign'd: then let his funeral rites be princely.* 

Chief of the Ten. We are agreed, then ? 

All, except Lor., answer, Yes. 

Chief of the Ten. Heaven's peace be witli him! 

Mar. Signers, your pardon : this is mockery. 
Juggle no more with tliat poor remnant, which, 
A moment since, while yet it had a soul 
(A soul by wliom you have increased your empire, 
And made your power as proud as was his glory). 
You banish'd from his palace, and tore down 
From his high place, with such relentless coldness ; 
And now, when he can neither know these honors, 
jSTor would accept them if he could, you, signers, 
Purpose with idle and superfluous pomp 
To make a pageant over what you trampled. 
A princely funeral will be your reproach, 
And not his honor. 

Chief of the Ten. Lady, we revoke not 

Our purposes so readily. 

Mar. I know it. 

As far as touches torturing the living. 
I thought the d(>ad had been beyond even you, 
Though (some, no doubt) consign'd to powers which 

In ay 
Resemble that you exercise on earth. 
Leave him to me ; you would liave done so for 
His dregs of life, which you liave kindly shorten'd: 
It is my last of duties, and may prove 
A dreary comfort in my desolation. 
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
And the apparel of the grave. 

Chief of the Ten. Do you 

Pretend still to this office ? 

Mar. I do, signor. 

Though his possessions have been all consumed 
In the state's service, I have still my dowry. 
Which shall be consecrated to his rites. 
And those of [She stojjs with agitation. 

Chief of the Ten. Best retain it for your children. 

3Iar. Ay, they are fatiierless ; I thank you. 

Chief of the Ten. We 

Cannot comply with your request. His relics 
Shall be exposed with wonted pomp, and follow 'd 
Unto their home by the new Doge, not clad 
As Doge, but simply as a senator. 

Mar. I have heard of murderers, who have 
interred 
Their victims ; but ne'er h.eard, until this hour, 
Of so much splendor in hypocrisy 
O'er those they slew. I 've heard of widow^s' tears- 
Alas! I have shed some— always thanks to you ! 
I 've heard of heirs in sables— you have left none 
To the deceased, so you would act the part 



on fi.re 1 



* By a decree of the council, the trappings of supreme 
power of which the doge had divested himself while living, 
were restored to him when dead ; and he was interred, with 
ducal magnificence, in the church of the Minorites, the new 
doge attending as a mourner.— See Daru. 



240 



J 



PART T. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE I. 



Of such. Well, sirs, your will he done ! as one day 
I trust, Heaven's will be done too ! 

Chief of the Ten. Know you, lady, 

To whom ye speak, and perils of such speech ? 

Mar. I know the former better than yourselves; 
The latter— like yourselves ; and can face both. 
Wish you more funerals ? 

Bar. Heed not her rash w^ords ; 

Her circumstances must excuse her bearing. 



Chief of the Ten. We will not note them down. 
Bar. [tiirmng to Lor., ivho is writing upon his 

tablets). What art thou writing, 

With such an earnest brow, upon thy tablets ? 
Lor. i]?ointing to the Doge'^s body). That he has 

paid me ! 
Chief of the Ten. What debt did he owe you ? 
Lor. A long and just one; i^ature's debt and 

mine. [Curtain falls. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFOEMED. 



AD VLB TI&EIIENT. 

THIS production* is founded partly on the story of } the ^reat Goethe. The present publication contains the 
a novel called " The Three Brothers," published | two first parts only, and the opening chorus of the third, 
many years ago, from which M. G. Lewis's ''AVoodi The rest may, perhaps, appear hereafter. 
Demon " was also taken, and partly on the " Faust " of 



Stranger, afterwards Csesar. 

Arnold. 

Bourbon. 



DBAMATIS FEB SON JS. 

PhililDert. 

Cellini. 

Bertha. 



Olimpia. 
Spirits, Soldiers, Citizens of Rome, 
Priests, Peasants, etc. 



FART r 



SCENE I.— J. Forest. 



Enter Arnold and his Mother Bertha. 

Bert. Out, hunchback ! 

Am. I was born so, mother ! t 

Bert. Out, 

Thou incubus ! Thou nightmare ! Of seven sous. 
The sole abortion ! 

Am. Would that I had been so, 

And never seen the light ! 

Bert. I would so too ! 

But as thou host — hence, hence— and do thy best ! 
That back of thine may bear its burden ; 't is 
More high, if not so broad as that of others. 

Am. It hears its burden ; — but, my heart ! Will it 
Sustain that which you lay upon it, mother? 
I love, or, at the least, I loved you : nothing 
Save you, in nature, can love aught like me. 
You nursed me— do not kill me I 

Bert. Yes— T nursed thee. 

Because thou wert my first-born, and I knew not 
If there would be another unlike thee, 
That monstrous sport of nature. But get hence. 
And gather wood ! 

Am. I will : but when I bring it, 

Speak to me kindly. Though my brothers are 
So beautiful and lusty, and as free 
As the free chase they folloAv, do not spurn me ; 
Our milk has been the same. 

Bert. As is the hedgehog-s. 

Which sucks at midnight from the wholesome dam 
Of the young bull, uutil the milkmaid finds 

* This drama was begim at Pisa in 1831, but was not pub- 
lished till January, 1824. 

+ " One of the few pag^s of Lord BjTTon's ' Memoranda,' 
vrhich related to his early days, was where, in speaking- of his 
own sensitiveness on the subject of his deformed foot, he de- 
scribed the feeling: of hori-or and humiliation that came over 
16 



The nipple next day sore and udder dry. J 
Call not thy brothers brethren ! Call me not 
Mother; for if I brought thee forth, it was 
As foolish hens at times hatch vipers, by 
Sitting upon strange eggs. Out, urchin, out ! 

[Exit Bertha. 

Am. [solus). Oh, mother! She is gone, and I 

must do 
i Her bidding ; — wearily but willingly 
I would fulfill it, could I only hope 
A kind word in return. What shall I do ? 

[Arnold begins to cut wood : in doing this he 
wounds one of his hands. 
My labor for the day is over now^ 
Accursed be this blood that flows so fast ; 
For double curses will be my meed now 
At home— ^^lat home ? I have no home, no kin, 
No kind — not made like other creatures, or 
To share their sports or pleasures. Must I bleed 

too 
Like them ? Oh that each drop which falls to earth 
Would rise a snake to sting them, as they have 

stung me ! 
Or that the devil, to whom they liken me, 
Would aid his likeness ! If I must partake 
His form, why not his power ? Is it because 
I have not his will too ? For one kind word 
From her who bore me would still reconcile me 
F'ven to this hateful aspect. Let me wash 
The Avound. 

[Ariwld goes to a spring, and stoops to wash 
his hand: he starts back. 



him, when his mother, in one of her fits of passion, called him 
! ' a lame hrat ! ' It may be questioned, whether this drama was 

not indebted for its orig-in to this single recollection." 
t This is now g-enerally believed to be a vulg-ar error : the 

smallness of the animal's mouth rendering it incapable of the 
i mischief laid to irs charg-o. 

241 



PART I. 



THE BEFOR'MED TRANSFORMED. 



SCENE T. 



They are right ; and Nature's mirror shows me 
What she hath made me. I will not look on it 
Again, and scarce dare think on't. Hideous 

wretch 
That I am ! The very waters mock me with 
My horrid shadow — like a demon placed 
Deep in the fountain to scare back the cattle 
From drinking therein. 

{He pauses. 
And shall I live on, 
A burden to tlie earth, myself, and shame 
Unto what brought me into life ! Thou blood, 
Which flowest so freely from a scratch, let me 
Try if tliou wilt not in a fuller stream 
Pour forth my woes for ever with thyself 
On earth, to which 1 will restore at once 
This hateful compound of her atoms, and 
Resolve back to lier elements, and take 
The shape of any reptile save myself, 
And make a world for myriads of new worms ! 
This knife ! now let me prove if it will sever 
This wither'd slip of nature's nightshade — my * 
Yile form— from the creation, as it liath 
The green bough from the forest. 

[Arnold places the knife in the ground, with 
the point upwards. 

Now 'tis set, 
And I can fall ^ipon it. Yet one glance 
On the fair day, which sees no foul thing like 
Myself, and the sweet sun which warm'd me, but 
In vain. The birds — hovv^ joyously they sing ! 
So let them, for I would not be lamented : 
But let their merriest notes be Arnold's knell ; 
The fallen leaves my monument ; the murmur 
Of the near fountain my sole elegy. 
Now, knife, stand firmly, as I fain would fall ! 

[As he rushes to throw himself upon the knife, his 
eye is suddenly caught by the fountain ,' which 
seems in motion. 
The fountain moves without a wind : but shall 
The ripple of a spring change my resolve ? 
No. Yet it moves again ! The waters stir, 
Not as witli air, but by some subterrane 
And rocking power of the internal world. 
What 's here V A mist ! No more ?— . 

[A cloud comes from the fountain. He stomds 
gazing upon it; it is dispelled, and a tall 
black man comes toivards him. 
Am. What would you ? Speak ! 

Spirit or man ? 

Stran. As man is both, why not 

Say both in one ? 

Am. Your form is man's, and yet 

You may be devil. 

Stran. So many men ar#that 

Which is so call'd or thought, that you may add me 
To which you ])lease, without much wrong to either. 
But come: you wish to kill yourself ;— pursue 
Your purpose. 
Am. You have interrupted me. 

Stran. Wliat is that resolution which can e'er 
Be interrupted ? If I be the devil 
You deem, a single moment would have made you 
Mine, and forever, by your suicide ; 
And yet my coming saves you. 

Am. I said not 

You were the demon, but that your approach 
Was like one. 

Stran. Unless you keep com^^ny 

With him (and you seem scarce used to such high 
Society) you can 't tell how he approaches ; 
And for his aspect, look u])on tlie fountain, 
And then on me, and judge which of us twain 
Look likest what the boors believe to be 
Their cloven-footed terror. 

Am. Do you — ^dare you 

To taunt me with my born deformity V 
242 



Stran. Were I to taunt a buffalo with this 
Cloven foot of thine, or the swift dromedary 
With thy sublime of humps, the animals 
Would revel in the compliment. And yet 
Both beings are more swift, more strong, more 

mighty 
In action and endurance than thyself, 
And all the fierce and fair of the same kind 
With thee. Tliy form is natural : 't was only 
Nature's mistaken largess to bestow 
The gifts which are of others upon man. 

Am. Give me the strength then of tlie buffalo's 
foot, 
When he spurs high the dust, beholding his 
Near enemy ; or let me have the long 
And patient swiftness of the desert-ship, 
The helmless dromedary I— and I '11 bear 
Thy fiendish sarcasm with a saintly patience. 

Stran. I will. 

Am. {with surprise). Thon canst? 

Stran. Perhaps. Would you aught else ? 

Am. Thou mockest me. 

Stran. Not I. Why should I mock 

What all are mocking ? That 'spoor sport, methinks. 
To talk to thee in human language (for 
Thou canst not yet speak mine), the forester 
Hunts not the wretched coney, but the boar, 
Or wolf, or lion, leaving paltry game 
To petty burghers, who leave once a year 
Their walls, to fill their household caldrons with 
Such scullion prey. The meanest gibe at thee, — 
Now Jean mock the mightiest. 

Am. Then waste not 

Thy time on me : I seek thee not. 

Stran. Your thoughts 

Are not far from me. Do not send me back : 
I am not so easily recall 'd to do 
Good service. 

Am. What wilt thou do for me ? 

Stran. Change 

Shapes with you, if you will, since yours so irks 

you; 
Or form you to your wish in any sliape. 

Am. Oh ! then you are indeed the demon, for 
Nought else would wittingly wear mine. 

Stran. I '11 show thee 

The brightest which the world e'er bore, and give 

thee 
Thy choice. 

Am. On what condition ? 

Stran. There 's a question I 

An hour ago you would have given your soul 
To look like other men, and now you pause 
To wear the form of heroes. 

Am. No ; I will not. 

1 must not compromise my soul. 
i Stran. What soul, 

Worth naming so, would dwell in such a carcass ? 

Am. 'T is an aspiring one, whatever the tenement 
In which it is mislodged. But name your compact ; 
Must it be sign'd in blood ? 

Stran. Not in youi' own. • 

Am. Whose blood then ? 

Stran. We will talk of that hereafter. 

But J. '11 be moderate with you, for I see 
Great things within you. You shall have no bond 
But your own will, no contract save your deeds. 
Are you content ? 

Am. 1 take thee at thy word. 

Stran. Now then !— 

[The Stranger approaches the fountain, and 
turns to Arnold. 

A little of your blood. 

Am. For what ? 

Stran. To mingle with the magic of the waters. 
And make the charm effective. 

Am. {holding out his wounded arm). Take it all. 



PART I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE I. 



Strdn. Not now. A few drops will suffice for this, 
[The Stranger takes some of Arnold'' s blood in 
his hand^ and casts it into the fountain. 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Shadows of power ! 
Else to your duty— 
This is the liour ! 
Walk lovely and pliant 

From the depth of this fountain, 
As the cloud-shapen giant 

Bestrides the Hartz Mountain.* 
Come as ye were, 

That our eyes may behold 
Tiie model in air 

Of the form I will mould, 
Bright as the Iris 

When ether is spann'd ;— 
Such his desire is, IPointing to Arnold. 

Such my command ! 
Demons heroic — 

Demons who wore 
Tlie form of the stoic 
Or sophist of yore — 
Or the shape of each victor, 

From Macedon's boy 
To each high Roman's picture 

Who breathed to destroy — 
Shadows of beauty ! 

Siiadows of power ! 
Up to your duty— 
This is the hour ! 
[Various phayitoms arise from the waters^ and 
2KISS in succession before the Stranger and 
Arnold. 
Am. What do I see ? 

Stran. The black-eyed Roman, with 

The eagle's beak between those eyes which ne'er 
Beheld a conqueror, or look'd along 
The land he made not Rome's, while Rome be- 
came 
His, and all theirs who heir'd his very name. 
Am. The phantom's bald; my quest is beauty. 
Could I 
Inherit but his fame with his defects ! 

Stran. His brow was girt with laurels more than 
hairs. 
You see his aspect — choose it, or reject. 
I can but promise you his form : his fame 
Must be long sought and fought for. 

Am. I will fight too, 

But not as a mock Caesar. Let him pass ; 
His aspect may be fair, but suits me not. 

Stran. Then you are far more difficult to please 
Tlian Cato's sister, or than Brutus' mother. 
Or Cleopatra at sixteen— an age 
When love is not less in the eye than heart. 
But be it so ! Shadow, pass on ! 

[The phantom of Julius Caesar disappears. 
Am. - And can it 

Be, that the man who shook the eartli is gone. 
And left no footstep ? 

Stran. There you err. His substance 

Left graves enough, and woes enough, and fame 
More than enough to track his memory ; 
But for his shadow, 't is no more than yours, 
Except a little longer and less crook'd 
I' the sun. Behold another ! 

[A second phantom passes. 
Am. Who is he V 



♦This is a well-known German superstition— a gig-antic 
shadow produced by reflection on the Brocken.— The Brocken 
is the name of the loftiest of the Hartz mountains, a pictur- 
esque range which lies in the kingdom of Hanover. From 
the earliest periods of authentic history, the Brocken has 
been the seat of the marvellous. 

+ " The outside of Socrates was that of a satyr and buffoon, 



Stran. He was the fairest and the bravest of 
Athenians. Look upon him well. 

Am. He is 

More lovely than the last. How beautiful ! 

Stran. Such was the curled son of Clinias; — 
Wouldst thou 
Invest thee with his form ? 

Am. Would that I had 

Been born with it ! But since I may choose further, 
I will look further. 

[The shade of Alcibiades disappears. 

Stran. Lo! behold again! 

Am. What! that low, swarthy, short-nosed, 
round-eyed satyr, 
With the wide nostrils and Silenus' aspect, 
The splay feet and low stature ! f I had better 
Remain that which I am, 

Stran. And yet he was 

The earth's perfection of all mental beauty, 
And personification of all virtue. 
But you reject him ? 

Am. If his form could bring me 

That which redeem 'd it— no. 

Stran. I have no power 

To promise that ; but you may try, and find it 
Easier in such a form, or in your own. 

Am. No. I was not born for philosophy, 
Tliough I have that about me which has need on 't. 
Let him fleet on. 

Stran. Be air, thou hemlock-drinker ! 

[The shadcnv of Socrates disappears : another rises. 

Am. What 's here ? wliose broad brow and whose 
curly beard 
And manly aspect look like Hercules, 
Save that liis jocund eye hath more of Bacchus 
Than the sad purger of the infernal world, 
Leaning dejected on his club of conquest. 
As if he knew the worthlessness of those 
For whom he had fought. 

Stran. It was the man who lolt 

The ancient world for love. 

Am. I cannot blame him, 

Since I have risk'd my soul because I find not 
That which he exchanged the earth for. 

Stran. Since so far 

You seem congenial, will you wear his features V 

Jrn. No. A's you leave me choice, I am difficult, 
If but to see the heroes I should ne'er 
Have seen else on this side of the dim shore 
Whence they float back before us. 

Stran. Hence, triumvir ! 

Thy Cleopatra 's waiting. 

[The shade of Antony disappears: another rises. 

Am. Who is this ? 

Who truly looketh like a demi-god. 
Blooming and bright, with golden hair, and stat- 
ure. 
If not more high than mortal, yet immortal 
In all that nameless bearing of his limbs. 
Which he wears as the sun his rays— a something 
Which shines from him, and yet is but the flashing 
Emanation of a thing more glorious still. 
Was he e'er human only f t 

Stran. Let the earth speak. 

If there be atoms of him left, or even 
Of the more solid gold that formed his urn. 

Am. Who was this glory of mankind ? 

Stran. The shame 

Of Greece in peace, her thunderbolt in war — 



but his soul was all ^^rtue, and from within him came such 
divine and pathetic things as pierced the heai't, and drew 
tears from the hearers."— Plato. 

t " The beauty and mien of Demetrius Poliorcetes were so 
inimitable that no statuary or painter could hit off a like- 
ness.' '— P LUTARCH. 



243 



PART I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE I. 



Demetrius the Macedonian, and 
Taker of cities. 

Am. Yet one shadow more. 

Str an. (addressing the shadow). Get tliee to Lamia's 
lap ! 

[Jlie shade of Demetrius Poliorcetes vanishes: 
another rises. 

I '11 fit you still. - 
Fear not, my linnchback [ it the shadows of 
That which existed please not your nice taste, 
I '11 animate the ideal marble, till 
Your soul be reconciled to her new garment. 

Am. Content 1 I will fix here. 

Str an. I must commend 

Your choice. The godlike son of the sea-goddess, 
The unshorn boy of Peleus, with his locks 
As beautiful and clear as the amber waves 
Of rich Pactolus, roll'd o'er sands of gold, 
Soften'd by intervening crystal, and 
Eippled like flowing waters by t]ie wind, 
All vow'd to Sperchius as tl^ey were -behold them ! 
And him— as he stood by Polixena.' 
With sanction 'd and with soften'd love, before 
The altar, gazing on his Trojan bride, 
With some remorse within for Hector slain 
And Priam weeping, mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin, whose young hand 
Trembled in his who slew lier brother. So 
He stood i' the temple ! Look upon him as 
Greece look'd her last upon her best, the instant 
Ere Paris' arrow flew. 

Am. I gaze upon him 

As if I were his soul, whose form shall soon 
Envelop mine. 

Str an. You have done well. The greatest 

Deformity should only barter with 
The extremest beauty, if the proverb 's t]-ue 
Of mortals, that extremes meet. 

Am. Come! Be quick! 

l*am impatient. 

Strom. As a youthful beauty 

Before her gl a.ss. You both see what is not, 
But dream it is wdiat must be. 

Am. Must I wait ? 

Str an. No ; that were a pity. But a word or two : 
His stature is twelve cubits ; would you so far 
Outstep these times, and be a Titan ? Or 
(To talk canonically) wax a son 
OfAnakV 

Am. Why not ? 

Stran. Glorious am.bition ! 

I love thee most in dwarfs ! A mortal of 
Philistine stature would have gladly pared 
His own Goliath down to a slight David; 
But thou, my manikin, wouldst soar a show 
Bather than a hero. Thou shalt be indulged, 
If such be thy desire ; and yet, by being 
A little less removed from present men 
In figure, thou canst sway them more; for all 
Would rise against tliee nov/, as if to hunt 
A new-found mammoth : and their cursed engines. 
Their culverins, and so forth, would find way 
Through our friend's armor there, with greater ease 
Tlian the adulterer's arrow through his heel, 
Whicli Thetis had forgotten to baptize 
In Styx. 

Am. Then let it be as thou deem'st best. 

Stran. Thou shalt be beauteous as the thing thou 
seest. 
And strong as v/hat it was, and — - 

Am. I ask not 



For valor, since deformity is daring. 

It is its essence to o'ertake mankind 

By heart and soul, and make itself the equal — • 

Ay, the superior of the rest. There is 

A spur in its halt movements, to become 

All that the others cannot, in such things 

As still are free to both, to compensate 

For stepdame Nature's avarice at first. 

They woo with fearless deeds the smiles of fortune. 

And oft, like Timour the lame Tartar, win them.* 

Stran. Well spoken ! and thou doubtless wilt 
remain 
Form'd as tJiou art. I may dismiss the mould 
Of shadow, which must turn to flesh, to incase 
Tins daring soul, which could achieve no less 
Without it. 

Am. Had no power presented me 

The possibility of change, 1 would 
Have done the best whicli spirit may to make 
Its way with all deformity's dull, deadly, 
Discouraging weight upon me, like a mountain, 
In feeling, on my heart as on my shoulders — 
An hateful and unsightly Uiolehill, to 
The eyes of happier men'. I would have look'd 
On beauty in that sex which is tlie type 
Of all we know or dream of beautiful 
Beyond the world they brighten, with a sigh — 
Not of love, but despair; nor sought to win. 
Though to a heart all love, what could not love me 
In turn, because of this vile crooked clog. 
Which makes me lonely. Nay, I could have borne 
It all, had not my mother spurn'd me from her. 
Tlie she-bear licks her cubs into a sort 
Of shape ; — my dam beheld my shape v/as hopeless. 
Had she exposed me, like the Spartan, ere 
I knew the passionate part of life, I had 
Been a clod oi the valley,— happier nothing 
Tlian what I am. But even thus, the lowest, 
Ugliest, and meanest of mankind, what courage 
And perseverance could have done, perchance 
Had made me something — as it has made heroes 
Of the sam.e mould as mhie. You lately sav/ me 
Master of my own life, and quick to cjliit it; 
And he who is so is tlie master of » 

Whatever dreads to die. 

Stran. Decide between 

What you liave been, or will be. 

Am. I have done so. 

You have open'd brighter prospects to my eyes. 
And sweeter to my heart. As 1 am now, 
I might be fear'd, admired, respected, loved 
Of all save those next to me, of whom I 
Would be beloved. As thou showest me 
A choice of forms, I take the one I view. 
Haste ! haste ! 

Stran. And what shall I wear ? 

Ar7i. Surely, he 

Who can command all forms will choose the highest, 
Something superior even to that which was 
Pelides now before us. Perhaps his 
Who slew him, tliat of Paris: or— still higher— 
The poet's god, clothed in such limbs as are 
Themselves a poetry. 

Stran. Less will coutent me ; 

For I, too, love a change. 

Am. Your aspect is 

Dusky, but not uncomely. 

Stran. If I chose, 

I might be whiter; but I have a penchant 
For black— it is so honest, and besides 
Can neither blush with shame nor pale with fear ; 



* " Lord Byron's chief incentive, when a boy, to distinction, 
was that mark of deformity, by the acute sense of wliich he 
was first stung into the ambition of being- great. In one of 
his letters to Mr. Hunt, he declares it to be his own opinion 
that ' an addiction to poetry is very generally the result of an 
244 



uneasy mind in an uneasy body; disease or deformity,' he 
adds, ' have been the attendants of many of our best : Collins 
mad— Chatterton, I think, mad— Cowper ma(l— Pope crooked 
—Milton blind,' etc. etc." 



PART T. 



THE DEFORCED TRANSFORMED. 



SCENE I. 



But I have worn it loii^ enough of late, 
And now 1 '11 take your figure. 
Am. Mine ! 

Sir an. Yes. You 

Shall change with Thetis' son, and I with Bertha, 
Your mother's offspring. People have their tastes : 
You have yours— 1 mine. 
Am. Despatch! Despatch! 

btrm. Even so 

[The Stranger tahes some earth and moulds 
it along the turj\ and then addresses the 
phantom of Achilles. 
Beautiful shadow 
Of Thetis's boy ! 
Who sleeps in the meadow 

Whose grass grows o'er Troy : 
From the red earth, like Adaiii/ 

Thy likeness I shape, 
As the being who made him, 

Whose actions 1 ape. 
Thou clay, be all glowing. 
Till the rose in his cheek 
Be as fair as, when blowing, 

It wears its first streak ! 
Y'e violets, I scatter, 

iSTow turn into eyes ! 
And thou, sunshiny water. 
Of blood take the guise ! 
Let these hyacinth boughs 
Be his long flowing hair, 
And w^ave o'er his brows. 
As thou wavest in air ! 
Let his heart be this marble 

I tear from the rock ! 
But his voice as the warble 

Of birds on yon oak ! 
Let his flesh be the purest 

Of mould, in which grew 
The lily-root surest, 

And drank the best dew ! 
Let his limbs be the lightest 
Which clay can compound, 
And his aspect the brightest 

On earth to be found ! 
Elements, near me, 

Be mingled and stirr'd, 
Know me, and hear me. 
And leap to my word! 
Sunbeams, awaken 

This earth's animation ! 
'T is done ! He hath taken 
His stand in creation ! 
[Arnold falls senseless; his soul passes into the 
shape of Achilles, which rises from the ground ; 
ichile the phantom has disappeared , part hy 
part, as the figure was formed from the earth. 
Am. {in his new form). I love, and I shall be be- 
loved ! Oh, life ! 
At last I feel thee ! Glorious spirit ! 

St ran. Slop I 

What shall become of your abandon'd garment. 
Yon hump, and lump, and clod of ugliness, 
Which late you wore, or were V 

Am. Who cares ? Let wolves 

And vultures take it, if they w^U. 

Stran. And if 

They do, and are not scared by it, you '11 say 
It must be peace-time, and no better fare 
Abroad i' the fields. 

Am. Let us but leave it there ; 

l!s o matter what becomes on 't. 

Stran. That 's ungracious, 

If not ungrateful. Whatsoe'er it be, 
It hath sustain'd your soul full many a day. 

* Adara means '' red earth," from Avhich the fii'St man ^vas 
lormed. 



Am. Ay, as the dunghill may conceal a gem 
Which is now set in gold, as jewels should be. 

Stran. But if I give another form, it must be 
By fair exchange, not robbery. For they 
Who make men without women's aid have long 
Had patents for the same, and do not love 
Your interlopers. The devil may take men, 
Xot make them, — though he reap the benefit 
Of the original workmanship: — and therefore 
Some one must be found to assume the shape 
You have quitted. 
Am. Who would do so ? 

Stran. That I knovv' not, 

Aud therefore I must. 
Am. You ! 

Stran. I said it ere 

You inhabited your present dome of beauty. 

Am. True. I forget all things in the new joy 
Of this immortal change. 

Stran. In a few moments 

L will be as you were, and you shall see 
Youi-self for ever by you, cis your shadow. 
Am. I would be spared this. 
Stran. But it cannot be. 

Wliat! shrink already, being what you are, 
From seeiiig wliat you were ? 
Am. Do as thou wilt. 

Stran. {to the late form of Arnold, extend.ed on the 
earth). 
Clay! not dead, but soulless! 

Though no man would choose thee, 
An innnortal no less 

Deigns not to refuse thee. 
Clay thou art ; and unto spirit 
All cUiy is of equal merit. 
Fire ! without which nought can live ; 
Fire ! but in which nought can live, 
Save the fabled salamander, 
Or immortal souls, which wander, 
Praying what doth not forgive, 
Howling for a drop of water. 

Burning in a quenchless lot : 
Fire ! the only element 
Where nor fish, beast, bird, nor ^vorm. 

Save the worm which dieth not, 
Can preserve a moment's form, 
But must with thyvSelf be blent : 
Fire! man's safeguard and his slaughter: 
Fire! Creation's fii*st-born daughter. 
And Destruction's threaten'd son. 
When heaven with the world hath done: 
Fire ! assist me to renew 
Life in what lies in mv view 

Stiff and cold ! 
His resurrection rests with me and you! 
One little, marshy spark of flame— 
And he again shall b^eem the same ; 
But I his spirit's place shall hold ! 
[An ignis-fatuus flits through the wood and rests 
on the hrow of the hodij. The Stranger disap- 
Xjears : the hodij rises. 
Am. {'n his new form). Oh! horrible! 
Stran. {in ArnoWs late shape). What ! tremblest 

thou ? 
Am. E'ot so — 

I merely shudder. Where is fled the shape 
Thou lately worest V 

Stran. To the Avorld of shadows. 

But let us thread the present. AV hither wilt thou? 
Am. Must thou be my companion ? 
Stran. Wherefore not ? 

Your betters keep worse company. 
Am. Mif betters ! 

Stran. Oh! you wax proud, I see, of your new 
form : 
I 'm glad of that. Ungrateful too ! That 's well; 
Y"ou improve apace ;— tw^o changes in an instant, 
245 



PAET I. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. scene it. 



And you are old in the world's ways already. 
But bear with me: indeed you '11 find me useful 
Upon your pilgrimage. But come, pronounce 
Wiiere shall we now be errant ? 

Am. Wliere the world 

Is thickest, that I may behold it in 
Its workings. 

Stran. Tliat 's to say, where there is war 

And woman in activity. Let 's see ! 
Spain — Italy— the new"Atlantic world — 
Afric, with all its Moors. In very truth, 
There is small choice : the whole race are just now 
Tugging as usual at each other's hearts. 

Am. I have heard great things of Rome. 

Stran. A goodly choice— 

And scarce a better to be found on eartii. 
Since Sodom was put out. The field is wide too ; 
For now the Frank, and Him, and Spanish scion 
Of the old Vandals, are at play along 
The sunny shores of the world's garden. 

Am. How 

Shall we proceed ? 

Stran. Like gallants, on good coursers. 

Wliat, ho ! my chargers ! IsTever yet were better, 
Since Phaeton was upset into the Po. 
Our pages too ! 

Enter two Pages, with four coal-black horses. 

A7m. A noble sight ! 

Stran. And of 

A nobler breed. Match me in Barbary, 
Or your Kochlini race of Araby, 
With these ! 

Am. The mighty steam, which volumes high 
From their proud nostrils, burns the very air ; 
And sparks of flame, like dancing fire-flies, wheel 
Around their manes, as common insects swarm 
Round common steeds towards sunset. 

Stran. Mount, my lord: 

They and I are your servitors. 

Am. And these 

Our dark-eyed pages — what may be their names ? 

Stran. You shall baptize them. 

Am. What ! in holy water ? 

6'iran. Why not ? The deeper sinner, better saint. 

Am. They are beautiful, and cannot, sure, be 
demons. 

Stran. True ; the devil 's always ugly ; and your 
beauty 
Is never diabolical. 

Am. ' I '11 call him 

Who bears the golden horn, and wears such bright 
And blooming aspect, Huon ; for he looks 
Like to the lovely boy lost in the forest. 
And never foundtill now. And for the other, 
And darker, and more thoughtful, avIio smiles not, 
But looks as serious though serene as night, 
He shall be Memnon. from the Ethiop king 
Whose statue turns a harper once a day. 
And you ? 

Stran. I have ten thousand names, and twice 
As many attributes ; but as I wear 
jA human shape, will take a human name. 
I Am. More human than the shape (though it was 

mine once), 
I trust. 

Stran. Then call me Caesar. 

Am. Why, that name 

Belongs to empires, and has been but borne 
By the world's lords. 

Stran. And therefore fittest for 

The devil in disguise— since so you deem me. 
Unless you call me pope instead. 

Am. Well, then, 

Ca:^sar thou shalt be. For myself, my name 
Shall be plain Arnold still. 

Cces. We '11 add a title— 

24G 



" Count Arnold: " it hath no ungracious sound, 
And will look well upon a billet-doux. 

Am. Or in an order for a battle-field. 

Cces. (sings). To horse! to horse! my coal-black 
steed 
Paws the ground and snuffs the air ! 

There 's not' a foal of Arab's breed 
More knows whom he must bear; 

On the hill he will not tire, 

Swifter as it waxes higher ; 

In the marsh he will not slacken. 

On the plain be overtaken ; 

In the wave he will not sink, 

Nor pause at the brook's side to drink ; 

In the race he will not pant. 

In the combat lie '11 not faint I 

On the stones he will not stumble, 

Time nor toil shall make him humble ; 

In the stall he v/ill not stiffen. 

But be winged as a griffin. 

Only flying with his feet : 

And will not such a voyage be sweet ? 

Merrily! merrily! never unsound. 

Shall our bonny black horses skim over the ground ! 

From the Alps to the Caucasus, ride we, or fly ! 

For we '11 leave them behind in the glance of an 
eye. 

[They mount their horses and disappear. 



SCENE 11.—^ Cam2) before the Walls of Borne. 

Arnold and Csesar. 

Cces. You are well enter'd now. 

Am. Ay ; but my path 

Has been o'er carcasses: mine eyes are full 
Of blood. 

Cces. Then wipe them, and see clearly. Why ! 
Thou art a conqueror ; the chosen knight 
And free companion of the gallant Bourbon, 
Late constable of France : and now to be 
Lord of the city which hath been earth's lord 
Under its emperors, and — changing sex, 
Not sceptre, an hermaphrodite of empire— 
Lady of the old world. 

Am. How old f What ! are there 

JS'ew worlds ? 

Cces. To you. You '11 find there are such shortly, 
By its rich harvests, new disease, and gold ; 
From one half of the world nahned a ichole new one, 
Because you know no better than the dull 
And dubious notice of your eyes and ears. 

Am. 1 '11 trust them. 

Cces. Do ! They will deceive you sweetly, 

And that is better than the bitter truth. 

Am. Dog! 

Cces. Man I 

Am. Devil ! ^ 

Cces. Your obedient humble servant. 

Am. Say ?7ia.9fer rather. Thou hast lured me on, 
Through scenes of blood and lust, till I am here. 

Cces. And where wouldst thou be ? 

Am. Oh, at peace— in peace. 

Cces. And wiiere is that which is so ? From the 
To the winding worm, all life is motion ; and [star 
In life commotion is the extremest point 
Of life. The planet wheels till it becomes 
A comet, and destroying as it sweeps 
The stars, goes out. The poor worm winds its way, 
Living upon the death of other things. 
But still, like them, must live and die, the subject 
Of something which has made it live and die. 
You must obey what all obey, the rule 
Of fix 'd necessity : against lier edict 
Rebellion prospers not. 

Am. And when it prospers 

Cces. 'T is no rebellion. 



i 



PAET T. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. scene ti. 



Am. Will it prosper now ? 

Cces. The Bourbon hath given orders for the as- 
sault, 
And by the dawn there will be work. 

Am. Alas! 

And shall the city yield ? I see the giant 
Abode of the true God, and his true saint, 
Saint Peter, rear its dome and cross into 
That sky whence Christ ascended from the cross, 
Which his blood made a badge of glory and 
Of joy (as once of torture unto him, 
God and God's Son, man's sole and only refuge). 

Cces. 'T ig there, and shall be. 

Am.. What ? 

Cces. The crucifix 

Above, and many altar shrines below. 
Also some culverins upon the walls, 
And harquebusses, and what not ; besides 
The men who are to kindle them to death 
Of other men. 

Am. And those scarce mortal arches, 

Pile above pile of everlasting wall. 
The theatre where emperors and their subjects 
(Those subjects Bomnns) stood at gaze upon 
The battles of the monarchs of the wild 
And wood, the lion and his tusky rebels 
Of the then untamed desert, brought to joust 
In the arena (as right well they might. 
When they had left no human foe unconquer'd) ; 
Made even the forest pay its tribute of 
Life to their amphitheatre, as well 
As Dacia men to die the eternal death 
For a sole instant's pastime, and " Pass on 
To a new gladiator ! "—Must it fall ? 

Cces. The city, or the amphitheatre ? 
The church, or one, or all ? for you confound 
Both them and me. 

Am. To-morrow sounds the assault 

With the first cock-crow. 

Cces. Which, if it end with 

The evening's first nightingale, will be 
Something new in the annals of great sieges ; 
For men must have their prey after long toil. 

Am. The sun goes down as calmly, and perhaps 
More beautifully, than he did on Rome 
On the day Remus leapt her wall. 

Cces. I saw him. 

Am. You! 

Cms. Yes, sir. You forget 1 am or was 
Spirit, till I took up with your cast shape 
And a worse name. I 'm Caesar and a hunchback 
Now. Well ! the first of Csesars was a bald-head. 
And loved his laurels better as a wig 
(So history says) than as a glory.* Thus 
The world runs on, but we '11 be merry still. 
I saw your Romulus (simple as I am) 
Slay his own twin, quickborn of the same womb, 
Because he leapt a ditch ('t was then no wall, 
Whate'er it now be) ; and Rome's earliest cement 
Was brother's blood ; and if its native blood 
Be spilt till the choked Tiber be as red 
As e'er 't was yellow, it will never wear , 
The deep hue of the ocean and the earth, 
Which the great robber sons of fratricide 
Have made their never-ceasing scene of slaughter 
For ages. 

Am. But what have these done, their far 
Remote descendants, who have lived in peace, 
The peace of heaven, and in her sunshine of 
Piety ? 

Ccjes. And what had they done, whom the old 
Romans o'erswept ? — Hark ! 

* Suetonius relates of Julius Caesar that his baldness gave 
him much uneasiness, having- often found.himself, upon that 
account, exposed to the ridicule of his enemies ; and that, 
therefore, of all the honors conferred upon him by the senate 



Am. They are soldiers singing 

A reckless roundelay, upon theweve 
Of many deaths, it may be of their own. 

Cces. And why should they not sing as well as 
swans ? 
They are black ones, to be sure. 

Am. So, you are learn 'd, 

I see, too ? 

Ccies. In my grammar, certes. I 

Was educated for a monk of all times. 
And once I was well versed in the forgotten 
Etruscan letters, and — were I so minded — 
Could make their hieroglyphics plainer than 
Your alphabet. 

Arn. And wherefore do you not ? 

Cces. It answers better to resolve the alphabet 
Back into hieroglyphics. Like your statesman, 
And prophet, pontiif , doctor, alchemist, 
Pliilosopher, and what not, they have built 
More Babels, without new dispersion, than 
The stammering young ones of the flood's dull 

ooze. 
Who fail'd and fled each other. Why V why, marry. 
Because no man could understand his neighbor. 
They are wiser now, and will not separate 
For nonsense. Nay, it is their brotherhood, 
Their Shibboleth, their Koran, Talmud, their 
Cabala; their best brick-work, wherewithal 
They build more 

Am. [interrupting him). Oh, thou everlasting 
sneerer ! 
Be silent ! How the soldiers' rough strain seems 
Soften 'd by distance to a hymn-like cadence I 
Listen 1 

Cces. Yes. I have heard the angels sing. 

Am. And demons howl. 

Coe,s. And man, too. Let us listen : 

I love all music. 

Song of the Soldiers within. 
The black bands came over 

The Alps and their snow ; 
With Bourbon, the rover. 

They pass'd the broad Po. 
We have beaten all foemen, 

We have captured a king. 
We have turn'd back on no men, 

And so let us sing ! 
Here 's the Bourbon for ever! 

Though penniless all, 
We '11 have one more endeavor 

At yonder old wall. 
With the Bourbon we '11 gather 

At day-dawn before 
The gates, and together 

Or break or climb o'er 
The wall : on the ladder 

As mounts each firm foot, 
Our shout shall grow gladder, 

And death only be mute. 
With the Bourbon we'll mount o'er 

The walls of old Rome, 
And who then shall count o'er 

The spoils of each dome ? 
Up ! up with the lily ! 

And down with the keys ! 
In old Rome, the seven-hilly, 

We '11 revel at ease. 
Her streets shall be gory, 

Her Tiber all red, 
And her temples so hoary 

Shall clang with our tread. 



and people, there was none which he either accepted or used 
vv^ith so much pleasure as the right of wearing- constantly a 
laurel crown. 



247 



PAKT r. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



SCENE II. 



Oh, the Bourbon ! the Bourboii I 

The Bourbon for aye ! 
Of our song bear the burden ! 

And fire, fire away ! 
With Spain for the vanguard, 

Our varied host comes ; 
And next to the Spaniard 

Beat Germany's drums ; 
And Italy's lances 

Are couch 'd at their mother; 
But our leader from France is. 

Who warr'd with his brother. 
Oh, the Bourbon! the Bourbon! 

Sans country or home. 
We '11 follow the Bourbon, 

To plunder old Eome. 

CcjRS. An indifferent song 

For those within the walls, methinks, to hear. 

Am. Yes, if they keep to their chorus. But 
here comes 
The general with his chiefs and men of trust. 
A goodly rebel ! 

EnUr the Constable Bourbon ;"^ " cum suis^^^ etc., etc. 

Phil. How now, noble prince. 

You are not cheerful ? 

Bourh. Why should I be so ? 

Phil. Upon the eve of conquest, such as ours. 
Most men would be so. 

Bourh. If I were secure ! 

Phil. Doubt not our soldiers. Were the walls of 
adamant. 
They 'd crack them. Hunger is a sharp artillery. 

Bourh. That they v\nll falter is my least of fears. 
That they will be repulsed, with Bourbon for 
Their chief, and all their kindled appetites 
To marshal them on— were those hoary walls 
Mountains, and those who guard them like the 

gods 
Of the old fables, I would trust my Titans ;— 
But now 

Phil. They are but men who war with mortals. 

Bourh. True: but those walls have girded in 
great ages. 
And sent forth mighty spirits. The past earth 
And present phantom of imperious Rome 
Is peopled with those warriors ; and methinks 
They flit along the eternal city's rampart, 
And stretch their glorious, gory, shadowy hands, 
And beckon me away ! 

Phil. So let them I Wilt thou 

Turn back from shadowy menaces of shadows ? 

Bourh. They do not menace me. I could have 
faced, 
Methinks, a Sylla's menace ; but they clasp, 
And raise, and wring their dim and deathlike 

hands. 
And with their thin aspen faces and fix'd eyes 
Fascinate mine. Look there ! 

Phil. I look upon 

A lofty battlement. 

Bourh. And there ! 

Phil. 'Not even 

A guard in sight ; they wisely keep below, 
Shelter'd by the gray parapet from some 
Stray bullet of our lansquenets, who might 
Practice in the cool twilight. 

Bourh. You are blind. 

Phil. If seeing nothing more than may be seen 
Be so. 

Bourh. A thousand years have mann'd the walls 
With all their heroes, — the last Cato stands 
And tears his bowels, rather than survive 

* Charles of Boui-bon was cousin to Francis I., and consta- 
ble of France. Being- bitterlj^ persecuted by the queen-mother 
248 



The liberty of that I would enslave. . 
And the first Caesar with his triumphs Hits 
From battlement to battlement. 

PhiL Then conquer 

The walls for which he conquer'd, and be greater ! 

Bourh. True : so I will, or perish. 

Phil. You can not. 

In such an enterprise to die is rather 
The dawn of an eternal day, than death. 

[Count Arnold and CcEsar advance. 

Cces. And the mere men— do they too sweat 
beneath 
The noon of this same ever-scorching glpry ? 

Bourh. Ah! 

Welcome the bitter hunchback ! and his master. 
The beauty of our host, and brave as beauteous. 
And generous as lovely. We shall find 
Work for you both ere morning. 

C(Es. You will find, 

So please your highness, no less for yourself. 

Bourh. And if I do, tliere will not be a laborer 
More forw^ard, hunchback ! 

Cces. You may well say so, 

For you have seen that back — as general. 
Placed in the rear in action — but your foes 
Have never seen it. 

Bourh. Til at 's a fair retort. 

For I provoked it :— but the Bourbon's breast 
Plas been, and ever shall be, far advanced 
In danger's face as yours, were you the devil. 

Ccp.s. And. if I were, I might have saved myself 
The toil of coming here. 

Phil. Why so ? 

Cces. One-half 

Of your brave bands of their owni bold accord 
Will go to him, the other half be sent. 
More sw'iftly, not less surely. 

Bourh. Arnold, your 

Slight crook'd friend 's as snake-like in his words 
As his deeds. 

Cces. Your highness much mistakes me. 

The first snake was a flatterer — I am none ; 
And for my deeds, I only sting wlien stung. 

Bourh. You are brave, and that 's enough for me ; 
and quick 
In speech as sharp in action — and that 's more. 
I am not alone a soldier, but the soldier's 
Comrade. 

Cces. They are but bad company, your highness: 
And worse even for their friends than foes, as 

being 
More permanent acquaintance. 

Phil. How now, feUow I 

Thou w^axest insolent, beyond the privilege 
Of a buffoon. 

Ccps. You mean I speak the truth. 

I '11 lie— it is as easy : then you '11 praise me 
For calling you a hero. 

Bourh. Philibert ! 

Let him alone ; he 's brave, and ever has 
Been first, with that swart face and momitam 

shoulder, 
In field or storm, and patient in starvation ; 
And for his tongue, the camp is full of license, 
And the sharp stinging of a lively rogue 
Is, to my mind, far preferable to 
The gross, dull, heavy, gloomy execration 
Of a mere famish'd, sullen, grumbling slave, 
Whom nothing can convince save a full meal, 
And wine, and sleep, and a few maravedis, 
AVith which he deems him rich. 

Cces. It would be well 

If the earth's princes ask'd no more. 

Bourh. Be silent! 



I 



for having- declined the honor of her hand, and aisobythe 
king, he transferred his services to the emperor Charles V. 



PART TI. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. 



SCENE I. 



C(2s. Ay, but not idle. Work yourself with 
words ! 
You have few to speak. 

Phil. Wliat means the audacious prater? 

Cms. To prate, like other prophets. 

Bourh. Philibert! 

Why will you vex him ? Have we not enoii,2;h 
To think on ? Arnold ! I will lead the attack 
To-morrow. 

Am. I have heard as much, my lord. 

Bourh. And you will follow ? 

Am. Since I must not lead. 

Bourh. 'T is necessary for the fnrther daring 
Of our too needy army, that tlieir chief 
Plant the first foot upon the foremost ladder's 
First step. 

Cces. Upon its topmost, let us hope : 

So shall he have his full deserts. 

Bourh. The world's 

Great capital perchance is ours to-morrow. 
Through every changje the seven-hill'd city hath 
Retain 'd her sway o'er nations, and the Csesars 
But yielded to the Alarics, the Alarics 
Unto the pontiffs. Roman, Goth, or priest. 
Still the world's masters ! Civilized, barbarian, 
Or saintly, still the walls of Romulus 
Have been the circus of an empire. Well ! 
'T was their turn— now 't is ours ; and let us hope 
That we will fight as well, and rule much better. 

Cces. Xo doubt, the camp's the school of civic 
rights. 
What would you make of Rome V 

Bourh. That which it was, 

Cces. In Alaric's time ? 

Bourh. No, slave ! in the first Csesar's, 
Whose name you bear like other curs 

Cces. And kings ! 

'Tis a great name for blood-hounds. 

Bourh. ' There 's a demiOn 

In that fierce rattlesnake thy tongue. Wilt never 
Be serious ? 

Cces. On the eve of battle, no ; — 

That were not soldier-like. 'T is for the general 
To be more pensive : we adventurers 
Must be more cheerful. Wherefore should we 
think ? 



Our tutelar deity, in a leader's shape, 
Takes care of us. Keep thought aloof from hosts ! 
If the knaves take to thinking, you will have 
To crack those walls alone. 

Bourh. You may sneer, since 

'T is lucky for you that you fight no worse for 't. 

Cces. I thank you for the freedom ; 't is the only 
Pay I have taken in your highness' service. 

JBourh. Well, sir, to-morrow you shall pay your- 
self. 
Look on those towers ; they hold my treasury ; 
But, Philibert, we '11 in to council. Arnold, 
We would request your presence. 

Am. ' Prince ! my service 

Is yours, as in the field. 

Bourh. In both we prize it. 

And yours will be a post of trust at daybreak. 

Ccp-s. And mine ? 

Bourh. To follow glory with the Bourbon. 

Good-night ! 

Am. {to Ccesar). Prepare our armor for tiie 
assault. 
And wait within my tent. 

[Exeunt Bourhon, Arnold, Philihert, etc. 

Cces. [sohis). Within thy tent ! 

Think'st thou that I pass from thee with my pres- 
ence V 
Or that this crooked coffer, wliich contain 'd 
Thy principle of life, is aught to me 
Except a mask ? And these are men, forsooth ! 
Heroes and chiefs, the flower of Adam's bastards ! 
This is the consequence of giving matter 
The power of thought. It is a stubborn substance, 
And thinks chaotically, as it acts. 
Ever relapsing into its first elements. 
Well ! I must play with these poor puppets : 't is 
The spirit's pastime in his idler hours. 
When I grow weary of it, I have business 
Amongst the stars, which these poor creatures deem 
Were made for them to look at. 'T were a jest now 
To bring one down amongst them, and set fire 
Unto their ant-hill : how the pismires then 
Would scamper o'er the-scalding soil, and, ceasing 
From tearing down each other's nests, pipe forth 
One universal orison ! Ha ! ha 1 

[Exit Ccesar. 



PART IT. 



SCENE 1.— Before the Walls of Borne.— The As- 
sault : the Army in motion, with ladders to scale the 
walls ; Bourbon, with a white scarf over his armor, 
foremost. 

Cliorus of Spirits in the air. 

1. 

'T is the morn, but dim and dark. 

Whither flies the silent lark V 
Whither shrinks the clouded sun ? 
Is the day indeed begun ? 
Nature's eye is melancholy 
O'er the city high and holy: 
But without there is a din 
Should arouse the saints within, 
And revive the heroic ashes 
Round which yellow Tiber dashes. 
Oh, ye seven hills ! awaken. 
Ere your very base be shaken ! 

2. 
Hearken to the steady stamp I 
Mars is in their every tramp I 
Not a step is out of tune. 
As the tides obey the moon I 



On they march, though to self-slaughter, 

Regular as rolling water, 

Whose high waves o'ersweep the border 

Of huge moles, but keep their order, 

Breaking only rank by rank. 

Hearken to the armor's clank ! 

Look down o'er each frowning warrior, 

How he glares upon the barrier : 

Look on each step of each ladder. 

As the stripes that streak an adder. 

3. 
Look upon the bristling wall, 
Mann'd without an interval! 
Round and round, and tier on tier, 
Cannon's black mouth, shining spear, 
Lit match, bell-mo uth'd musketoon. 
Gaping to be murderous soon ; 
All the warlike gear of old, 
Mix'd with what we now behold, 
In this strife 'twixt old and new. 
Gather like a locusts' crew. 
Shade of Remus! 'tis a time 
Awful as thy brother's crime ! 
Christians war against Christ's shrine : — 
Must its lot be like to thine ? 
249 



PART IT. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE T. 



4. 

Near — and near— and nearer still, 

As the earthquake saps the hill, 

First with trembling, hollow motion, 

Like a scarce-a waken 'd ocean, 

Then with stronger shock, and louder, 

Till the rocks are crush 'd to powder, — 

Onward sweeps the rolling host ! 

Heroes of the immortal boast ! 

Mighty chiefs I eternal shadows ! 

First flowers of the bloody meadows 

Which encompass ;^ome, the mother 

Of a people without brother ! 

Will you sleep when nations' quarrels 

Plough the root up of your laurels ? 

Ye who weep o'er Carthage burning, 

Weep not — strike I for Kome is mourning I * 

5. 

Onward sweep the varied nations ! 
Famine long hath dealt their rations. 
To the wall, with hate and hunger, 
Numerous as wolves, and stronger, 
On they sweep. Oh, glorious city. 
Must thou be a theme for pity ? 
Fight, like your first sire, each Eoman I 
Alaric was a gentle foeman, 
Match'd with Bourbon's black banditti I 
Rouse thee, thou eternal city ; 
Rouse thee ! Rather give the torch 
With thine own hand to thy porch. 
Than behold such hosts pollute 
YoiiT worst dwelling with their foot. 



6. 

Ah I behold yon bleeding spectre I 
Ilion's children find no Hector ; 
Priam's offspring loved their brother ; 
Rome's great sire forgot liis mother, 
When he slew his gallant twin, 
With inexpiable sin. 
See the giant shadow stride 
O'er the ramparts high and wide I 
When the first o'erleapt thy wall. 
Its foundation mourn'd thy fall. 
Now, though towering like a Babel, 
Who to stop his steps are able ? 
Stalking o'er thy highest dome, 
Remus claims his vengeance, Rome I 



Now they reach thee in their anger: 
Fire and smoke and hellish clangor 
Are around thee, thou world's wonder I 
Death is in thy w^alls and under. 
Now the meeting steel first clashes. 
Downward thenthe ladder crashes, 
With its iron load all gleaming. 
Lying at its foot blaspheming ! 
Up again ! for every warrior 
Slain, another climbs the barrier. 
Thicker grows the strife ; tliy ditches 
Europe's mingling gore enriches. 
Rome ! although thy wall may perish. 
Such manure thy fields will cherish, 
Making gay the harvest-home ; 
But thy hearths, alas ! oh, Rome ! — 
Yet be Rome amidst thine anguish. 
Fight as thou wast wont to vanquish ! 

* Scipio, the second Africanns, is said to have repeated a 
verse of Homer, and wept over the bui-ning of Carthag-e. Ko 
had better have granted it a capitulation. 

t "Finding himself mortallj'^ wounded, Bayard ordered one 
of his attendants to place him under a tree with his face to- 
250 



Yet once more, ye old Penates I 

Let not your quench 'd heartlis be Ate 'si 

Yet again, ye shadowy heroes, 

Yield not to these stranger Neros! 

Though the son who slew his mother 

Shed Rome's blood, he was your brother: 

'T was the Eoman curb'd tlie Roman ; — 

Brennus was a baflled foeman. 

Yet again, ye saints and martyrs. 

Rise ! for yours are holier charters 1 

Mighty goVls of temples falling. 

Yet in ruin still appalling 1 

Mightier founders of those altars, 

True and Christian,— strike the assaulters 1 

Tiber ! Tiber ! let thy torrent 

Show even nature's self abhorrent. 

Let each breathing heart dilated 

Turn, as doth the lion baited ! 

Rome be crush 'd to one wide tomb, 

But be still the Roman's Rome I 

Bourbon, Arnold, Caesar, and others, arrive at the 
foot of the ivall. Arnold is about to plant his ladder. 

Bourh. Hold, Arnold I I am first. 
Am. Not so, my lord. 

Bourh. Hold, sir, I charge you ! Follow I I am 
proud 
Of such a follower, but will brook no leader. 

[Bourhon plants his ladder, and begins to mount. 
Now, boys I On ! on ! 

[A shot striJces him, and Bourbon falls. 
Cces. And off ! 

Am. Eternal powers ! 

The host will be appall'd,— but vengeance! ven- 
geance ! 
Bourh. 'T is nothing — lend me your hand. 

[Bourbon takes' Arnold by the hand, and rises; 
but as he yuts his foot on the step, falls again. 
Arnold !' I am sped. 
Conceal my fall — all will go well — conceal it I 
Fling my cloak o'er what wall be dust anon; 
Let not the soldiers see it. 
Am. You must be 

Removed ; the aid of 

Bourb. No, my gallant boy ; 

Death is upon me. But what is one life ? 
The Bourbon's spirit shall command them still. 
Keep them yet ignorant that I am but clay. 
Till they are conquerors — then do as you may. 
Cces. Would not your highness choose to kiss the 
cross ? 
We have no priest here, but the hilt of sword 
May serve instead: — it did the same for Bayard. f 
Bourb. Thou bitter slave 1 to name him at this 
time! 
But I deserve it. 
Am. {to Caesar). Villain, hold your peace! 
Co'.s. What, when a Christian dies ? Shall I not 
offer 
A Christian " Vade in pace " ? 

Am. Silence! Ohl 

Those eyes are glazing which o'erlook'd the w^orld, 
And saw no equal. 
Bourb. Arnold, shouldst thou see 

France But hark! hark! the assault grows 

warmer— Oh ! 
For but an hour, a minute more of life, 
To die within the wall ! Hence, Arnold, hence ! 
You lose time — they will conquer Rome without 
thee. 



wards the enemy: then, fixing his eyes on the ^uard of his 
sword, which he held up instead of a cross, he addressed his 
prayers to God, and in this posture he calmly waited the ap- 
proach of death."— Robertson, Charles V. 



PART II. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE II. 



Am. And without thee, ! 

Bourh. Not so ; I '11 lead them still 

In spirit. Cover up my dust, and breathe not 
That I have ceased to breathe. Away! and be 
Victorious ! 
Am. But I must not leave thee thus. 

Bourh. You must— farewell— Up ! lip ! the world 
is winning. [IJoiirhon dies.^ 

Goes, [to Arnold). Come, comit, to business. 
Am. True. I '11 wee]) hereafter. 

\^Amold covers Bourhon^s hodi/ with a mantle, 
and mounts the ladder, crywg 
The Bourbon ! Bourbon ! On, boys ! Kome is ours ! 
Gees. Good night, lord constable ! thou WTxt a 
man. 
[Gocsar folloivs Arnold; they reach the hattle- 
ment; Arnold and Ccesar are stmclt down. 
Gees. A precious somerset ! Is your countship 

injured ? 
Am. Ko. [JRemounts the ladder. 

Gees. A rare blood-hound, wlien his own is heated ! 
And 't is no boy's play. Now he strikes them down ! 
His hand is on the battlement— he grasps it 
As though it were an altar; uow his foot 

Is on it, and What have we here ':' — a Eoman ? 

[A man falls. 
The first bird of the covey! he has fallen 
On the outside of the nest. Why. how now, fellow? 
Wounded Man. A drop of water ! 
Gees. Blood 's the only liquid 

Nearer than Tiber. 

Wounded Man. I have died for Eome. [Dies. 
Gees. And so did Bourbon, in another sense. 
Oh these immortal men ! and their great motives! 
But I must after my young charge. He is 
By this time i' the forum. Charge ! charge ! 

[Gcesar mounts the ladder; the scene closes. 



SCENE 11.— The Gity.—Gomhats between the Be- 
siegers and Besieged in the streets. Inhabitants 
flying in confusion. 

Enter Csesar. 
Gees. I cannot find my hero; he is mix'd 
With the heroic crowd that now ]>ursue 
The fugitives, or battle with the desperate. 
What have we here ? A cardinal or two 
That do not seem in love with martyrdom. 
How the old red-shanks scamper ! Could they doff 
Their hose as they have doff'd their hats, 'twould be 
A blessing, as a mark the less for plunder. 
But let them fly ; the crimson kennels now 
Will not much stain their stockings, since the mire 
Is of the self -same purple hue. 

Enter a Party fighting. — Arnold at the head of the 
Besiegers. 

He comes. 
Hand in hand with the mild twins— Gore and Glory. 
Holla ! hold, count ! 
Am. Away ! they must not rally. 

Gees. I tell thee, be not rash ; a golden bridge 
Is for a flying enemy. I gave thee 



* " On the 1st of May, 1527, the Constable and his army came 
in sight of Rome, and the next morning commenced the at- 
tack. Bourhon wore a white vest over his armor, in order, 
he said, to be more conspicuous both to his fi-iends and foes. 
He led on to the walls, and commenced a furious assault, 
which was repelled with equal violence. Seeing- that his 
army began to Tjj^ver, he seized a scaling-ladder from a sol- 
dier standing, and was in the act of ascending, when he was 
pierced by a musket-ball, and fell. Feeling that his wound 
was mortal, he desired that his body might be concealed from 
his soldiers, and instantly expired." — Robertson, 

+ " Levelling my arquebuse," says Benvenuto Cellini, "I 
discharged it with a deliberate aim at a person who seemed 



A form of beauty, and an 

Exemption from some maladies of body. 

But not of mind, which is not mine to give. 

But though I gave the form of Thetis' son, 

I dipt thee not in Styx ; and 'gainst a foe 

I would not warrant thy chivalric heart 

More than Pelides' heel ; wiiy then, be cautious, 

And know thyself a mortal still. 

Am. And who 

With aught of soul would combat if he were 
Invulnerable V That were pretty sport. 
Think 'st thou I beat for hares when lions roar? 

[Arnold rushes into the combat. 

Gees. A precious sample of humanity ! 
Well, his blood 's up : aiid if a little 's'shed, 
'T will serve to curb his fever. 

[Aryiold engages with a Boman, who retires to- 
wards a portico. 

Am. Yield thee, slave ! 

I promise quarter. 

Bom. That 's soon said. 

Am. And done — 

My word is known. 

Bom. So shall be my deeds. 

[TJiey re-engage. Gcesar comes forionrd. 

Gees. Why, Arnold! "hold thine own; thou hast 
in hand 
A famous artisan, a cunning sculptor; 
Also a dealer in the sword and dagger. 
Not so, my musketeer ; 't was he who slew 
The Bourbon from the wall. 

Am. Ay, did he so ? 

Then he hath carved his monument. 

Bom. I yet 

May live to carve your betters'. 

Gees. Well said, my man of marble ! Benvenuto, 
Thou hast some practice in both ways ; and he 
Who slays Cellini will have work'd as hard 
As e'er thou didst upon Carrara's blocks.! 

[Arnold disarms and icounds Gellini, hut 
slightly : the latter dravjs a jnstol, and 
fires ; then retires, and disappears through 
^the portico. 

Gees. How farest thou ? Thou hast a taste, me- 
thinks. 
Of red Bellona's banquet. 

Am. {staggers). 'T is a scratch. 

Lend me thy scarf. He shall not 'scape me thus. 

Ga3s. Where is it ? 

Am. In the shoulder, not the sword arm. — 

And that 's enough. I am thirsty : would I had 
A helm of water ! 

Gees. That 's a liquid now 

In requisition, but by no means easiest 
To come at. 

Am. And my thirst increases ;— but 

I '11 find a way to quench it. 

Gees. Or be quench 'd 

Thyself. 

Am. The chance is even ; we will throw 
The dice thereon. But I lose time in prating ; 
Prithee be quick. [Gcesar binds on the scarf. 

And what dost thou so idly Y 
Why dost not strike ? 



to be lifted above the rest ; but the mist prevented me from 
distinguishing whether he was on horseback or on foot. Then 
turning suddenly about to Alessandro and Cecchino, I bid 
them fire off their pieces, and showed them how to escape 
ever J' shot of the besiegers. Ha-^ing accordingij^ fired twice 
for the enemy's once, 1 cautiously approached the walls, and 
perceived that thei-e was an extraordinary confusion among 
the assailants, occasioned by our having shot the Duke of 
Bourbon; he was, as I understood afterwai'ds, that chief 
personage whom I saw raised above the rest." — Vol. i., p. 
120. This, however, is one of the many stories in CelJini'3 
amusing autobiography which nobody seems ever to have 
believed. 

251 



PART IT. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED. scene hi. 



Cccs. Yolir old philosophers 

. Beheld mankind, as mere spectators of 
The Olympic games. Wiien I behold a prize 
Worth wrestling for, I may be fomid a Milo. 

Am. Ay, 'gainst an oak. 

CcES. A forest, wlien it suits me : 

I combat with a mass, or not at all. 
Meantime, pursue thy sport as I do mine : 
Which is just now to gaze, since all these laborers 
Will reap my harvest gratis. 

Am. Thou art still 

A fiend ! 

Goes. And thou— a man. 

Am, Why, such I fain would show me. 

CcT3S. True — as men are. 

Am. And what is that ? 

C(E&. Thou feelest and thou seest. 

\l<lxi% Arnold, joining in the combat which still 
continues between detached parties. The 
scene closes. 

SCENE 111.— Saint Peter's— Tlie Interior of the 
Church— The Pope at the Altar — Priests., etc., 
crowding in confusion, and Citizens flying for refuge, 
pursued by Soldiery. 

Enter Oassar. 

A Spanish Soldier. Down with them, comrades! 
seize upon those lamps ! 
Cleave yon bald-pated shaveling to the chine ! 
His rosary 's of gold ! 

Lutheran Soldier. Kevenge ! revenge ! 
Plunder hereafter, but for vengeance now — 
Yonder stands Anti-Ciirist ! 

Cais. {interposing). How now, schismatic ? 

What w^ouldst thou ? 

Luth. Sold. In the holy name of Christ, 

Destroy proud Anti-Christ. I am a Christian. 

Cces. Yea, a disciple that would make the founder 
Of your belief renounce it, could he see 
Such proselytes. Best stint thyself to plunder. 

Luth. Sold. 1 say he is tlie devil. 

Cces. Hush ! keep that secret, 

Lest he should recognize you for his own. 

Luth. Sold. Why would you save him ? I repeat 
he is 
The devil, or the devil's vicar upon earth. 

Cces. And that 's the reason : would you make a 
quarrel 
With your best friends ? You had far best be quiet ; 
His hour is not yet come. 

Luth. Sold. That shall be seen ! 

[The Lutheran Soldier rushes forward ; a shot 
strikes him from one of the Pope's Guards, 
and he falls at the foot of the Altar. 

Cces. {to the Lutheran). "I told you so. 

Luth. Sold. And will you not avenge me ? 

Cces. Not I ! You know that '' Vengeance is the 
Lord's: " 
You see he loves no interlopers. 

Luth. Sold, {dying). Oh ! 

Had I but slain him, I had gone on high, 
Crown'd with eternal glory ! Heaven, forgive 
;My feebleness of arm that reach 'd him not, 
And take thy servant to thy mercy. 'T is 
A glorious triumph still ; proud Babylon 's 
Xo more ; the Harlot of the Seven Hills 
Hath changed her scarlet raiment for sackcloth 
And ashes ! [The Lutheran dies. 

Cops. ' Yes, thine own amidst the rest. 
Well done, old Babel! 

[The Guards defend, themselves desperately , while 



♦The castle of St. Ang-elo was besieg-ed from the 6th of 
May to the 5th of June, during which time slaughter and 
de.soIation, accompanied with every excess of impiety, ra- 
pine, and lust, on the side of the imperialists, devastated the 
252 



the Pontiff escapes, by a private passage, to the 
Vatican and the Castle of Saint Angelo.^ 

Ca;s. Ha! right nobly battled ! 

iSTow, priest ! now, soldier ! the tw^o' great profes- 
sions, 
Together by the ears and hearts ! I liave not 
Seen a more comic pantomime since Titus 
Took Jewry. But the Komans had the best then ; 
i^5"ow they must take their turn. 

Soldiers. He hath escaped ! 

Follow ! 

Another Sold. They have barr'd the narrow pas- 
sage up. 
And it is clogged w' ith dead even to the door. 

Cces. I am glad he hath escaped : he may thank 
me for 't 
In part. I would not have his bulls abolish 'd— 
'T were w^orth one-half our empire : his indulgences 
Demand some in return ; — no, no, he must not 
Fall; — and besides, his now escape may furnish 
A future miracle, in future proof 
Of his infallibility. [To the Spanish Soldiery. 

Well, cut-throats ! 
What do you pause for ? If you make not haste, 
There will not be a link of pious gold left. 
And you, too. Catholics ! Would ye return 
From such a pilgrimage without a relic ? 
The very Lutherans have more true devotion : 
See how they strip the shrines ! 

Soldiers. By lioly Peter 

He speaks the truth ; the heretics will bear 
The best away. 

Cces.. And that Avere shame ! Go to ! 

Assist in their conversion . 

[The Soldiers disperse: many quit the Church, 
others enter. 

Cces. They are gone, 

And others come : so flow^s the wave on wave 
Of wiiat these creatures call eternity, 
Deeming themselves the breakers of the ocean, 
AVhile they are but its bubbles, ignorant 
That foam is their foundation. So, another ! 

Enter Qlim^i^., flying from the pjursuit — She springs 
upon the Altar. 

Sold. She 's mine ! 

Another Sold, {opposing the former). You lie, I 
track 'd her first : and were she 
The Pope's niece, I '11 not yield her. [They fight. 
3cZ Sold, {advancing towards Olimpia). You may 
settle 
Your claims; I '11 make mine good. 

Olimp. Infernal slave ! 

You touch me not alive. 
3cZ Sold. Alive or dead! 

Olimp. {embracing a massive crucifix). Kespect 

your God ! 
3fZ Sold. Yes, when he shines in gold. 

Girl, you but grasp your dowry. 

[As he advances, Olimpia, with a strong and, sud- 
den effort, casts down the crucifix : it strikes the 
Soldier, who falls. 
Sd Sold. Oh, great God ! 

Olimp. Ah! now you recognize Him. 
3cZ Sold. My brain 's crushed ! 

Comrades, help, ho! All 's darkness! [He clies. 
Other Soldiers {coming up). Slay her, although she 
had a thousand lives : 
She hath kill'd our comrade. 

Olimp. Welcome such a death ! 

You have no life to give, which the worst slave 



city of Rome. For this picture of horrors, see especially the 
"Sackag-e of Rome," by Jacopo Buonaparte, "gentiluomo 
Samminiatese, che vi se trovo presente," and "Life of Cel- 
lini," vol. i., P- 1^. 



PART II. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, scene hi. 



Would take. Great God ! through thy redeeming 

. Son, 
And tliy Son's Mother, now receive me as 
I would a])proacli thee, worthy her, and him, and 
tliee ! 

Tinier Arnold. 

Am. "What do I see ? Accursed jackals I 
Forhear ! 

Cc^s. {aside and laughing). TIa ! ha I here 's equity ! 
The dogs 
Have as much right as he. But to the issue ! 

Soldiers. Count, she hath slain our comrade. 

Am. AVith what weapon ? 

Sold. The cross, beneath which he is crush'd; 
behold him 
Lie there, more like a worm than man; she cast it 
Upon his head. 

Am. Even so ; there is a woman 

Worthy a brave man's liking. Were ye such, 
Ye would have honor 'd her. But get ye hence. 
And thank your meanness, other God you have none, 
For your existence. Had you touch 'd a hair 
Of those dishevell'd locks, I would have thinn'd 
Your ranks more than the enemy. Away ! 
Ye jackals! gnaw the bones the lion leaves, 
But not even these till he permits. 

A Sold, [mur muring). The lion 

Might conquer for himself then. 

Am. [cuts him down). Mutineer! 

Rebel in hell— you shall obey on earth ! 

[Tlie Soldiers assault Arnold. 

Arn. Come on ! I 'm glad on 't ! I v/ill show you, 
slaves, 
How you should be commanded, and who led you 
First o'er the wall you were so shy to scale, 
Until I waved my banners from its height, 
As you are bold within it. 

\^Arnold wows dmcn the foremost; the rest throio 
down their arms. 

Soldiers. - Mercy! mercy! 

Am. Then learn to grant it. Have I taught you 
icho 
Led you o'er Rome's eternal battlements ? 

Soldiers. We saw it, and we know it ; yet forgive 
A moment's error in the heat of conquest — 
The conquest which you led to. 

Am. Get you hence ! 

Hence to your quarters ! you will find them fix'd 
In the Colonna palace. 

Olimp. {aside). In my father's 

House ! 

Am. [to the Soldiers). Leave your arms ; j^e have 
no further need 
Of such : the city 's render'd. And mark well 
You keep your hands clean, or I '11 find out a 

stream 
As red as Tiber now runs, for your baptism. 

Soldiers, {deposing their arms and departing). We 
obey ! 

Am. {to Olimpia). Lady, you are safe. 

Olimp. I should be so, 

Had I a knife even ; but it matters not — 
Death hafli a thousand gates ; and on the marble, 
Even at the altar foot, whence I look down 
Upon destruction, shall my head be dash'd, 
Ere thou ascend it. God forgive thee, man ! 

Am. I wish to merit his forgiveness, and 
Thine own, although I have not injured thee. 

Olimp. No ! thou hast only sack'd my native 
land — 
No injury ! — and made my father's house 
A den of thieves ! No injury !— this temple — 
Slippery with Roman and with holy gore. 
No injury! And now thou wouldst preserve me, 
To be — ^but that shall never be ! 

\_She raises her eyes to Heaven, folds her robe 



round her., and prepares to dash herself down 
on the side of the Altar opposite to that where 
Arnold stands. 

Am. Hold ! hold ! 

I swear. 

Olimp. Spare thine already forfeit soul 
A perjury for which even hell would loathe thee. 
I know thee. 

Am. No, thou know'st me not ; I am not 
I Of these men, though 

Olimp. I judge thee by thy mates ; 

It is for God to judge thee as thou art. 
I see thee purple with the blood of Rome ; 
Take mine, 't is all thou e'er shalt have of me, 
And here, upon the marble of this temple. 
Where the baptismal font baptized me God's, 
I offer him a blood less holy 
But not less pure (pure as it left me then, 
A redeem'd infant) than the holy water 
The saints have sanctified ! 

[Olimpia. leaves her hand to Arnold icith dis- 
dain, and dashes herself on the pavement from 
the Altar. 

Am. Eternal God ! 

I feel thee now ! Help ! help ! She 's gone. 

Gees, {approaches). I am here. 

Am. Thou ! but oh, save her ! 

CcBS. {assisting him to raise Olimpia). She hath 
done it well I 
The leap was serious. 

Am. Oh ! she is lifeless ! 

Cces. ■ It 

She be so, I have nought to do with that : 
The resurrection is beyond me. 

Am. Slave ! 

Ca^s. Ay, slave or master, 'tis all one : methinks 
Good words, however, are as well at times. 

Am. Words !— Canst thou aid her ? 

Ccps. 1 will try. A sprinkling 

Of that same holy water may be useful. 

[lie brings some in his helmet from the font. 

Am. "T is mixed with blood. 

Ca^s. There is no cleaner now 

In Rome. 

Am. How pale ! how beautiful ! how lifeless ! 
Alive or dead, thou essence of all beauty, 
1 love but thee ! 

Cces. Even so Achilles loved 

Penthesilea : with liis form it seems 
You have his heart, and yet it was no soft one. 

Am. She breathes! But no, 'twas nothing, or 
the last 
Faint flutter life disputes with death. 

Cces. She breathes. 

Am. TJiou saj-st it ? Then 't is truth. 

Cces. You do me right— 

The devil speaks truth much oftener than he's 

deem'd : 
He hath an ignorant audience. 

Am. [without attending to him). Yes! her heart 
beats. 
Alas ! that the first beat of the only heart 
I I ever wish'd to beat with mine should vibrate 
To an assassin's pulse. 

Cces. A sage reflection, 

But somewhat late i' the day. Where sliall we bear 

her y 
I say she lives. 

Am. And will she live V 

Ca's. As much 

As dust can. 

Am. Then she is dead ! 

Cces. Bah ! bah ! You are so, 

And do not know it. She will come to life — 
Such as you think so, such as you now are ; 
But we must work by human means. 

Am. We will 

2o.3 



PART III. 



THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED, 



SCENE T. 



Convey her unto the Colonna palace, 
Where I have pitch 'd my banner. 

Cois. Come then! raise her up! 

Am, Softly! 

Cces. As softly as they bear the dead, 

Perhaps because they cannot feel the jolting. 

Am. But doth she live indeed ? 

Cms. Nay, never fear ! 

But, if you rue it after, blame not me. 

Am. Let her but live ! 

Cms. The spirit of her life 

Is yet within lier breast, and may revive. 
Count ! count ! I am your servant in all things, 
And this is a new office :— 't is not oft 
I am employ 'd in such ; but you perceive 
How stanch a friend is what you call a fiend. 
On earth you have often only fiends for friends ; 
]Srow J desert not mine. Soft ! bear her hence. 
The beautiful half-clay, and nearly spirit ! 
I am almost enamor'd of her, as 
Of old the angels of her earliest sex. 



I '11 not be your rival. 



Am. Thou ! 

Cms. I ! But fear not. 

Am. Rival. 

Cms. I could be one right formidable; 

But since I slew the seven husbands of 
Tobias' future bride (and after all 
Was smoked out by some incense), I have laid 
Aside intrigue : 't is rarely worth the trouble 
Of gaining, or — what is more difficult — 
Getting rid of your prize again ; for there 's 
The rub ! at least to mortals. 

Am. Prithee, peace ! 

Softly ! methinks her lips move, her eyes open ! 

Cms. Like stars, no doubt ; for that's a metaphor 
For Lucifer and Yenus. 

Am. To the palace 

Colonna, as I told you ! 

Cms. Oh ! I know 

My way through Rome. 

Am. j^ow onward, onward ! Gently ! 

\_Exeunt.i hearing Olimpia. TJie scene closes. 



I 



I'i^RT III 



SCENE l.—A Castle in the Apennines^ surrounded 
hy a wild hut smiling Country. Chorus of Peasants 
singing hefore the Gates. 

Chorus. 
1. 

The wars are over. 

The spring is come ; 
Tlie bride and her lover 
Have sought their home : 
They are happy, we rejoice ; 
Let their hearts have an echo in every voice ! 

2. 
The spring is come ; the violet 's gone, 
Tlie first-born child of the early sun : 
AVith us she is but a winter's flower, 
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower. 
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue 
To the youngest sky of the self -same hue. 

3. 
And when the spring comes with her host 
Of flowers, that flower beloved the most 
Slirinks from the crowd that may confuse 
Her heave]ily odor and virgin hues. 



Pluck the others, but still remember 
Their herald out of dim December— 
The morning star of all the flowers. 
The pledge of daylight's lengthen 'd hours 
Nor, midst tlie roses, e'er forget 
The virgin, virgin violet. 

Enter Caesar. 
Cms. [singing). The wars are all over, 
Our swords are all idle, 
The steed bites the bridle. 
The casque 's on the wall. 
There 's rest for the rover ; 
But his armor is rusty. 
And the veteran grows crusty, 



As he yawns in the hall. 

He drinks— but what 's drinking ? 

A mere pause from thinking ! 
N'o bugle awakes him with lif e-and-death call. 

Chorus. 
But the hound bayeth loudly. 

The boar 's in the wood. 
And the falcon longs proudly 

To spring from her hood : 
On the wrist of the noble 

She sits like a crest, 
And the air is in trouble 

With birds from their nest. 

Cms. Oh ! shadow of glory ! 

Dim image of war ! 
But the chase hath no story, 

Her hero no star, 
Since Nimrod, the founder 

Of empire and chase. 
Who made the woods wonder 

And quake for their race. 
When the lion was young, 

In the pride of his might. 
Then 't was sport for the strong 

To embrace him in fight ; 
To go forth, with a pine 

For a spear, 'gainst the mammoth, 
Or strike through the ravine 

At the foaming behemoth ; 
While man was in stature 

As towers in our time. 
The first-born of nature. 

And, like her, sublime ! 

Chorus, » 

But the wars are over. 
The spring is come ; 
The bride and her lover 
Have sought their home: 
They are hap])v, and we rejoice : 
Let their hearts have an echo from every voice I 

[Ex€U7U the Peasantry, singing. 



254 



i 



CAIN: 



"Now the serpent was more subtile than any beast of the field which the Lord God had ma.de:'— Gen., ch. iii,, v. 



TO SIB WALTER SCOTT, BART. 

THIS ]VrYSTERY OF CAIN 



f{n$twtd, 



BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND AND FAITHFDX SERVANT, 



THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



THE following scenes are entitled "A Mystery," in con- 
formity with the ancient title annexed to dramas upon 
similar subjects, which were styled " Mysteries, or Moral- 
ities." The author has by no means taken the same lib- 
erties with his subject which were common formerly, as 
may be seen by any reader curious enough to refer to 
those very profane productions, whether in English, 
French, Italian, or Spanish. The author has endeavored 
to preserve the language adapted to his characters ; and 
where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual 
Scripture, he has made as little alteration, even of words, 
as the rhythm would permit. The reader Avill recollect 
that the book of Genesis does not state that Eve was 
tempted by a demon, but by "the serpent;" and that 
only because he was " the most subtile of all the beasts 
of the field." Whatever interpretation the Eabbins and 
the Fathers may have put upon this, I take the words as 
I find them, and reply, with Bishop Watson upon similar 
occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as Mod- 
erator in the schools of Cambridge, " Behold the Book ! " 
— holding up the Scripture. It is to be recollected that 
my present subject has nothing to do with the New Testa- 
ment, to which no reference can be here made without 
anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I 
have not been recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I 
have never read Milton ; but I had read him so frequently 
before that this may make little difference. Gesner's 
*' Death of Abel " I have never read since I was eight 
years of age, at Aberdeen. The general impression of 
my recollection is delight ; but of the contents I remember 
only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, and Abel's 
Thirza: in the following pages I have called them 
"Adah" and "Zillah," the earliest female names which 
occur in Genesis ; they were, those of Lamech's wives : 
those of Cain and Abel are not called bv their names. 



* " Cain " was hegun at Ravenna, on the 16th of July, 1821, 
completed on the 9th of September, and published, in the 
same volume with Sardanapalus and the Two Foscari, in 
December. Perhaps no production of Lord Byi'on has been 



Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have caused 
the same in expression, I know nothing, and care as little. 

The reader will please bear in mind (what few choose 
to recollect), that there is no allusion to a future state in 
any of the books of Moses, nor indeed in the Old Testa- 
ment. For a reason for this extraordinary omission he 
may consult Warburton's "Divine Legation;" whether 
satisfactory or not, no better has yet been assigned. I 
have therefore supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, 
any perversion of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult 
for me to make him talk like a clergyman upon the same 
subjects ; but I have done what I could to restrain him 
within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of 
the Serpent, it is only because the book of Genesis has 
not the most distant allusion to anything of the kind, but 
merely to the Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader w411 perceive that the author has 
partly adopted in this poem the notion of Cuvier, that 
the world has been destroyed several times before the 
creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
different strata and the bones of enormous and unknown 
animals found in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic 
account, but rather confirms it; as no human bones have 
yet been discovered in those strata, although those of 
many known animals are found near the remains of the 
unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre-Adamite 
world was also peopled by rational beings much more 
intelligent than man, and proportionably powerful to the 
mammoth, etc., is, of course, a poetical fiction to help him 
make out his case. I ought to add, that there is a " trame- 
logedia" of Alfieri, called "Abele." I have never read 
that, nor any other of the posthumous works of the writer, 
except his Life. Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821. 

more g-enerally admired, on the score of ability, than this 
"Mystery ; " — certainly none, on first appearing-, exposed the 
author to a fiercer tempest oi' personal abuse.— See ante. Life 
of Byron. 

255 , 



ACT I. 



CAIN, 



SCENE I. 



DBAMATIS PEBSON^. 



MEN. 
Adam. 
Cain. 
Abel. 



SCENE l.— Tlie Land untliout Paradise.- 
Sunrise. 



SPIRITS. 
Angel of the Lord. 
Lucifer. 

J^CT I. 



WOMEN. 

Eve. 

Adah. 

Zillah. 



■Time. 



Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, offering 
a Sacrifice. 

Adam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite ! All-wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst mal^e 
Light on the Avaters with a word— all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 

Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and separate 
Morning from night, till then divided never — 
Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
Part of thy work the firmament — all hail ! 

Ahel. God ! who didst call the elements into 
Earth— ocean — air— and fire, and with the day 
And night, and w^orlds, which these illuminate, 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them. 
And love both them and thee — all hail ! all hail ! 

Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee— 
Let me love thee and tliem : — All hail ! all hail ! 

Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
Yet didst permit the serpent to creep in. 
And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil :— Hail ! .all hail ! 

Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art 
thou silent V 

Cain. Why should I speak ? 

Adain. To pray."* 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd ? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 

Cain. And loudly: I 

Have heard you. 

Adam. So will God, I trust. 

Ahel. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent still. 

Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 

Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have nought to af^k. 

Adam. ^ or aught to thank for ? i 

Cain. ^o. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 

Cain. Must I not die ? 

Eve. Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God I why didst thou plant the tree of knowl- 
edge V 

Cain. And wherefore pluck 'd ye not the tree of i 
life ? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh! my son, 

Blaspheme not : these are serpent's words. 

Cam. Why not ? 

The snake spoke triith : it teas the tree of knowledge ; 
It was the tree of life : knowledge is good. 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 

Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, in sin, | 
Before thy birth : let me not see renewVl j 

My misery in thine. I have repented. 



♦"Prayer," said Lord Byron, at Cephalonia, "does not 

consist in tlie act of kneeling-, nor in repeating certain words 

in a solemn manner. Devotion is the alTection of the heart, 

and this I feel ; for when I view the wonders of creation, I 

256 



Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy 'd his parents. 
Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
Thou now hadst been contented.— Oh, my son ! 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
Each to his task of toil— not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labor. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd. 
And do as he doth. [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 

Zillah. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 

Ahel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy 
brow. 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger ? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me ? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no ; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I 'm sick at heart ; but it will pass. 
Precede me, biother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind ; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I '11 follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, T will 

Return to seek you here. 

Ahel. The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother ! 

[Exeunt Ahel, Zillah, and Adah. 

Cain {solus). And this is 

Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should 1 toil ? — because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had /done in this ? — I was unborn : 
I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
To which that birth has brought me. Why did lie 
Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or. 
Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
One answer to all questions, " 'T was his will, 
And he is good." How know I that ? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Wliom have we here ? — A shape like to the angels, 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence : why do I quake ? 
WViy should I fear him more than other spirits, 
V/hom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
Before the gates round which I linger oft. 
In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of those 
Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
Tlie cherubim-defended battlements ? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm 'd angels, 
Why should I quail from liim who now approaclies ? 
Yet he seems miglitier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 

bow to the majesty of heaven ; and when I feel the enjoy- 
ment of life, health, and happiness, I feel grateful to God 
for having bestowed these upon me."— Kennedy's Conversa- 
tions. 



i 



ACT I. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



As he hatli been, and mi^ht be: sorrow seems 
Half of Ills immortality. And is it 
So ? and can augiit grieve save humanity ? 
He Cometh. 

Enter Lucifer. 

Lucifer, Mortal ! 

Cam. Spirit, who art thou ? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And behig so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with }'ou. 

Cain. How! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of all 

"Worthy of thought ;— 't is your immortal part 
"Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part ? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
"Was withheld from us by my father's folly. 
While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
AYas pluck 'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou shalt live. 

Cain. I live, 

But live to die : and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome— 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
■ifer. Thoi 
think not 

The earth, which is thine outward cov'ring, is 
Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
Xo less than thou art now. 

Cain. Ko less! and why 

Ko more ? 

Lucifer. It m.ay be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye ? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy ? 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye liappy ? 

Lucifer. I^7o : art thou ? 

Cain. How should I be so ? Look on me ! 

Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be WTCtched ! Thou ! 

Cain. 1 am :— and thou, with all thy might, what 
art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, 
and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look'st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none : 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what I am. He conquered : let him reign ! 

Cam. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's. 

And all that in them is. So I have lieard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say— what they must sing and say, 
on pain 
Of being that which I am— and thou art— 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made. 
As he saith— which I know not, nor believe- 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal :— nay, he 'd have us so, 
That he may torture :— let him ! He is great— 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
17 



We in our conflict : Goodness would not make 

Evil ; and what else hath he made ? But let him 

Sit on his vast and solitary throne. 

Creating worlds, to make eternity 

Less burdensome to his immense existence 

And unparticipated solitude ; 

Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 

Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ; 

Could he but crush himself, 't were the best boon 

He ever granted : but let him reign on. 

And multiply himself in misery ! 

Spirits and Men, at least we sympathize — 

And, suffering in concert, make our pangs 

Innumerable more endurable, 

By the unbounded sympathy of all 

With all ! But He I so wretched in his height, 

So restless in his wretchedness, must still 

Create, and recreate 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which long 
have swum 
In visions through my thought : I never could 
Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
My father and my mother talk to me 
Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
The gates of what they call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
AYliich shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
Of daily toil, and constant thought : I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things: — but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My father is 
Tamed down ; my mother has forgot the mind 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
My sister Zillali sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
Xow met I aught to sympathize with me. 
'T is well— I rather would consort with spirits. 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by tliine 
own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 

Cain. Ah! didst thou tempt my mother? 

Lucifer. I tempt none, 

Save with the truth : was not the tree the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruitful ? • Did J bid her pluck tliem not ? 
Did J plant things prohibited within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
Gods ; and even he who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of life. 
And become gods as we." Were those his v>^ords ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who 
heard them, 
In thunder. 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? He 
Who would not let ye live, or he who w^ould 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge ? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither ! 

Lucifer. One is yours akeady ; 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How^so? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. JS'othing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 't is made- 
To sway. 

257 



ACT I. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



Cam. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 

Lucifer, I? 

Poor clay! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 

Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 

Lucifer. Who 

Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
His own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
Xo more ; and yet not less than those he tempted, 
In nature being earth also— mo7-e in icisclora. 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I'd take the shape of things that 
die? 

Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 

Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no' more 
Tlian a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand 

ages 
Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's. 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, wlio made things but to bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Eond parents listen'd to a creeping thing. 
And fell. Eor Avhat should spirits tempt them ? 

What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st 

not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not knov>^, 
And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 

Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Barest thou look on deatli ? 

Cain. He has not yet 

Been seen. 

Lucifer. But must be undergone. 

Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he 's named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
And sp'eaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou ? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakable 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when 1 hear 
Of this almiglity Death, who is, it seems, 
Inevitable. 'Could I wrestle with liim ? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy. 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape; but will absorb all 
things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah ! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 

I^ucifer. Ask the Dest rover. 

Cain. " Who? 

Lucifer. The Maker— call him 

Which name thou wilt ; he makes but to destroy. 

Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I 
heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is. 
Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
Tn the vast desolate niglit in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadovv^s in 
258 



The umbrage of the walls of Eden, checker'd 
By the far flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watch 'd for what I thought his coming: for 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 't was which shook us "all — but nothing came. 
And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 

Lucifer. Perhaps— but long outlive both thine 
and thee. 

Cain. I 'm glad of that : I would not have them 
die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing; but what, 
I cannot compass : 't is denounced against us. 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not. as an ill— 
Wliatill? 

Lnicifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it ? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were T quiet earth. 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish. 

Less than thy father's, for he wish.ed to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck'd he not 
The life-tree ? 

Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error ! 

Xot to snatch first that fruit: — but ere he pluck'd 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas! I scarcely now know what it is, 
And yet I fear it— fear I know not what ! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear noth- 
ing: see 
What is true knowledge. 

Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Xame it. 

Lucifer. Tliat 

Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worsiiips. 

Lucifer. Xo. 

Cain. His equal-? 

Lucifer. iN'o; — I have nought in common with 
him! 
Xor would : I would be aught above— beneath— 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
Many there are who v\'orship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow^'d unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oft implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
Why should I bow to thee ? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bovv^'d 

To him ? 

Cain. Have I not said it ?— need I say it ? 
Could not thy mighty knowdedge teach thee that ? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has bow'd to 
ine! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. ' Xe'ertheless, 

Thou art my w^orshipper: not worshipping 
Him makes thee mine the same. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Thou 'It know here— and hereafter. 

Cain. Let me bv.t 

Be taught the mj^stery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But T must retire 
To till the earth—for I had promised 

Lucifer. What ? 



ACT T. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. Why ? 

Cai)i. To offer up 

With Abel on an altar. 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee ? 

Cain. Yes — 
But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
The offering is more his than mine— and Adah 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister ; 

Born on the same day, of the same womb : and 
She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; and 
Kather than see her weep, I would, methinks, 
Bear all —and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me ! 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 

It is our hour of rest and joy— and we 
Have less without thee. Tiiou hast labor'd not 
This morn ; but I have done tliy task : the fruits 
Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
Come away. 

Cain. Seest thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel ; 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest y — ^lie is welcome. 

CoAn, But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others ? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests— will he y 

Cain {to Lucifer). Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer. I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain. Beloved Adah ! 

Adah. Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer. ISTo, slie must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah! — was not the tree 
that 
Of knowledge? 

Adah. Ay— to our eternal sorrow. 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he 
lied not : 
And if he did betray you, 't was with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 

Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home. 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
Remorse of that which was— and hope of that 
Which Cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
Bear with what we have borne, and love me— I 
Love tliee. 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 

Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too V 

Lucifer. No, not yet : 

It one day will be in your children. 

Adah. What ! 

Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 

Lucifer. Kot as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, my God! 

Shall they not love and bring forth things that love 
Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 



Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father. 
Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other V and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them ?— And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah. " What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself ? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ?— if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves: and 
higher 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture 
To the smooth agonies of adulation, 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking prayers. 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
It is omnipotent, and not from love. 
But terror and self -hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. AVas it so in Eden ? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou 
art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

Lucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
Of good and evil ? 

Adah. Oh, my mother! thou 

Hast pluck 'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
Than to thyself ; thou at the least hast pass'd 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, wiio assume 
The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flushed 
And heedless, harmless Avantonness of bliss. 
I cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him ; in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me near, 
iSTearer and nearer :— Cain— Cain— save me from 
him ! 

Cain. What dreads my Adah ? This is no ill 
spirit. 

Adah. He is not God— nor God's : I have beheld 
The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 

The archangels. 

Lucifer. And still loftier tlian the archangels. 

Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 

Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery— no. 

Adah. I have heard it said, 

Tlie seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And this should be a cherub— since he loves not. 

Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches 
love, 
What must he he you cannot love when known ? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
That they are not compatible,'the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
ISTo other choice : your sire hath chosen already : 
His worship is but fear. 

259 



ACT I. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



Adah, Oh, Cain! choose love. 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
Born witli me — but I love nought else. 

Adah. Our parents? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch'd from 
the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 

Adah. We w^ere not born then— and if we had 
been, 
Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 

Cain. My little Enocli ! and his lisping sister ! 
Could I but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it can never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 

Sliall men love the remembrance of the man 

Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 

In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree of science 

And sin — and, not content with tlieir own sorrow. 

Begot me— thee— and all tlie few tliat are. 

And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 

Multitudes, millions, myriads, v.iiicli may be, 

To inherit agonies accumulated 

By ages! — and /must be sire of such things ! 

Thy beauty and thy love— my love and joy, 

The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 

All we love in our cliildren and each otlier. 

But lead them and ourselves tlirough many years 

Of sin and pain— or few, but still of sorrow/ 

Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure. 

To Death— the unknown ! Metliinks the tree of 

knowledge 
Hath not fulfill'd its promise : — if they sinnM, 
At least they ought to have known all things that 

are 
Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
What do they know ?— that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us tliat ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happ3^ 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have nought to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone T could not, 

Xor icoidd be happy : but with tliope around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death. 
Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
It seems an a^A-ful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lucifer. And thou couldst not 

Alone, thou sayst, be happy ? 

Adah. Alone ! Oli , my God ! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
When I think how soon I sliall see my brother, 
His brother, and our children, and our parents. 

Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone ; and is he happy ? 
Lonely, and good ? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy. 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 

Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from 
'Eden ; 
Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and j-cu— 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things : it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. ^We must bear. 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say ; but it is vrorth the trial. 
Since better may not be witliout : there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
2G0 



Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the morn. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
Its beauty. 

Lucifer. And why not adore ? 

Adah. Our father 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the host of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen hiiu V 

Adah. Yes — in his w^orks. 

Lucifer. But in his being ? 

Adah. jSTo— 

Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, 
All light, they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns ; 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
ISTot dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
Thou seem'st unhappy: do not make us so, 
And I will w^eep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
Couldst tliou but know vdiat oceans will be shed 

Adah. By me ? 

Lucifer. Bv all. 

Adah. " What all? 

Lucifer. Tlie million millions— 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
The impeopled earth— and the o'er-peopled hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. 
This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. IIow can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not jouy Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in tliis work, 
Show in an hour what he liath made in many, 
Or hath destroy 'd in few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he, 

In sooth, return within an hour ? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour. 
Or stretch an hour into eternity: 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement— 
But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from thnt place (the first and last 
Who shall return, save One), shall come back to 

thee. 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou ? 

LAicifer. Throughout all space. Where should I 
dwell ? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there ami: all things are 
Divided with me : life and death— and time— 



Oh, Cain I 



ACT II. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If 1 were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 

Spoke with our mother first. 



Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thoii dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
The conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 
Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

[^Exeunt Lucifer and Cain. 
Adah [follows, exclaiming). Cain! my brother! 
Cain! 



^CT IT, 



SCENE l.—TJie Abyss of Space. 



Cain. 1 tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in m.e, and thou shalt be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety? 

Lucifer. Believe— and sink not! doubt — and 
perish! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels; they 
Echo the sound to miserable things. 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow 

senses. 
Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such : 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little world, nor be 
Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life. 
With torture of my dooming. There will com.e 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters ; " and the man shall walk 
The billows and be safe^ J will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
Of past, and present, and bf future worlds. 

Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
Is yon our earth ? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 

The dust which form'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be ? 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
With an inferior circlet near it still. 
Which looks like that wiiich lit our earthly night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the site 

Of Paradise. 

Cain. How should I ? As we move 

Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less. 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
Methinks they both, as we recede from them. 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Wliich are around us ; and, as we move on, 
Increase their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should be 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
By greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched. 
What wouldst thou think ? 

Cain. I should be proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer, But if that high thought were 



Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and. 

Knowing such things, aspiring-to such things. 

And science still beyond them, were chained down 

To the most gross and petty paltry wants. 

All foul and fulsome, and the very best 

Of thine enjo3n'nents a sweet degradation, 

A most enervating and filtliy cheat 

To lure thee on to the renewal of 

Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom 'd to be 

As frail, and few so happy 

Cam. Spirit! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy. 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth). 
Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer miany years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
Pie shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
I may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. Jam angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 

Cain. I know not what thou art ; I see thy power, 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power. 
Beyond all power of my born faculties. 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are they which dwell 

So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay ? 

Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 

So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and yet 
Seem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst be immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
This until lately— but since it must be. 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 



Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

How? 
By suffering. 

And must torture be immortal ? 
We and thy sons wall try. But now. 



Lucifer 

Cain. 

Lucifer. 

Cain. 

Lucifer. 
behold ! 
Is it not glorious ? 

Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether ! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
261 



ACT II. 



CAIN. 



SCENE II. 



Is this blue wilderness of intervenient 

Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 

The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 

Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 

Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 

Through an aerial universe of endless 

Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 

Intoxicated with eternity ? 

Oh, God ! Oh, Gods I or whatsoe'er ye are ! 

How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 

Your works, or accidents, or wliatsoe'er 

They may be ! Let me die, as atoms die 

(If that they die), or kiiow ye in your might 

And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this hour 

Unworthy what I see, though my dust is ; 

Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer '? look back to thine 
earth ! 

Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
Of most innumerable lights y 

Lucifer. Look there ! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That !— yonder ! 

Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so ? 

"Why, I have seen the fire-tlies and fire-worms 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
Which bears them. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds. 
Each 'bright and sparkling— what dost think of I 
them ? I 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own spliere, 
And that the night, wliich makes both beautiful, 
The little shining fire-fly in its tiiglit, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
Must both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by wiiom or what ? 

Cain. Show me. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 

Cain. How know I what 

I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ? 

Cain. TJie things I have not seen, 

^or ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. Wliat, if I show to thee things whicli 
have died, 
As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 

Cain. Do so. 

Lucifer. Away, tlien ! on our miglity wings. 

Cain. Oh! how we cleave the blue! The stars 
fade from us ! 
The earth I where is my earth ? Let me look on it. 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. -T is now beyond thee. 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust : 
'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me V 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 

Lucifer. 'No more than life is ; and that was ere 
thou 
Or /were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either: many things will have 
202 



No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise ; for moments only and the space 
Have been and must be all unchangeable. 
But changes make not death, except to clay; 
But thou art clay,— and canst but comprehend 
That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 

Cain. Clay, sjnrit ! what thou wilt, I can survey. 

Lucifer. Away, then ! 

Caiii. But the lights fade from me fast, 

And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are. 

Cain. And Edens in them ? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men ? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them >' 
must no reptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones ? 

Cain. How the lights recede ! 

Where fly we ? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 

Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark and dark— the stars are 
gone ! 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 



Cai 



'T is a fearful light : 



Xo sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 

Tiie very blue of the empurpled night 

Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 

Huge dusky masses : but unlike the worlds 

We were approachhig, which, begirt with light, 

Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 

Of light gave way, and sliow'd them taking shapes 

Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 

And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 

Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 

With luminous belts, and floating moons, which 

took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead. 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct. 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things ? 

Cain. I seek it not ; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
And all that we inherit, liable 
To such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold ! 

Cain. 'T is darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever; but we will 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapors roll 

Apart— what 's this ? 

Lucifer. Enter ! 

Cain. Can I return ? 

Lucifer. Keturn ! be sure : how else should death 
be peopled ? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

CoAn. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round us. 

Lucifer. Advance ! 

Cain. And thou! 

Lucifer. Fear not— without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 

['Lhey disappear through the clouds. 

SCENE 11.— Hades. 
Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim 
worlds ! 



ACT II. 



CAIN. 



SCENE II. 



For they seem more than one, and y^t more peopled 

Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 

So thickly in the upper air, that I 

Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 

Of some all unimaginable heaven, 

Than things to be inhabited themselves, 

But that on drawing near them I beheld 

Their swelling into palpable immensity 

Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 

Eather than life itself. But here, all is 

So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 

It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death.— Wouldst have it present ? 

Cain. Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 
Oh God! I dare not think on 't ! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death ! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent I 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me mj birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 

Lucifer. Thou sayst well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother ? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
Bequeath 'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melanclioly— what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye lived ? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 

Lucifer. What ! Hath not he who made ye 

Said 't is another life ? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 

Lucifer. Perliaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 

Cain. Happy the day ! 

Lucifer. Yes; happy! when unfolded, 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
W^ith agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms. 
All to be aniniated for this only ! 

Cain. What are these mighty phantoms wliich I see 
Floating around me ? — They wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
jSTor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine. 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's: 
And yet they liave an aspect, which, though not 
Of men nor angels, looks like something which, 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seem'ing strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor tlie face of man, 
Xor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 



* "■ If, according' to some speculations, you oould prove the 
world many thousand years older than the Mosaic chronology 
—or if you could knock up Adam and Eve, and the Apple and 
Serpent— still, what is to be put up in their stead ?— or how is 
the difficulty removed ? Thing-s must have had a beg-inning, 
and what matters it icJien or how? I sometimes think that 
man may he the relic of some higher material being wrecked 
in a former world, and degenerated in the. hardship and 



As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where ? 

Lucifer. _ ' Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

Tliey did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee— but too mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they? 

Lucifer. That which 

Thou Shalt be. 

Cain. But what ivere they ? 

Lucifer. Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As iTiuch superior'unto all tliy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, judge 
By thy own flesh. 

Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade 
from thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs ? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But not as now. 

It is too little and too lowly to 
Sustain such creatures.* 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain. But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 

Destruction and disorder of the elements. 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a ehaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : s-uch things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent m eternity.— 
Pass on, and gaz.e upon the pa^st. 

Cain. ' 'T is awful! 

Lucifer. And trae. Behold these phantoms ! they 
were once 
Material as thou art. 

Cain. And must I be 

Like them ? 

Liidfer. Let him who made thee answer that. 
I show thee what tliy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
Of high intelligence and earthly sti^ngth. 
AYliat yo in common have with what they liad 
Is life, and what ye shall have--— death : the rest 
Of your poor attributes is suoii m suits 
Eeptiles engender'd out of the- subsiding 
Slime of a mighty imiverse» erush'd into 
A seaixjely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness— 
A Paradise of Ignoraneo, from which 
Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task— I '11 waft thee there in safety.. 

Ccdn. No : I '11 stay here. 



struggle throiigh ehaos Into eonformlty, ov something li'.c 
it— as we see Laplanders, Esquiroaux. etc., Inferior, in the 
present date, as the elements become more inexorable. But 
even then, this higher pre-Adamite supposititious creation 
must have had an origin and a Creator; for a Creator is a 
more natural imagination than a fortuitous concourse of 
atoms : all things remount to a fountain, though they may 
flow to an ocean,"— -Byio7i Diarij, 18^1, 
263 



ACT II. 



CAIN. 



SCEITE II, 



Lucifer, How long ? 

Cain. For ever ! Since 

I must one day return here from the earth, 
I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
Tliat dust has shown me— let me dwell in shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot b'e : thou now beholdest as 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
Must pass through what the things thou seest have 

pass'd— 
The gates of death. 

Cain. By what gate have we enter 'd 

Even now ? 

Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. 

Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
To earth again ? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 

So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden 'd surface— 't was— 
Oh, what a beautiful world it icasl 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling. 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life. 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou seest, 

But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
Til at which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures. 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence 
(At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd^^ 
Kesembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth , the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
Tlieir bark and branches— what were they ? 

Lucifer. Tliat which 

The Mammoth is in thy world ;— but these lie 
By myriads underneath its surface, 

Cain. ^ But 

2^one on it ? 

Lucifer. IN'o : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render tlie curse on it useless— 
'T would be destroy 'd so early, 

Cain. But why UTH' .^ 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denuiieialion 
Which drove your race from Eden— war with all 

things. 
And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
And pangs, and bitterness; these were the fruits 
Of the forbidden tree, 

Cain. But animals- 

Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 

Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for 
you, 
As you for him. — You would not have their doom 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches I 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons •, 
Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
Like them^ too, without the so dear-bought knowl- 
edge I 
It was a lying tree — ^for we Icnow nothing. 
At least it promised knoidedge at the price 
Of death— but knowledge still: but what knows 
man? 



Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest 
knowledge ; 
And being of all things the sole thing certain. 
At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly. 

Cain. These dim realms ! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly— but 't is something 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 

Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own— 
And this thou knev/est not this morn. 

Cain: But all 

Seems dim and shadowy. 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

Seem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue— 
What is it ? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell near it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 

Cain. 'T is like another world ; a liquid sun— 
And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface ? 

Lucifer. Are its inhabitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense 

Serpent, which rears its dripping mane and vasty 
Head ten times higher than the haughiest cedar 
Forth from the abyss looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, best 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 

Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the other 
Had more of beauty. 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er beheld him ? 

Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect 

Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 

Cain. No : 't was my mother 

Wlio tempted him— she tempted by the serpent. 

Lucifer. Good man! v\^hene'er thy wife, or tliy 
sons' wives 
Tempt thee or them to aught that 's new or strange. 
Be sure thou seest first who hath tempted them. 

Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no 
more 
For serpents to tempt w^oman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may tempt man 

to. 
And man tempt woman :— let thy sons look to it ! 
My counsel is a kind one ; for 't is even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 't is true, 
'Twill not be foUow'd, so there 's little lost. 

Cain. I understand not this. 

Lucifer. The happier thou !— 

Thy world and thou are still too young ! Thou 

thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 



264 



ACT II. 



CAIK 



SCENE II. 



Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Tliou shortly mayst be ; and that state again 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 
In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
Xow let us back to earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes; as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If truth be so, 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did weU 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
But ignorance of evil doth not save 
From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A part of all things. 

Cain. ^ot of all things. jSTo : 

I'll not believe it— for I thirst for good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not V Wlio covets 
evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — iVojie— nothing ! 't is 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which Vv'e beheld. 
Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 

Lucifer, Thou hast seen them from afar — 

Cain. And what of that '? 

Distance can but diminish glorj' — ^they, 
When nearer, must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approacli the things of earth most beau- 
tiful, 
And judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — 

The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion.— What is 
that. 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 

Cain. My sister Adah.— All the stars of heaven. 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight— the sun's gorgeous coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes witli pleasant tears as I behold 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
Along that western paradise of clouds— 
The forest shade— the green bough— the bird's 

voice— 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love. 
And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
As the day closes over Eden's walls ;— 
All these are nothing, to my e5-es and heart. 
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'T is fair as frail mortality. 

In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents. 
Can make its offspring ; still it is delusion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist ? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 



Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 

Can surely never be the task of joy. 

And yet my sire says he 's omnipotent : 

Then why is evil— he being good y I ask'd 

This question of my father ; and he said, 

Because this evil only was the path 

To good. Strange good, that must arise from out 

Its deadly opposite ! I lately saw 

A lamb stung by a reptile : the poor suckling 

Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vain 

And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 

My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 

The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 

Eesumed its careless life, and rose to drain 

The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 

Stood licking its reviving limbs vvith joy. 

Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 

Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou answer ? 

Cain. Nothing; for 

He is my father : but I thought, that 't were 
A better portion for the animal 
Xever to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little life 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell 'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of airbeloved things thou lovest her 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her ? 

Lucifer. What am I ? 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 

Lucifer. What does thy God love ? 

Cain. All things, my father says; but I confess 
I see it not in their allotment here. 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if I 
love 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like snows. 

Cain. Snows ! what are they ? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no winter. 

Cain. But dost thou not love something like thy- 
self ? 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable. 
And is more than mj^self , because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it because 't is beautiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. 

Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that be ? 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has pass'd, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair : 
Xot fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fail'. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 

In them and her. 

Cain. I 'm sorry for it ; but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
And when her beauty disappears, methinks 
He who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. 1 pity thee who lovest what must perish. 

Cain. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him weU— so does thy 
&od. 

Cain. And so do I. 

Lucifer. T is well and meekly done. 

265 



ACT II. 



CAIN. 



SCENE II. 



Cain. Meekly! 

Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 

And is his mother's favorite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favor, since the serpent was the lirst 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his fatlier's ? 

Cain. What is that 

To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer. But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely. 

Lucifer. But 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they! wherefore speak to me of this? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere 
now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, wliy recall a thought that {lie 

pauses J as agitated) — Spirit! 
Here w^e are in thy world : speak not of mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders : thou hast shown 

me those 
Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck : thou hast pointed 'out 
Myriads of starry worlds, of wliich our own 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life : thou hast shown me shadows 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us— Death ; thou hast shown 

me much— 
But not all : show me where Jehovah dwells, 
In his especial Paradise, — or thine. 
Where is it ? 

Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But 3^0 

Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element ; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou 

sayst ; 
And the"^ Jehovah and thyself have thine— 
Ye do not dwell together ? 

Lucifer. jS'o, we reign 

Together : but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of 3'e ! perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 

Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so, 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
Infinity with Immortality V 
Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

Ye are both eternal ? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is there 
not 
Enough V — ^why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign. 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. ^ 

Lmifer. Which V 



Cain. Thou! for 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why jiot he who made ? /made ye 
not ; 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

His creatures, as thou sayst we are, or show me 
Tliy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show tliee 

Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? • 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to 
gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought: and thou wouldst go on as- 
piring 
To the great double Mysteries! the tv:o Principles! 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust! limit thy ambition; for to see 
Either of these would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch 'd the apple spake! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Xow that I know it leads to something definite. 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to tliy world, 
Wliere thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these things 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd. 
Taught thee to know thyself ? 

Cain. Alas! I seem 

Xothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothing- 
ness ; 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

Coin. Haughty spirit ! 

Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself , though proud, 
Plast a. superior. 

Lucifer. Xo ! by heaven, which he 

Holds, and the abyss, and tlie immensity 
Of worlds and life*^, vdiich I hold with liim — No 1 
1 have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none from me: 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space, 
And the infinity of endless ages. 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench'd! 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the good he gives? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
And scarce born mortals, what have been his gifts 
To you already, in your little world ? 

Cain. But few ! and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 



ACT III. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



But if lie gives you good— so call him ; if 
Evil springs from /im, do not name it mine.. 
Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given— 
Your reason;— let it not be over-sway 'd 



By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling : 
Think and endure,— and form an inner world 
In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 

[T/iei/ disappear. 



J^CT III. 



SCENE l.—TIie Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 
Enter Cain and Adah. 

Adah. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 

Cain. I will ; but wherefore ? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose 

it 
For our child's canopy ? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber. 

Cain. Ay, the last— 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 

[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears, his little cheeks, 
In their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake soon. 
His hour of midday rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
.'Tis closed. 

Gain. You have said well ; I will contain 

My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps !— Sleep on. 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
And innocent ! thou hast not pluclCd the fruit— 
Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles. 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream— 
Of what ? Of Paradise !— Ay ! dream of it. 
My disinherited boy ! 'T is but a dream ; 
For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers. 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our 
son 
Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another ? 

Cain. Where ? 

Adah. Here, or 

Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother. 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birtli ? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we 
owe her. 

Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew 
thee hence, 
Hath sadden 'd thine still deeper. I had hoped 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
Yisions, thou sayst, of past and present worlds, 
Would have composed thy mind into the calm 



Of a contented knovv^ledge ; but I see 
Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'T is scarcely 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only hours upon the sun. 

Cai7i. And yet I have approach'd that sun, and 
seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
And measures it by that which it beholds. 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguish'd worlds; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had borrow 'd more by a fev*^ drops of ages 
From its immensity; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit. 
That I was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so ? 

Jeliovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents him 

With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And after flattering dust w'ith glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again— for what ? 

Adah. Thou know'st — 

Even for our parents' error. 

Cain. What is that 

To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 

Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that 
thought 
Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would J could die for them, so they might live ! 

Cain. Why, so say I— provided that one victim 
Might satiate the insatiable of life. 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 

Adah. How know we that some such atonement 
one day 
May not redeem our race ? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have we 
Done, that we must be victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims to 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 

Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain: thy 
words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never, 

Though thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which bur brother Abel made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he, that /would be so ready 
267 



ACT III. 



CAIK 



SCENE T. 



"With the burnt offeriii<?s, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, wliose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator ? 

Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice ; I have no offering. 

Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beau- 
tiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits. 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 

Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten in the 
sun 
According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
"With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful ? 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust. 
Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing— 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
And seem well pleased with pain ? For what should 

I 
Be contrite? for my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our youug blooming sleeper, there, 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better 't were 
I snatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst 
The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God! 

Touch not the child— my child! thy child! Oh, 
Cain ! 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the 
power 
"Which sways them, I would not accost yon infant 
"With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 

Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 

Cain. I said, 

'T were better that he ceased to live, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say— 
'T were better that he never had been born. 

Adah. Oh, do not say so ! "Where were then the 
joys. 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing. 
And loving him ? Soft ! he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 

[She goes to the child. 
Oh, Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life. 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
How like to me— how like to thee, when gentle, 
For then we are all alike ; is 't not so, Cain V 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other ; as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle., and 
"When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, for we love tliee. 
Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father ; while his little form 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain I 
As yet he hath no words to than"K: thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy ! 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall. 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'ertheless. 

Adah. Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
268 



Enter Abel. 

Ahel. "Welcome, Cain ! My brother ! 

The peace of God be on thee. 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Ahel. Our sister tells me that thou hast heen 
wandering. 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our father ? 

Cain. 'No. 

Ahel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 
A foe to the Most High. 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — if so you term him ? 

Ahel. Term him I your words are strange to-diiy, 
my brother. 
My sister Adah , leave us for awhile— 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain; 

But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and holiness ! 

[Exit Adah, with h^r child. 

Ahel. Where hast thou been ? 

Cain. 1 know not. 

Ahel. iSTor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent. 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things. 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced 

spheres 
Singing in thunder roimd me, as have made me 
Unfit for mortal converse ; leave me, Abel. 

Ahel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural 
light- 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Ahel. iSTot till we have pray'd and sacrificed to- 
gether. 

Cain. Abel, I pray tliee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

Ahel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. But thee the better: I care not for that; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Eevere him, then— but let it be alone— 
At least, without me. 

Ahel. Brother, I should ill 

Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not. 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood— 't is thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'er 

Asserted it. 

Ahel. The more my grief ; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems laboring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No; 

Nothing can calm me more. Cahn ! say I ? Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave 

me! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 

Ahel. Neither; we must perform our task to- 
gether. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so ^weU, then, 

What shall I do ? 

Ahel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
And stone. 

Ahel. Choose thou I 



ACT iir. 



CAIK 



SCENE I. 



Cain. I have chosen. 

Abel. 'T is tlie highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here— 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof— 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks ; 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil— its fruit : 

[He gathers fruits. 
Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
[They dress their altar s^ and kindle a flame 
upon them. 

Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 

Cain. No — I am new to this; lead thou the way. 
And I will follow— as I may. 

Abel {kneeling). Oh, God! 

Who made us, and who breathed the breatli of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been, 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 
Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
Compared with our great crimes :— Sole Lord of light , 
Of good, and glory, and eternity ! 
Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can err, except to some good end 
Of thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfiU'd— 
Accept from out thy humble first of shepherds' 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing— as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee ?— but yet accept it for 
The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honor 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain [standing erect during this speech). Spirit! 
whate'er or whosoe'er thou art. 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
And it may be with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works :— 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Take them ! If thou must be induced with altars, 
And soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, wliich 

smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies ; 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth , 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
I spread them on now offers in the face 
Of the broad sun which ripen 'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not * 
Suffer 'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim. 
And altar without gore, may win thy favor, 
Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling : if he 's evil. 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and ma>st — 
For what can he oppose ? If he be good. 
Strike him, or spare him, as thou wait ! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 



Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 

[The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles into a 
column of the brightest flame, and ascends to 
heaven ; while a whirlwind throws down the 
altar of Cain, and scatters the fruits abroad 
upon the earth. 
Abel {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray! Jehovah's 

wroth with thee. 
Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the earth. 

Cain. From earth they oume, to earth let tliem 
return ; 
Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the 

summer : 
Thy burnt flesh-off 'ring prospers better ; see 
How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick with 
blood ! 
Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance. 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late. 

Cain. I will build no more altars. 

Nor suffer any. — 
Abel {rising). Cain ! what meanest thou ? 
Cain. To cast down yon vile flatt'rer of tJio clouds, 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs— 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids. 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy 'd in blood. 
Abel {opposing him). Thou shalt not :— add not 
impious works to impious 
Yf ords ! let that altar stand— 't is h allow 'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His I 

His pleasure! what was his high pleasure in 
The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 
Abel. Brother, give back! thou shalt not touch 
my altar 
With violence: if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice! Give way, or else 

That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou ? 

Cain. Give — 

Give way !— thy God loves blood !— then look to it : — 
Give way, ere he hath more I 

Abel. In his great name, 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov'st thyself. 

Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 

Its native soil : — else 

Abel {opposing him). I love God far more 
Than life. 

Cain {striking him with a brand, on the tem.ples, 
ivhich he snatches from the altar). Then take 
thy life unto thy God, 
Since he loves lives. 
Abel {falls). What hast thou done, my brother ? 
Cain. Brother! 

Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 

Forgive his slayer, for he knew not w^hat 
He did — Cain, give me— give me thy hand ; and tell 
Poor Zillah- — 

Cain {(fter a moments stupefaction). My hand ! 
'tis all red, and with — 
What ? 

[A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
Where am I ? alone ! Wliere 's Abel ? where 
Cain V Can it be that I am he ? My brother. 
Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
'T is not the hour of slumber ; — why so pale ? 
What, hast tliou ! — thou wert full of life this morn ! 
269 



ACT III. 



CAIK 



sce:n^e I. 



Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 
Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
Yv'ouldst thou oppose me ? Tliis is mockery ; 
And only done to daunt me :— 't was a blow — 
And but a blow. Stir— stir— nay, only stir! 
Why, so— that's well!— thou breath 'st! breathe 

upon me ! 
Oil, God! Oh, God! 

Abel [very faintly). What 's he who speaks of God? 

Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then m»y God forgive him ! Cain, 

Comfort poor Zillah :— she has but one brother 
Now. [Abel dief^. 

Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brotherless ? 
His eyes are open ! then he is not dead ! 
Deatli is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
And yet I feel it not.— His heart !— his heart ! 

Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No !— no ! 

This is a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me : — what is this ?— 't is 
wet ; 

[Puts his hand to his brow, and then loolis at it. 
And yet there are no dews ! 'T is blood— my blood — 
My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life. 
Since I have taken life from my own flesli ? 
But he cannot be dead !~Is silence death ? 
Xo ; he will wake : then let me v>^atch by him. 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be quench 'd 
Thus quickly!— he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him ?— My brother !— No : 
He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
Smite not each other. Yet— yet — speak to me. 
Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
Tliat I may bear to hear my own again ! 

Enter Zillah. 
Zillah. I heard a heavy sound ; what can it be ? 
'T is Cain: and watching by my husband. What 
Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep? Oh, 

heav'n ! 
What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no ! 
It is not blood; for who w^ould shed his blood ? 
Abel ! what 's this ? — who hath done this ? He 

moves not ; 
Pie breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
Why cani'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him. 
Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 

[Exit Zillah., calling on her Parents, etc. 
Cain (solus) . And who hath brought him there ? — 

I— who abhor 
The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect— I have led him here, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid. 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me ;— but /le 'shall ne'er awake! 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings me 
here.— 
What do 1 see ?— 'T is true ! — My son ! my son ! 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and tiiine ! 

[To Ere. 
Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now : the serpent's fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved , Abel ! 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
Adam. Who, 

270 



Or what hath done this deed? — speak, Cain, since 

thou 
Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand. 
Massy and bloody ! snatch 'd from off the altar, 
And black with smoke, and red with 

Adam. Speak, my son ! 

Speak, and assure us, vrretched as we are, 
That we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou I 

Eve. It Avas. 

I see it now— he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers liis ferocious eye v/ith hands 
Incarnadine. 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 

Cain! clear thee from this horrible accusal,' 
Which grief WTings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
Mav all his days be desolate. May 

Adah. Hold ! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother. 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother— 

Zillah no husband — me no son ! for thus 
I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us, as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh, death ! death ! 

Why didst thou not take we, who first incurr'd thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now ? 

Adam. Eve ! let not this. 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve (pointing to Cain). His will ! ! the will of 
yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his path- 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew 'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
His waking a continual dread of deatli ! 
May the clear rivers turn to blood as he 
Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
May every element shun or change to him ! 
May he live in the pangs which others die vrith ! 
And death itself wax something worse than death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind. 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire! 
May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 

[Exit Ere. 

Adam. Cain ! get thee forth : w^e dwell no more 
together. 

Depart ! and leave the dead to me 1 am 

Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 

Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father : do 
not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 

Adam. I curse him not : his spirit be his curse. 
Come, Zillah ! 



ACT III. 



CAim 



SCETs^E T. 



Zillali. I must watch my husband's corse. 

Adam. We will return again, when he is gone 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah ! 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay. 

And those lips once so warm— my iieart ! my" heart ! 
[Exeunt Adam arid Zillah, weeping. 

Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we m.ust go forth. 
I am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Under the cloud of night.— Nay, speak to me. 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me! 

Adah. Why. all have left thee. 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou 
not fear 
To dwell with one who hath done this ? 

Adah. I fear 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Siirink from the deed which leaves thee brotlierless. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A Voice from loithin exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. H ear'st thou that voice ? 

The Voice ii^ithin. Cain ! Cain ! 

Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 

Angel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 

Cain. Am I then 

My brother's keeper ? 

Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done ? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out. 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord !— Now art 

thou 
Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her 

mouth 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it 

shall not 
Yield thee her strength : a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 

Adah. This punishment is more than he can bear. 
Behold, thou driv'st him from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall lie be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
'T will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but wiio are they 

Shall slay me ? Where are these on the lone earth , 
As yet unpeopled ? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 

Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, iior say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 

Angel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now seest so besmear'd with blood ? 
The fratricide might w^ell engender parricides.— 
But it shall not be so— the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to set his seal 
On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 

Cain. Wliat 

Wouldst thou with me ? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 

Cain. No, let me die ! 

Angel. It must not be. 

[T/ie Angel sets the mark on Cain''s hrow. 

Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 



Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn from 
the womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended. 

Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten ; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The serpent, and my sire still mourn'd for Eden. 
That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
For life, nor did I make myself ; but could I 
With my own death redeem' him from the dust — 
And why not so V let him return to-day, 
And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
By God the life to liim lie loved ; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what is done is 
done; 
Go forth ! fulfill thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last ! [The Angel disapj)ears. 

Adah. He 's gone, let us go forth ; 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he w^eeps for ! 
And I wiio have shed blood cannot shed tears ! 
But the four rivers* would not cleanse my soul. 
Think 'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 

Adah. It 1 thought that he would not, I would — 

Cai7i {interrupting her). No, 

No more of threats : we have had too many of theiii : 
Go to our children ; I will follow thee. 

Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

CoAn. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou note art 
I know not ! but if thou seest what Jam, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul.— Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have m.ade thee, 
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drained 
The same breast, clasp 'd thee often to my own, 
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
For me — compose tliy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But wdio hath dug that grave? bh, earth! Oli, 

earth ! 
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 

[Adah stoops doivn and kisses the body of 
Abel. 

Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who "mourn for thee, 
I alone m.ust not weep. My office is 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to slied them : 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 

Cain. Eastward from Eden will Ave take our way : 
'T is the most desolate, and suits my steps. 

Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may 
our God 
Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 

Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
Which might Irave graced his recent marriage 

couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine, 
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
Oh, Abel! 

Adah. Peace be with him ! 

Cain. But with me I 

[Exeunt. 

*The "four rivers" which flowed round Eden, and conse- 
quently the only waters viith which Cain was acquainted 
upon earth, 

271 



WEENER; OR, THE INHERITANCE 

31 ® raged 2- 



TO THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE, 

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, THIS TRAGEDY 



PBEFACE. 



THE following drama* is taken entirely from the " Ger- 
man's Tale, Kruitzner,'' published many years ago in 
Lee's Canterbury Tales ; written (I believe) by two sisters, 
of whom one furnished only this story and ano'ther, both 
of which are considered superior to the remainder of the 
collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even 
the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the 
characters are modified or altered, a few of the names 
changed, and one character, Ida of Stralenheim, added 
by myself : but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. 
When I v/as young (about fourteen, I think), I first read 
this tale, which made a deep impression upon me ; and 
may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I 
have since written. I am not sure that it ever vras very 
popular ; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been 
eclipsed by that of other great Avriters in the same depart- 
ment. But I have generally found that those who had 
read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular 
power of mind and conception which it develops. I 
should also add conception, rather than execution ; for the 



* The tragedy of "Werner" was begun at Pisa, December 
18, 1821, completed Januarj' 20, 1822, and published in Lon- 
don in the November following-. The reviews of "Werner" 
were, without exception, unfavorable. One critique of the 
time thus opens :— 

" Who could be so absurd as to think, that a dramatist has 
no right to make free with other people's fables? On the 
contrary, we are quite aware that that particular species of 
genius which is exhibited in the consti'uction of plots, never 
at any period flourished in England. We all know that 
Shakspeare himself took his stories from Italian novels, 
Danish sagas, English Chronicles, Plutarch's Lives— from any- 
where rather than from his own invention. But did he take 
the whole of Hamlet, or Juliet, or Richard the Third, or 
Antony and Cleopatra, from any of these foi'eign sources? 
Did he not invent, in the noblest sense of the word, all the 
characters of his pieces? Who di*eams that any old Italian 
novelist, or ballad-maker, could have formed the imagina- 
tion of such a creature as Juliet? Who dreams that the 
Hamlet of Shakspeare, the princely enthusiast, the melan- 
choly philosopher, that spirit refined even to pain, that most 
incomprehensible and unapproachable of all the creations of 
human genius, is the same being, in any thing but the name, 
wath the rough, strong-hearted, bloody-handed Amlett of the 
north ? Who is there that supposes Goethe to have taken the 
character of his Faust from the nursery rhymes and penny 
pamphlets about the devil and Doctor Faustus? Or who, to 
come nearer home, imagines that Lord Bryon himself found 
his Sardanapalus in Dionysius of Halicarnassus? 

"But here Lord Byron has invented nothing— absolutely 
272 



story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater 
advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with 
mine upon this story, I could mention some very high 
names : but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use ; for 
every one must judge according to his own feelings. I 
merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may 
see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not 
umvilling that he should find much greater pleasure in 
perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its 
contents. 

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815 
(the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years 
old, called " Ulric and Ilvina," which I had sense enough 
to burn), and had nearly completed an act, when I Avas 
interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst 
my papers in England ; but as it has not been found, I 
have rev.'ritten the first, and added the subsequent acts. 

The Avhole is neither intended, nor in any shape 
adapted, for the stage.f 
Pisa, February, 1822. 



NOTHING. There is not one incident in his play, not even the 
most trivial, that is not to be found in Miss Lee's novel, 
occurring exactly in the same mannei% brought about by ex- 
actly the same agents, and producing exactly the same effects 
on the plot. And then as to the characters — not only is 
every one of them to be found in ' Kruitzner,' but every one 
is to be found there more fully and powerfully developed. 
Indeed, but for the preparations which we had received from 
our old familiarity with Miss Lee's own admirable work, we 
rather incline to think that we should have been unable to 
comprehend the gist of her noble imitator, or rather copier, 
in several of what seem to be meant for his most elaborate 
delineations. The fact is, that this undcAaating closeness, 
this humble fidelity of imitation, is a thing so perfectly new 
in any thing worthy the name of literature, that we are sure 
no one who has not read the Canterbury Tales will be able to 
form the least conception of what it amounts to. 

"Those who have never read Miss Lee's book, will, hoAv- 
ever, be pleased with this production ; for, in truth, the story 
is one of the most powerfully conceived, one of the most 
picturesque, and at the same time instructive stories, that 
we are acquainted with. 

" ' Kruitzner, or the German's Tale,' possesses mystery, and 
yet clearness, as to its structure ; strength of characters, and 
admirable contrast of characters; and, above all, the most 
lively interest, blended with and subservient to the most 
affecting of moral lessons." 

+ Werner is, however, the only one of Lord Byron's dra- 
mas that proved successful in representation. 



ACT I. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



MEN. 
Werner. 
Ulric. 

Stralenlieim. 
Idenstein. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Gab or. 

Fritz. 

Henrick. 

Eric. 

Arnheim. 

Meister. 



Rodolph. 
Ludwig- 

WOMEN. 
Josephine. 
Ida Stralenheim. 



SCENE. — Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague. 

Thirty Years' War. 

^CT I. 



TIME.— rAe Close of the 



SCENE I.— TJie Hall of a decnj/ed Palace near a 
small Town on the Northern " Frontier of Silesia — 
the Night tempestuous. 

Werner and Josephine his wife. 

Jos. My love, be calmer ! 

Wer. I am calm. 

Jos. To me — 

Yes, but not to thyself : thy pace is hurried, 
And no one walks a chamber like to ours 
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. 
"Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, 
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower ; 
Ihit here I 

Wer. 'T is chill ; the tapestry lets through 
The wind to which it waves : my blood is frozen. 

Jos. Ah, no ! 

Wer. {smiling). Why ! wouldst thou have it so V 

Jos. I would 

Have it a healthful current. 

Wer. Let it flow 

Until 'tis spilt or check'd— how soon, I care not. 

Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart ? 

Wer. All— all. 

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must 
break mine ? 

Wer. [approaching her sloivly). But for thee I had 
been— no matter what, 
Bat much of good and evil ; what I am. 
Thou kiiowest ; what I might or should have been. 
Thou knowest not : but still I love thee, nor 
Shall aught divide us. 

[Werner walks on abruptly ^ and then approaches 
Josephine. 

The storm of the night 
Perhaps affects me ; I am a thing of feelings, 
And have of late been sickly, as, alas ! 
Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my 

love ! 
In watching me. 

Jos. To see thee well is much— 
To see thee happy 

Wer. Where hast thou seen such ? 

Let me be wretched with the rest ! 

Jos. * But think 

How many in this hour of tempest shiver 
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, 
Whose every drop bows tliem down nearer earth, 
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath 
Her surface. 

Wer. And that 's not the worst : who cares 

For chambers ? rest is all. The wretclies whom 
Thou namest— ay, the wind howls round them, and 
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones 
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier, 
A hunter, and a traveller, and am 
A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st 
of. 

Jos. And art thou not now shelter 'd from them 
all? 

Wer. Yes. And from these alone. 

Jos. And that is something. 

18 



Wer. True— to a peasant. 

Jos. Should the nobly born 

Be tliankless for that refuge which their habits 
Of early delicacy render more 
Xeedful than to the peasant, when the ebb 
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life ? 

Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not : we 
Have borne all this, I '11 not say patiently. 
Except in thee— but we have borne it. 

Jos. Well ? 

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings 
(though 
These were enough to gnaw into our souls) 
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now., 
When, but for this untoward sickness, which 
Seized me upon tliis desolate frontier, and 
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,. 
And leaves us— no ! this is beyond me !— but 
For this I had been happy — thou been happy — 
The splendor of my rank sustained — my name — 
My father's name— been still upheld ; and, more 
Than those 

Jos. {abruptly). My son — our son — ourLHric, 
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms, 
And all a mother's hunger satisfied. 
Twelve years ! he was but eight then :— beaiitif ul 
He was, and beautiful he must be now. 
My Ulric ! my adored ! 

Wer. I have been full oft 

The chase of Fortune ; now she hath o'ertaken 
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay, — 
Sick, poor, and lonely. 

Jos. Lonely ! my dear husband ? 

Wer. Or worse — involving all I love, in this 
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died. 
And all been over in a nameless grave. 

Jos. And I had not outlived thee ; but pray take 
Comfort ! We have struggled long ; and they who 

strive 
With Fortune win or weary her at last. 
So that they find the goal, or cease to feel 
Further. Take comfort, — we shall find our boy. 

Wer. We were in sight of him, of everything 
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow — 
And to be baflied thus ! 

Jos. We are not baflied. 

Wer. Are we not penniless ? 

Jos. . We ne'er were wealthy. 

Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and 
power ; 
Enjoy 'd them, loved them, and, alas ! abused them,. 
And forfeited them by my father's wrath. 
In my o'er-fervent youth ; but for the abuse 
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death 
Left the path open, j^et not without snares. 
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long- 
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon 
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me^ 
Become the master of my rights, and lord 
Of that which lifts him up to princes in 
Dominion and domain. 

Jos. Who knows ? our son 

273 



ACT T. 



WERNER. 



SCEXE I. 



May have returii'd back to his grandsire, and 
Even now uphold thy rights for thee ? 

Wer. 'T is hopeless. 

Since his strange disappearance from my father's 
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon 
Himself, no tidings have reveaPd his course. 
I parted with him to his grandsire, on 
The promise that his anger w^ould stop short 
Of the third generation ; but Heaven seems 
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit 
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies. 

Jos. I must hope better still,— at least. we have yet 
Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal 
sickness ; 
More fatal than a mortal malady. 
Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace ; 
Even now I feel my spirit girt about 
By the snares of this avaricious fiend ; — 
How do I know he hath not track'd us here ? 

Jos. He does not know thy person ; and his spies. 
Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Ham- 
burgh. 
Our unexpected journey, and this change 
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind : 
Xone hold us here for aught save what we seem. 

Wer. Save what we seem! save what we are— 
sick beggars. 
Even to our very hopes. — Ha ! ha ! 

Jos. Alas ! 

That bitter laugh ! 

Wer. Who would read in this form 

The high soul of the son of a long line ? 
TF/io, in this garb, the heir of princely lands ? 
Who., in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride 
Of rank and ancestry ? In this worn cheek 
And famine-hollow 'd brow, the lord of halls 
Which daily feast a thousand vassals ? 

Jos. You 

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, 
My Werner! Avhen you deign 'd to choose for bride 
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile. 

Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast son 
Were a fit marriage ; but I still had hopes 
To lift thee to the state we both were born for. 
Your father's house was noble, though decay 'd ; 
And worthy by its birth to match with ours. 

Jos. Your father did not think so, though 't was 
noble ; 
But had my birth been all my claim to match 
With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is. 

Wer. And what is that in tliine eyes ? 

Jos. All which it 

Has done in our behalf, — nothing. 

Wer. How,— nothing ? 

Jos. Or worse ; for it has been a canker in 
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this, 
We had not felt our poverty but as 
Millions of myriads feel it ,"^ cheerfully ; 
But for these pliantooaas of thy feudal fathers. 
Thou mightst liave earn'd thy bread, as thousands 

earn it*, 
Or, if that seem too "humble, tried by commerce, 
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. 

Wer. [ironicallii). And been an Hanseatic burgher? 
ExceBeiit ! 

Jos. Wlmte'erthou mightst have been, to me thou 
art 
What no state higli or low can ever change. 
My heart's fixst choice;— which chose thee, know- 
ing neither 
Thy birth^ lliy hopes, thy pride ; nought, save thy 

sorrows : 
AVhile they last, let me comfort or divide them : 
AVhen they end, let mine end with them, or tliee! 

Wer. My better angel! such I have ever found 
thee ; 

274 



This rashness, or this weakness of my temper, 
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine. 
Thou didst not mar my fortunes : my own nature 
In youth was such as to unmake an empire. 
Had such been my inheritance ; but now, 
Chasten'd, subdued, outworn, and taught to know 
Myself — to lose this for our son and thee ! 
Trust me, when, in my two-and-tvventieth spring, 
My father barr'd me from my fathers' house. 
The last sole scion of a thousand sires 
(For I was then the last), it liurt me less 
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother 
Excluded in their innocence from what 
My faults deserved— exclusion : although then 
My passions were all living serpents, and 
Twined like the Gorgon's round me. 

[ai loud knocking is heard. 

Jos. Hark ! 

Wer. A knocking ! 

Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour ? ^Ve have 
Few visitors. 

Wer. And poverty hath none, 

Save those who come to make it poorer still. 
Well, I am prepared. 

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to 
search for some iceapon. 

Jos. Oh ! do not look so. I 

Will to the door. It cannot be of import 
In this lone spot of wintry desolation :— 
The very desert saves man from mankind. 

[She goes to the door. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Ide7i. A fair good evening to my fairer hostess 
And vv^orthy What 's your name, my friend ? 

Wer. Are you 

jSTot afraid to demand it ? 

Iden. Not afraid ? 

Egad ! I am afraid. You look as if 
I ask'd for something better than your name, 
By the face you put on it. 

Wer. Better, sir ! 

Iden. Better or worse, like matrimony: what 
Shall 1 say more? You ]iave been a guest this 

month 
Here in the prince's palace — (to be sure, 
His highness liad resign'd it to the ghosts 
And rats these twelve years— but t is'still a palace)— 
I say you have been our lodger, and as yet 
We do not know your name. 

Wer. My name is Werner. 

Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name, 
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board : 
I liave a cousin in the lazaretto 
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore 
The same. He is an officer of trust. 
Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon), 
And has done miracles i' the way of business. 
Perhaps you are related to my relative. 

Wer. to yours ? 

Jos. Oh, yes; we are, but distantly. 

[Aside to Werner. 
Cannot you humor the dull gossip till 
We learn his purpose ? 

Iden. Well, I 'm glad of that ; 

I thought so all along, such natural yearnings 
Play 'd round my heart : — blood is not water, cousin ; 
And so let 's have some wine, and drink unto 
Our better acquaintance : relatives should be 
Friends. 

Wer. You appear to have drunk enough already ; 
And if you had not, I 've no wine to offer, 
Else it were yours : but this j^ou know, or sliould 

know : 
You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see 
That I would be alone ; but to your business ! 
What brings you here ? 



ACT I. 



WERNER, 



SCENE T. 



Men, Why, what should bring me here ? 

Wer. I know not, though 1 think that I could 
guess 
That which will send you hence. 

Jos. (aside). Patience, dear Werner ! 

Iden. You don't know what has happened, then ? 

Jos. How should we ? 

Iden. The river has o'erflowed. 

Jos. Alas ' we have known 

That to our sorrow for these five days ; since 
It keeps us here. 

Iden. But what you don't know is, 

That a great personage, who fain would cross 
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, 
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, 
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. 

Jos. Poor creatures ! are you sure ? 

Iden. Yes, of the monkey, 

And the valet, and the cattle ; but as yet 
We know not if his excellency 's dead 
Or no ; your noblemen are hard to drown, 
As it is fit that men in office should be ; 
But what is certain is, that he has swallow 'd 
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants ; 
And liow a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, 
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from 
The whirling river, have sent on to crave 
A lodging, or a grave, according as 
It may turn out with the live or dead body. 

Jos.^ And where will you receive him ? here, I hope. 
If we can be of service— say the word. 

Iden. Here ? no ; but in the prince's own apart- 
ment. 
As fits a noble guest : — 't is damp, no doubt, 
Xot having been inhabited these twelve years ; 
But then he comes from a much damper place, 
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be 
Still liable to cold — and if not, why 
He '11 be worse lodged to-morrow : ne'ertheless, 
I have order'd fire and all appliances 
To be got ready for the worst — that is. 
In case he should survive. 

Jos. Poor gentleman ! 

I hope he will, with all my heart. 

Wev. Intendant, 

Have you not learn'd his name ? My Josephine, 

[Aside to his tcife. 
Eetire : I 'U sift this fool. [Exit Josephine. 

Iden. His name ? oh Lord ! 

Who knows if he hath now a name or no ? 
'T is time enougli to ask it when he 's able 
To give an answer; or if not, to put 
His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought 
Just now you chid me for demanding names ? 

Wer. True, true, I did so ; you say well and wisely. 

Enter Gabor. 

Gah. If I intrude, I crave 

Iden. Oh, no intrusion. 

This is the palace ; this a stranger like 
Yourself ; I pray you make yourself at home : 
But where 's liis excellency ? and how fares he ? 

Gad. Wetly and wearily, butrout of peril : 
He paused to change liis garments in a cottage 
(Where I dofl'd mine for these, and came on hither), 
And has almost recover 'd from his drenching. 
He will be here anon. 

Iden. What ho, there ! bustle ! 

Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad I 
[Gives directions to different servants icho enter. 
A nobleman sleeps here to-night— see that 
All is in order in the damask cli amber — 
Keep up the stove — I will myself to the cellar — 
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger) 
Shall furnish forth the bed apparel ; for, 
To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this 
Within the palace precincts, since his highness 



Left it some dozen years ago. And then 
His excellency will sup, doubtless ? 

Gab. Faith ! 

I cannot tell ; but I should think the pillow 
^Vould please him better than the table after 
His soaking in your river : but for fear 
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean 
To sup myself, and have a friend witliout 
AVho will do honor to your good cheer with 
A traveller's appetite." 

Iden. But are you sure 

His excellency But his name : what is it ? 

Gah. I do not know. 

Iden. And yet you saved his life. 

Gah. I help'd my friend to do so. 

Iden. Well, that 's strange. 

To save a man's life whom you do not knov/. 

Gah. Not so ; for there are some I know so well, 
I scarce should give myself the trouble. 

Iden. Pray, 

Good friend, and wItjo may you be ? 

Gah. By my family, 

Hungarian. 

Iden. Which is call'd ? 

Gah. It matters little. 

Idea, [a^ide). I think that all the world are grown 
anonymous, 
Since no one cares to tell me what he 's call'd ! 
Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? 

Gah. Sufficient. 

Iden. How many V 

Gab. I did not count them. 

We came up by mere accident, and just 
In time to drag him through his carriage window. 

Iden, Well, what would I give to save a great 
man ! 
No doubt you '11 have a swingeing sum as recom- 
pense. 

Gah. Perhaps. 

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on ? 

Gah. I have not yet put up myself to sale : 
In the mean time, my best reward would be 
A glass of your Hockheimer — a green glass. 
Wreath 'd with rich grapes and bacchanal devices. 
Overflowing with the oldest of your vintage ; 
For which I promise you, in case you e'er 
Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own 
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you), 
I' 11 pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, 
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, 
A AvaVe the less may roll above your head. 

Ideii. [aside). I don't much like this fellow — close 
and dry 
He seems, two things which suit me not : however. 
Wine he shall have ; if that unlock him not, 
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. 

(Exit Idenstein. 

Gah. (to Werner). Thismaster of the ceremonies is 
The intendant of the palace, I presume : 
'T is a fine building, but decay'd. 

Wer. The apartment 

Design'd for him you rescued will be found 
In fitter order for a sickly guest. 

Gah. I wonder then you occupied it not, 
For you seem delicate in health. 

Wer. [quickly). Sir! 

Gah. Pray 

Excuse me : have I said aught to offend yoii ? 

Wer. Nothing: but we are strangers to each 
other. 

Gah. And that 's the reason I would have us less so : 
I thought our bustling host without had said 
You were a chance and passing guest, the counter- 
part 
Of me and my companions. 

Wer. Very true. 

Gah. Then, as we never met before, and never, 
275 



ACT I. 



WERNER. 



SCEIs^E I. 



It may be, may again encounter, why, 
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here 
(At least to me) by asking you to share 
Tlie fare of my companions and myself. 

Wer. Pray, pardon me ; my health 

Gab. Even as you please. 

I liave been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt 
In bearing. 

Wer. I have also served, and can 

Eequite a soldier's greeting. 

Gab. In what service ? 

The Imperial ? 

Wer. {quickhj, and then interrupting himself). I 
commanded — no — I mean 
I served ; but it is many years ago, 
When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst 
The Austrian. 

Gab. Well, that 's over now, and peace 

Has turn'd some thousa-nd gallant hearts adrift 
To live as they best may ; and, to say truth, 
Some take the shortest. 

Wer. What is that ? 

Gab. Whatever 

They lay their hands on. All Silesia and 
Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands 
Of the late troops, who levy on the country 
Their maintenance : tlie Chatelains must keep 
Their castle walls— beyond them 't is but doubtful 
Travel for ^our rich count or full-blown baron. 
My comfort is that, wander where I may, 
I 've little left to lose now. 

Wer. And I — nothing. 

Gab. That 's harder still. You say you were a 
soldier. 

Wer. I was. 

Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are 

Or should be comrades, even though enemies. 
Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim 
(AVhile leveird) at each other's hearts ; but when 
A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits 
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep 
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are breth- 
ren . 
You are poor and sickly— I am not rich, but healthy ; 
I want for nothing which I cannot want; 
You seem devoid of this— wilt share it ? 

{Gabor indU out his purse. 

Wer. AVho 

Told you I was a beggar ? 

Gab. You yourself. 

In saying you were a soldier during peace-time. 

Wer. {looking at him with susincAon). You know 
me not V 

Gab. I know no man, not even 

Myself : how should I then know one I ne'er 
Beheld till half an hour since V 

Wer. Sir, I thank you. 

Your offer 's noble were it to a friend, 
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger, 
Though scarcely prudent ; but no less I thank 3-0 u. 
lama beggar in all save his trade ; 
And when [ beg of any one, it shall be 
Of him who was the first to offer what 
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me. [Exit. 

Gab. [solus). A goodly fellow by his looks, though 
worn , 
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure, 
Whicli tear life out of us before our time; 
I scarce know which most quickly : but he seems 
To have seen better days, as who has not 
AVho has seen yesterday ? — But here approaches 
Our sage intendant, with the wine.: however, 
Por the cup's sake I '11 bear the cupbearer. 

Enter Idenstein. 
/rZen.'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years 
Of age, if 't is a day. 

276 



Gab. Which epoch makes 

Young women and old wine ; and 't is great pity, 
Of two such excellent things, increase of years. 
Which still improves the one, should spoil the 

other. 
Fill full— Here 's to our hostess !— your fair wife ! 

[Tates the glass. 

Men. Fair! — Well, I trust your taste in wine is 
equal 
To that you show for beauty : but I pledge you 
Nevertheless. 

Gab. Is not the lovely woman 

I met in the adjacent liall, who, with 
An air, and port, and eye, which would have better 
Beseem 'd this palace iii its brightest days 
(Though in a garb adapted to its present 
Abandonment), return 'd my salutation — 
Is not the same your spouse ? 

Men. I would she w^re ! 

But you 're mistaken : — that 's the stranger's wife. 

Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's : 
Though time hath touch 'd her too, she still retains 
Much beauty, and more majesty. 

Men. And that 

Is more than I can say for Madame Idenstein, 
At least in beauty : as for majesty. 
She has some of its properties which might 
Be spared— but never mind ! 

Gab. I don't. But who 

May be this stranger ? He too hath a bearing 
Above his outward fortunes. 

Men. There I differ. 

He 's poor as Job, and not so patient ; but 
Wlio he may be, or what, or aught of him, 
Except his name (and that I only learn'd 
To-night), I know not. 

Gab. But how came he liere ? 

Men. In a most miserable old caleche, 
About a month since, and immediately 
Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. 

Gab. Tejider and true !— but why ? 

Men. Why, what is life 

Without a living ? He has not a stiver. 

Gab. In that case, 1 much wonder that a person 
Of your apparent prudence should adinit 
Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion. 

Men. That 's true ; but pity, as you know, docs 
make 
One's heart commit these follies ; and besides, 
They had some valuables left at that time, 
Which paid their way up to the present hour ; 
And so I thought they might as well be lodged 
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them 
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms. 
They served to air them, at the least as long 
As they could pay for firewood. 

Gab. Poor souls I 

Men. ■ Ay, 

Exceeding poor. 

Gab. And yet unused to poverty, 

If I mistake not. A\^hitlier were they going ? 

Men. Oh ! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven 
itself. 
Some days ago that look'd the likeliest journey 
For Werner. 

GoM. Werner ! I have heard the name : 

But it may be a feign 'd one. 

Men. Like enough ! 

But hark ! a noise of wheels and voices, and 
A blaze of torches from without. As sure 
As destiny, his excellency 's come. 
I must be" at my post : will you not join me, 
To help him from his carriage, and present 
Your humble duty at the door ? 

Gab. 1 dragg'd him 

From out that carriage when he would have given 
His barony or county to repel 



ACT I. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



The rushing river from his gurgling throat. 
He has valets now enough : they stood aloof then, 
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore, 
All roaring " Help ! " but offering none ; and as 
For duty (as you call it) — I did mine then, 
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him 
here! 
Iden. Jcringe ! — but I shall lose the opportunity — 
Plague take it ! he '11 be here, and I not there ! 

[Exit Idenstein hastily. 

Be-enter "Werner. 

Wer. (to himself). I heard a noise of wheels and 
voices. How 
All sounds now jar me! {Perceiving Gahor.) Still 

here ! Is he not 
A spy of my pursuer's ? His frank offer 
So suddenly, and to a stranger, wore 
The aspect of a secret enemy ; 
Tor friends are slow at such. 

Gal). Sir, you seem rapt ; 

And yet the time is not akin to thought. 
These old walls will be noisy soon. The baron, 
Or count (or whatsoe'er this half -drown 'd noble 
May be), for whom tliis desolate village and 
Its lone inhabitants show more respect 
Than did the elements, is come. 

Men. {icithout). This way— 

This way, your excellency :— have a care, 
The staircase is a little gloomy, and* 
Somewhat decay 'd ; but if we had expected 
So high a guest— Pray take my arm, my lord ! 

Enter Stralenheim, Idenstein, and Attendants — 

partly his own, and partly Retainers of the Do- 
main of which Idenstein is Intendant. 

Stral. I '11 rest me here a moment. 

Iden. {to the servants). Ho ! a chair! 

Instantly, knaves 1 [Stralenheim sits down. 

Wer. {aside). 'Tishe! 

Stral. 1 'm better now. 

Who are these strangers ? 

Iden. Please you, my good lord, 

One says he is no stranger. 

Wer. {aloud and hastily). Who says that ? 

[They look at him with surprise. 

Iden. Why, no one spoke of you, or to you I — but 
Here 's one his excellency may be pleaded 
To recognize. [Pointing to Gahor. 

Gah. I seek not to disturb 

His noble memory. 

Stral. I apprehend 

This is one of the strangers to whose aid 
I OAve my rescue. Is not that the other ? 

[Pointing to Werner. 
My state when I was succor'd must excuse 
My uncertainty to whom I owe so much. 

Iden. He ! — no, my lord, he rather wants for rescue 
Than can afford it. 'T is a poor sick man, 
Travel-tired, and lately risen from a bed 
Prom whence he never dream 'd to rise. 

Stral. Meth ought 

That there were two. 

Gah. There were, in company ; 

But, in the service render'd to your lordship, 
I needs must say but one, and he is absent. 
The chief part of whatever aid was render'd 
Was his : it was his fortune to be first. 
My will was not inferior, but his strength 
And youth outstripp'd me ; therefore do not waste 
Your thanks on me. I was but a glad second 
Unto a nobler principal. 

Stral. Where is he ? 

An Atten. My lord, he tarried in the cottage 
where 
Your excellency rested for an hour, 
And said he would be here to-morrow. 



Stral. . Till 

That hour arrives, I can but offer thanks, 
And then 

Gah. I seek no more, and scarce deserve 

So much. My comrade may speak for himself. 

Stral. {fixing his eyes upon Werner : then aside). 
It cannot be ! and yet he must be look'd to. 
'T is twenty years since I beheld him with 
These eyes ; and, though my agents still have ke]»t 
Theirs on him, policy has held aloof 
My own from his, not to alarm him into 
Suspicion of my plan. Why did I leave 
At Hamburgh those who would have made assur- 
ance 
If this be he or no ? I thought, ere now, 
To have been lord of Siegendorf , and parted 
In haste, though even the elements appear 
To fight against me, and this sudden flood 

May keep me prisoner liere till 

[He pauses, and looks at Werner ; then resumes. 

This man must 
Be watch 'd. If it is he, he is so changed. 
His father, rising from his grave again, 
Would pass him by unknown. I must be wary : 
An error would spoil all. 

Iden. Your lordship seems 

Pensive. Will it not please you to pass on ? 

Stral. 'T is past fatigue which gives my weigh 'd- 
down spirit 
An outward show of thought. I will to rest. 

Iden. The prince's chamber is prepared, with all 
The very furniture the prince used when 
Last here, in its full splendor. 

{Aside.) Somewhat tatter'd, 
And devilish damp, but fine enough by torchliglil ; 
And that's enough for your right noble blood 
Of twenty quarterings upon a hatchment •, 
So let their bearer sleep 'neath something' like one 
Now, as he one day will for ever lie. 

Stral. {rising and turning to Gahor). Goodnight, 
good people ! Sir, I trust to-morrow 
Will find me apter to requite your service. 
In the meantime I crave your company 
A moment in my chamber. 

Gah. I attend you. 

Stral. {after a few) steps, pauses, and calls Wer- 
ner). Friend! 

Wer. Sir! 

Iden. Sir I Lord— oh Lord I Why don't you sr.y 
His lordship, or his excellency ? Pray, 
My lord, excuse this poor man's want of breeding : 
He hath not been accustom 'd to admission 
To such a presence. 

Stral. {to Idenstein). Peace, intendant ! 

Iden. Oh! 

I am dumb. 

Stral. (to Werner). Have you been long here? 

Wer. Long ? 

Stral. I sought 

An answer, not an echo. 

Wer. You may seek 

Both from the walls. I am not used to answer 
Those whom I know not. 

Stral. Indeed ! Ne'ertheless, 

You might reply with courtesy to what 
Is ask'd in kindness. 

Wer. When I know it such, 

I will requite — that is, repAy— in unison. 

Stral. The intendant said you had been detained 
by sickness — 
If I could aid you— journeying the same way ? 

Wer. {quickly). I am not journeying the same way. 

Stral. How know ye 

That, ere you know my route ? 

JVer. Because there is 

But one way that the rich and poor must tread 
Together. You diverged from that dread path 
277 



ACT I, 



WERNER. 



SCEXE T. 



Some hours ago. and I some days : hencefortli 
Our roads must lie asunder, tliough they tend 
All to one home. 

Stral. Your language is above 

Your station. 

Wer. [hitterhj). Is it ? 

Stral. Or, at least, beyond 

Your garb. 

Wer. 'T is well that it is not beneath it, 

As sometimes happens to the better clad. 
But, in a word, what would you with me ? 

Stral. (startled). I? 

Wer. Yes— you ! You know me not, and ques- 
tion me, 
And wonder that I answer not— not knowing 
My inquisitor. Explain what you would have, 
And then I '11 satisfy yourself, or me. 

Stral. I knew not that you had reasons for reserve. 

Wer. Many have such : — Have you none '? 

Stral. "^ None which can 

Interest a mere stranger." 

Wer. Then forgive 

The same unknown and humble stranger, if 
He wishes to remain so to the man 
"Who can have nought in common with him. 

Stral. • Sir, 

I will not balk your humor, though untoward; 
I only meant j-ou service— but good night ! 
Intendant, show the way! {To Gabor.) Sir, you 
will with me ? 

[JExeunt Stralenheim and Attendants^ Idenstein 
and Gabor. 

Wer. [solus), 'Tis he! I am taken in the toils. 
Before 
I quitted Hamburgh, Giulio, his late steward. 
Inform 'd me, that he had obtain 'd an order 
From Brandenburg's elector, for the arrest 
Of Kruitzner (such the name I then bore), when 
I came upon the frontier ; the free city 
Alone preserved my freedom— till I left 
Its walls^fool that I was to quit them ! But 
I deem'd this humble garb, and route obscure, 
Had baffled the slow hounds in their pursuit. 
What '§ to be done ? He knows me not by person, 
Nor could aught, save the eye of apprehension, 
Have recognized him , after twenty years, 
We met so rarely and so coldly in 
Our youth. But those about him! Now I can 
Divine the frankness of the Hungarian, who 
No doubt is a mere tool and spy of Stralenheim's, 
To sound and to secure me. Without means ! 
Sick, poor — begirt too with the flooding rivers, 
Impassable even to the wealthy, with 
All the appliances which purchase modes 
Of overpowering peril, with men's lives, — 
How can I hope ! An hour ago methought 
My state beyond despair; ami now, 'tis'such, 
The past seems paradise. Another day, 
xVnd I 'm detected,— on the very eve 
Of honors, rights, and my inheritance, 
When a few drops of gold might save me still 
In favoring an escape. 

Enter Idenstein and Fritz in conversation. 

Fritz. Immediately. 

Men. I tell you 't is impossible. 

Fritz. It must 

Be tried, however; and if one express 
Fail, you must send on others, till the answer 
Arrives from Frankfort, from the commandant. 

Iden. I will do what I can. 

Fritz. And recollect 

To spare no trouble ; you will be repaid 
Tenfold. 

Iden. The baron is retired to rest ? 

Fritz. He hath thrown himself into an easy chair 
Beside the fire, and slumbers ; and has order'd 
278 



He may not be disturb'd until eleven, 
When he will take himself to bed. 

/cZen. Before 

An hour is past I '11 do my best to serve him. 

Fritz. Remember ! [Exit Fritz. 

Iden. The devil take these great men ! they 

Think all things made for them. Now here must I 
Rouse up some half a dozen shivering vassals 
From their scant pallets, and, at peril of 
Their lives, despatch them o'er the river towards 
Frankfort. Methinks the baron's own experience 
Some hours ago might teacli him fellow-feeling : 
But no, " it must,'''' and there 's an end. How now 
Are you there. Mynheer Werner ? 

Wer. You have left 

Your noble guest right quickly. 

Iden. Yes — he 's dozing. 

And seems to like that none should sleep besides. 
Here is a packet for the commandant 
Of Frankfort, at all risks and all expenses; 
But I must not lose time : Good night ! [Exit. 

Wer. ''To Frankfort!" 

So, so, it thickens! Ay. " the commandant." 
This tallies well with all the prior steps 
Of this cool, calculating fiend, who walks 
Between me and my father's house. No doubt 
He writes for a detachment to convey me 
Into some secret fortress. — Sooner than 

This 

[Wernei*Joo]cs around, and snatches up a knife 
lying on a table in a recess. 

Now I am master of myself at least. 
Hark,— footsteps ! How do I know that Stralen- 
heim 
Will wait for even the show of that authority 
Which is to overshadow usurpation ? 
That he suspects me 's certain. I 'm alone ; 
He with a numerous train. I weak ; he strong 
In gold, in numbers, rank, authority. 
I nameless, or involving in my name 
Destruction, till I reach my own domain ; 
He full-blown with his titles, which impose 
Still further on these obscure petty burghers 
Til an they could do elsewhere. Hark ! nearer still I 
I '11 to the secret passage, which communicates 

With the No ! all is silent— 't was my fancy !— 

Still as the breathless interval between 

The flash and thunder :— I must hush my soul 

Amidst its perils. Yet I will retire, 

To see if still be unexplored the passage 

I wot of : it will serve me as a den 

Of secrecy for some hours, at the worst. 

[Werner draius a panels and exit, closing 
it after him. 

Enter Gabor and Josephine. 

Gab. Where is your husband ? 

Jos. Here, I thought : I left him 

Not long since in his chamber. But these rooms 
Have many outlets, and he may be gone 
To accompany the intendant. 

Gab. Baron Stralenheim 

Put many questions to the intendant on 
The subject of your lord, and, to be plain, 
I have my doubts if he means well. 

Jos. Alas ! 

What can there be in common with the proud 
And wealthy baron, and the unknown Werner ? 

Gab. That you know best. 

Jos. Or, if it were so, how 

Come you to stir yourself in his behalf, 
Rather than that of him whose life j^ou saved ? 

Gab. I help'd to save him, as in peril; but 
I did not pledge myself to serve him in 
Oppression. I know well these nobles, and 
Their thousand modes of trampling on the poor. 
I have proved them ; and my spirit boils up when 



ACT IT. 



WERNER, 



SCENE T. 



I find them practicing against the weak : — 
This is my only motive. 

Jos. It would be 

JS'ot easy to persuade my consort of 
Your good intentions. 

Gah. . Is he so suspicious ? 

Jos. ile was not once ; but time and troubles have 
Made him what you beheld. 

Gah. I 'm sorry for it. 

Suspicion is a heavy armor, and 
With its own weight impedes more than protects. 
Good night ! I trust to meet with him at daybreak. 

[^Exit Gabor. 

Re-enter Idenstein and some Peasants. Josephine 
retires up the Hall. 

First Peasant. But if I 'm drowned ? 

Men. "Why, you will be well paid for 't, 

And have risk'd more than drowning for as much, 
I doubt not. 

Second Peasant. But our wives and families ? 

Iden. Cannot be worse off than they are, and may 
Be better. 

Third Peasant. I have neither, and will venture. 

Iden. That 's right. A gallant carle, and fit to be 
A soldier. I '11 promote you to the ranks 
In the prince's body-guard — if you succeed : 
And you shairhave besides, in sparkling coin, 
Two thalers. 

Third Peasant. No more ! 

Iden. Out upon your avarice ! 

Can that low vice alloy so much ambition ? 
I tell thee, fellow, that two thalers in 
Small change will subdivide into a treasure. 
Do not five hundred thousand heroes daily 
Kisk lives and souls for the tithe of one thaler ? 
When had you half the sum V 

lldrd Peasant. Never — but ne'er 

The less I must have three. 

Iden. Have you forgot 

Whose vassal you were born, knave ? 

Third Peasant. No — the prince's. 

And not the stranger's. 

Iden. Sirrah! in the prince's 

Absence, I am sovereign ; and the baron is 
My intimate connection ; — '' Cousin Idenstein ! 
(Quoth he) you '11 order out a dozen villains." 
And so, you villains ! troop— march— march I say ; 
And if a single dog's-ear of "this packet 
Be sprinkled by the Oder— look to it ! 
For every page of paper, sliall a hide 
Of yours be stretch 'd as parchment on a drum, 
Like Ziska's skin, to beat alarm to all 
Kefractory vassals, who cannot effect 
Impossibilities. — Away, ye earth-worms ! 

[Exit., driving them out. 

Jos. {coming for ivard). I fain would shun these 
scenes," too oft repeated, 
Of feudal tyranny o'er petty victims : 
I cannot aid, and will not witness such. 
Even here, in this remote, unnamed, dull spot, 
The dimmest in the district's map, exist 
The insolence of wealth in poverty 
O'er something poorer still — the pride of rank 
In servitude, o'er something still more servile ; 



And vice in misery affecting still 

A tatter'd splendor. What a state of being ! 

In Tuscany, my own dear sunny land. 

Our nobles were but citizens and merchants, 

Like Cosmo. We had evils, but not such 

As these : and our all-ripe and gushing valleys 

Made poverty more cheerful, where each herb 

Was in itself a meal, and every vine 

Eain'd, as it were, the beverage which makes glad 

The heart of man ; and the ne'er unfelt sun 

(But rarely clouded, and when clouded, leaving 

His warmth behind in memory of his beams) 

Makes the worn mantle, and the thin robe, less 

Oppressive than an emperor's jewell'd purple. 

But, here! the despots of the north appear 

To imitate the ice-wind of their clime, 

Searching the shivering vassal throagh his rags. 

To wring his soul— as the bleak elements 

His form. And 't is to be amongst these sovereigns 

My husband pants ! and such his pride of birth — 

That twenty years of usage, such as no 

Father born in a humble state could nerve 

His soul to persecute a son withal. 

Hath changed no atom of his early nature ; 

But I, born nobly also, from my father's 

Kindness was taught a different lesson. Father ! 

May thy long-tried and now rewarded spirit 

Look down on us and our so long desired 

Ulric ! I love my son, as thou didst me ! 

What 's that ? Thou, Werner ! can it be ? and thus? 

Enter Werner hastily, ivith the knife in his hand, by 
the secret panel^ which he closes hurriedly after him. 
Wer. [not at first recognizing her). Discover'd! 

then I '11 stab {recognizing her.) 

Ah! Josephine, 
Why art thou not at rest ? 

Jos. What rest? My God! 

What doth this mean ? 

Wer. {shoiving a rouleau). Here's gold — gold, 
Josephine, 
Will rescue us from this detested dangeon. 
Jos. And how obtain 'd ? — that knife ! 
JVer. 'T is bloodless— ?/ei. 

Away ! we must to our chamber. 
Jos. But whence com est thou ? 

Wer. Ask not ! but let us think where we shall 
go— 
This— this will make us \YSiy—{shoicing the gold)^ 
I '11 fit them now. 
Jos. I dare not think thee guilty of dishonor. 
Wer. Dishonor! 

Jos. I have said it. 

Wer. Let us hence. 

'Tis the last night, I trust, that we need pass here. 
Jos. And not the worst, I hope. 
Wer. Hope! I make sine. 

But let us to our chamber, 

Jos. Yet one question — 

What hast thou done ? 

Wer. [fiercely). Left one thing undone, which 
Had made all well : let me not think of it ! 
Away ! 
Jos, Alas, that I should doubt of thee ! 

[Exeunt. 



A.GT II. 



SCENE I. — A Hall in the same Palace. 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 
Iden. Fine doings! goodly doings! honest do- 
ings ! 
A baron pillaged in a prince's palace ! 
Where, till this hour, such a sin ne'er was heard of. 



Fritz. It hardly could, unless the rats despoiPd 
The mice of a few shreds of tapestry. 

Iden. Oh ! that I e'er should live to see this day I 
The honor of our city 's gone for ever. 

Fritz. Well, but now to discover the delinquent : 
The baron is determined not to lose 
This sum without a search. 
279 



ACT IT. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



Iden. And so am I. 

Fritz. But whom do you suspect ? 

Hen. Susneet I all people 

Without— within— above— below— Heaven help me! 

Fritz, Is there no other entrance to the chamber? 

LJen. ^one whatsoever. 

Fritz. Are yon sm-e of that ? 

Iden. Certain. I have lived and served here since 
my birth, 
And if there were such, must have heard of such, 
Or seen it. 

Fritz. Then it must be some one who 
Had access to the antechamber. 

Men. Doubtless. 

Fritz. The man called TFenjcr 's poor ! 

Iden. Poor as a miser. 

■Rut lodged so far otT, in the other wing-, 
Bv which there 's no communication with 
The baron's chamber, that it can't be he. 
Besides, I bade him " good night " in the hall, 
Almost a mile off, and Avhich only leads 
To his own apartment, about the same time 
AVhen this burglarious, larcenous felony 
AiMX'ars to have been committed. 

In-itrj. There 's another, 

The stranger 

/( Ic) I. The H un ga r i an ? 

Fritz. He who help'd 

To fish the baron from the Oder. 

Iden. Not 

T'nlikely. But hold— might it not have been 
One of the suite ? 

Fritz. How? TT^f, sir! 

Iden. l>lo— not you, 

But some of the inferior knaves. You say 
The baron was asleep in the great chair — 
The velvet chair — in his embroidered night-gown ; 
His toilet spread before him, and upon It 
A cabinet with letters, papers, and 
Several rouleaux of gold ; of which one only 
Has disappeared : — the door unbolted, with 
Xo difficult access to any. 

Fritz. Good sir, 

Be not so quick ; the honor of the corps 
Which forms the baroii^s household 's unimpeach'd 
From steward to scullion, save in the fair way 
Of peculation; such as in accounts, 
Weights, measures, larder, cellar, buttery, 
Where all men take their prey ; as also in 
Postage of letters, gathering of rents, 
Purveying feasts, and understanding with 
The honest trades who furnish noble masters : 
B\\{ for your petty, picking, downright thievery, 
AVe scorn it as we do board-wages. Then 
Had one of our folks done it, he would not 
Have l)een so poor a spirit as to hazard 
His neck for one rouleau, but have swoop'd all ; 
Also the cabinet, if portable. 

Iden. There is some sense in that 

Fritz. Xo, sir, be sure 

'T was none of our coi-ps ; but some petty, trivial 
Picker and stealer, witliout art or genius. 
The only question is— Who else could have 
xVccess, save the Hungarian and yourself ? 

Iden. You don't meiin me ? 

Fritz. No, sir ; I honor more 

Your talents 

Iden. And my principles, I hope. 

Fritz. Of course. But to the point: What's to 
be done ? 

Iden. IS'othing- but there 's a good deal to be said. 
We '11 offer a reward; move heaven and earth. 
And the police (though there 's none nearer than 
Frankfort) ; post notices in manuscript 
(For we 've no printer) ; and set by my clerk 
To read them (for few can, save he and I) ; 
We '11 send out villains to strip beggars, and 
280 



Search empty pockets ; also, to arrest 
All gipsies, and ill-clothed and sallow people. 
Prisoners we '11 have at least, if not the culprit ; 
And for the baron's gold— if 't is not found. 
At least he shall have the full satisfaction 
Of melting twice its substance in the raising 
The ghost of this rouleau. Here 's alchemy 
For your lord's losses ! 

Fritz. He hath found a better. 

IrJen. Where? 

Fritz. In a most immense inheritance. 

The late Count Siegendorf, his distant kinsman, 
Is dead near Prague, in his castle, and my lord 
Is on his way to take possession. 

Iden. Was there 

In^o heir ? 

Fritz. Oh, yes ; but he has disappear 'd 
Long from the world's eye, and perhaps the world. 
A prodigal son, beneatlihis father's ban 
For the last twenty years; for whom his sire 
Refused to kill the fatted calf ; and, therefore. 
If living, he must chew the husks still. But 
The baron would find means to silence him. 
Were he to reappear : he 's politic. 
And has much influence with a certain court. 

Iden. He 's fortunate. 

Fritz. 'T is true, there is a grandson. 

Whom the late count reclaim'dfrom his son's hands. 
And educated as his heir ; but then 
His birth is doubtful. 

Iden. How so? 

Fritz. His sire made 

A left-hand, love, imprudent sort of marriage. 
With an Italian exile's dark-eyed daughter : 
Noble, they say, too ; but no match for such 
A house as Siegendorf 's. The grandsire ill 
Could brook the alliance ; and could ne'er be brought 
To see the parents, though he took the son. 

Iden. If he 's a lad of mettle, he may yet 
Dispute your claim, and weave a web that may 
Puzzle your baron to unravel. 

Fritz. Why, 

For mettle, he has quite enough : they say, 
He forms a happy mixture of his sire 
And grandsire 's qualities, — impetuous as 
The former, and deep as the latter; but 
The strangest is, that he too disappear'd 
Some months ago. 

lelen. The devil he did ! 

Fritz. Why, yes : 

It must have been at his suggestion, at 
An hour so critical as was the eve 
Of the old man's death, whose heart was broken 
by it. 

Iden. Was there no cause assign 'd ? 

Fritz. Plenty, no doubt, 

And none perhaps the ti"ue one. Some averr'd 
It was to seek his parents ; some because 
The old man held his spirit in so strictly 
(But that could scarce be, for he doted on him) : 
A third believed he wisli'd to serve in war. 
But peace being made soon after his departure. 
He might have since return 'd, were that the motive ; 
A fourth set charitably have surmised. 
As there was something strange and mystic in him. 
That in the wild exuberance of his nature 
He had join'd the black bands, who lay waste 

Lusatia, 
The mountains of Bohemia and Silesia, 
Since the last years of war had dAvindled into 
A kind of general condottiero system 
Of bandit warfare ; each troop with its chief, 
And all against mankind. 

lUn. That cannot be. 

A young heir, bred to wealth and luxury, 
To^risk'his life and honors with disbanded 
Soldiers and desperadoes ! 



ACT IT. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



Fritz. Heaven best knows I 

But there are human natures so allied 
Unto the savage love of enterprise, 
That they vi^ill seek for peril as a pleasure. 
I 've heard that nothing can reclaim your Indian, 
Or tame the tiger, though their infancy 
Were fed on milk and honey. After all, 
Your Wallenstein, your Tilly and Gustavus, 
Your Bannier, and your Torstenson and Weimar, 
Were but the same thing upon a grand scale ; 
And now that they are gone, and peace proclaim'd, 
They who would follow the same pastime must 
Pursue it on their own account. Here comes 
The baron, and the Saxon stranger, who 
Was his chief aid in yesterday's escai)e. 
But did not leave the cottage by the Oder 
Until this morning. 

Enter Stralenheim and Ulric. 

Stral. Since you have refused 
All compensation, gentle stranger, save 
Inadequate thanks, you almost check even them. 
Making me feel the Avorthlessness of words, 
And blush at my own barren gratitude, 
They seem so niggardly, compared with what 
Your courteous courage did in my behalf 

TJlr. I pray you press the theme no further. 

Stral. But 

Can I not serve you ? You are young, and of 
That mould Avhich throws out heroes ; fair in favor ; 
Brave, I know, by my living now to say so ; 
And doubtlessly, with such a form and heart, 
Would look into the fiery eyes of war. 
As ardently for glory as you dared 
An obscure death to save an unknown stranger, 
In an as perilous, but opposite, element. 
You are made for the service : I have served ; 
Have rank by birth and soldiership, and friends, 
Who shall be yours. 'Tis true this pause of peace 
Favors such views at present scantily ; 
But 'twill not last, men's spirits are too stirring ; 
And, after thirty years of conflict, peace 
Is but a petty war, as the times show us 
In every forest, or a mere arm'd truce. 
War will reclaim his own ; and, in the mean time, 
You might obtain a post, wiiich would ensure 
A higher soon, and, by my influence, fail not 
To rise. I speak of Brandenburg, wherein 
I stand well with the elector; in Bohemia, 
Like you, I am a stranger, and we are now 
Upon its frontier. 

TJlv. You perceive my garb 

Is Saxon, and of course my service due 
To my own sovereign. If I must decline 
Your offer, 't is with the same feeling wiiich 
Induced it. 

Stral. Why, this is mere usury ! 
I owe my life to you, and you refuse 
The acquittance of the interest of the debt, 
To heap more obligations on me, till 
I bow beneath them. 

TJlr. You shall say so when 

I claim the payment. 

Stral. Well, sir, since you will not— 

You are nobly born ? 

Ulr. I liave heard my kinsmen say so. 

Stral. Your actions show it. Might I ask your 
name ? 

TJlr. Ulric. 

Stral. Your house's ? 

TJlr. When I 'm worthy of it, 

I '11 answer you. 

Stral. [aside). Most probably an Austrian, 
Whom these unsettled times forbid to boast 
His lineage on these wild and dangerous frontiers. 
Where the name of his country is abhorr'd. 

{Aloud to Fritz and Idenstein. 



So, sirs I how have ye sped in your researches 1 

Iden. Indifferent well, your' excellency. 

Stral. Then 

I am to deem the plunderer is caught ? 

Iden. Humph !— not exactly. 

Stral. Or at least suspected ? 

Iden. Oh ! for that matter, very much suspected ? 

Stral. Who may he be ? 

Iden. Why, don't you know, my lord V 

Stral. How should I ? I was fast asleep. 

Iden. And so 

Was I, and that 's the cause I know no more 
Than does your excellency. 

Stral. Dolt ! 

Men. Why, if 

Your lordship, being robb'd, don't recognize 
The rogue ; how should I, not being robb'd, identify 
The thief among so many ? In the crowd, 
May it please your excellency, your thief looks 
Exactly like the rest, or rather better : 
'T is only at the bar and in tlie dungeon 
That wise men know your felon by his features ; 
But I '11 engage, that if seen there but once. 
Whether he be found criminal or no, 
His face shall be so. 

Stral. {to Fritz). Prithee, Fritz, inform me 
Wliat hath been done to trace the fellow ? 

Fritz. Faith ! 

My lord, not much as yet, except conjecture. 

Stral. Besides the loss (which, I must own, affects 
me 
Just now materially), I needs would find 
The villain out of public motives ; for 
So dexterous a s])oiler, who could creep 
Tlirougli my attendants, and so many peopled 
And lighted chambers, on my rest, and snatch 
The gold before my scarce-closed eyes, would soon 
Leave bare your borough, Sir Intendant I 

Iden. True, 

If there were aught to carry off, my lord. 

Tllr. What is all this ? 

Stral. You join'd us but this morning, 

And have not heard that I was roljb'd last night. ^ 

TJlr. Some rumor of it reach 'd me as I pass'd 
The outer chambers of the palace, but 
I know no further. 

Stral. It is a strange business ; 

The intendant can inform you of the facts. 

Idea. Most willingly. You see 

Stral. {inrfjatientlij). Defer your tale, 

Till certain of the hearer's patience. 

Iden. That 
Can only be approved by proofs. You see 

Stral. {again interrupting him, and addressiiKj 
TJlric). In short, I was asleep upon a cluiir, 
]\Iy cabinet before me, with some gold 
Upon it (more than I much like to lose. 
Though in part only) : some ingenious person 
Contrived to glide through all my own attendants. 
Besides those of the place, and bore away 
A hundred golden ducats, which to find 
I would be fain, and there "'s an end. Perhaps 
You (as I still am rather faint) would add 
To yesterday's great obligation, this. 
Though slighter, yet not slight, to aid these men 
(Who seem but lukewarm) in recovering it ? 

TJlr. Most willingly, and without loss of time — 
{To Idenstein.) Come hither, mynheer! 

Iden. But so much haste bodes 
Bight little speed, and 

TJlr. Standing motionless 

Xon6 ; so let 's march : we '11 talk as we go on. 

Iden. But 

TJlr. Show the spot, and then I '11 answer you. 

Fritz. I will, sir, with his excellency's leave. 

Stral. Do so, and take j^on old ass with you. 
Fritz. Hence ! 

281 



ACT IT. 



WERNER. 



SCENE IT. 



IJlr. Come on, old oracle, expound thy riddle ! 

{Exit icith Idenstein and Fritz. 
Stral. [solus). A stalwart, active, soldier-looking 

stripling, 
Handsome as Hercules ere liis first labor, 
And with a brow of thought beyond liis years 
When in repose, till his eye kindles up 
In answering yours. I wdsli I could engage him : 
I have need "of some such spirits near me now, 
For this inheritance is worth a struggle. 
And though I am not the man to yield without one, 
ZS^ either are they who now rise up between me 
And my desire. The boy, they say, 's a bold one ; 
But he'hath play'd the truant in some hour 
Of freakish folly, leaving fortune to 
Champion his claims. That's well. The father, 

whom 
For years I've track'd, as does the blood-hound, 

never 
In sight, but constantly in scent, had put me 
To fault; but here I have him, and that 's better. 
It must be he ! All circumstance proclaims it ; 
And careless voices, knowing not the cause 
Of my inquiries, still confirm it.— Yes, 
The man, his bearing, and the mystery 
Of his arrival, and the time ; the account, too, 
The intendant gave (for I have not beheld her) 
Of his wife's dignified but foreign aspect ; 
Besides the antipathy with which we met, 
As snakes and lions slu'ink back from each other 
By secret instinct that both must be foes 
Deadly, without being natural prey to either; 
All — all— confirm it to my mind. However, 
We '11 grapple ne'ertheless. In a few hours 
The order comes from Frankfort, if these waters 
Rise not the higher (and the weatlier favors 
Their quick abatement), and I '11 have him safe 
Within a dungeon, where he may avouch 
His real estate and name; and there's no harm 

done. 
Should lie prove other than I deem. This robbery 
(Save for the actual loss) is lucky also: 
He 's poor, and that 's suspicious— he 's unknown, 
And that 's defenceless.— True, we have no proofs 
Of guilt,— but what hath he of innocence ? 
Were lie a man indifferent to my prospects 
In other bearings, I should rather lay 
The inculpation on the Hungarian, who 
Hath something which I like not ; and alone 
Of all around, except the intendant, and 
The prince's household and my ov/n, had ingress 
Familiar to the chamber. 

Enter Gabor. 

Friend, how fare yon ? 

Gab. As those wdio fare well everywhere, when 
they 
Have supp'd and slumber'd, no great matter how— 
And you, my lord ? 

Stral. Better in rest than purse : 

Mine inn is like to cost me dear. 

Galj. ' I heard 

Of your late loss ; but 't is a trifle to 
One of your order. 

Stral. You would hardly think so. 

Were the loss yours. 

Gab. I never had so much 

(At once) in my whole life, and therefore am not 
Fit to decide. But I came here to seek you. 
Your couriers are turn'd back — I have outstripp'd 

them. 
In my return. 

Stral. You !— Why ? 

Gab. I went at daybreak, 

To watch for the abatement of the river. 
As being anxious to resume my journey. 
Your messengers were all check'd like myself ; 
282 



And, seeing the case hopeless, I await 
The current's pleasure. 

Stral. Would the dogs were in it ! 

Why did they not, at least, attempt the passage ? 
I order'd this at all risks. 

Gab. Could you order 

The Oder to divide, as Moses did 
The Red Sea (scarcely redder than the flood 
Of the swoln stream), and be obey'd, perhaps 
They might have ventured. 

Stral. 1 must see to it : 

The knaves ! the slaves !— but they shall smart for 
this. [Exit Stralenheim. 

Gab. [solus). There goes my noble, feudal, self- 
wiird baron I 
Epitome of what brave chivalry 
The preux chevaliers of the good old times 
Have left us. Yesterday he would have given 
His lands (if he hath any), and, still dearer, 
His sixteen quarterings, for as much fresh air 
As would have fill'd a bladder, while he lay 
Gurgling and foaming half-way through the Avindow 
Of his o'erset and water-logg'd conveyance ; 
And now he storms at half a dozen wretches 
Because they love their lives too ! Yet, he 's right : 
'T is strange they should, when such as he may put 

them 
To hazard at his pleasure. Oh, thou world ! 
Thou art indeed a melancholy jest ! 

[Exit Gabor. 

SCENE 11.— The Aioartment of Werner, in the 
Palace. 

Enter Josephine ajid Ulric. 

Jos. Stand back, and let me look on thee again ! 
My Ulric !— my beloved I— can it be- 
After twelve years ? 

Ulr. My dearest mother ! 

Jos. Yes ! 

My dream is realized — how beautiful ! — 
How more than all I sigh'd for ! Heaven, receive 
A mother's thanks !— a mother's tears of joy ! 
This is indeed thy work !— At such an hour, too. 
He comes not only as a son, but saviour. 

Ulr. If such a joy await me, it must double 
What I now feel, and lighten from my heart 
A part of the long debt of duty, not 
Of love (for that was ne'er withheld)— forgive me ! 
This long delay was not my fault. 

Jos. I know it, 

But cannot think of sorrow now, and doubt 
If I e'er felt it, 't is so dazzled from 
My memory by this oblivious transport !— 
My son ! 



Enter Werner. 



-more strangers 



What do vou see ? 



Xo! 



Wer. What have we here 

Jos. 
Look upon him ! 

Wer. 
For the first time 

IJlr. [kneelinq). 

Wer. Oh, God ! 

Jos. 

Wer. 
Ulric ! [Embraces him.) 

Ulr. My father, Siegendorf ! 

Wer. [starting). 
The Avails may hear that name ! 

r/7-. What then ? 

Wer. Why, then — 

But we AAdll talk of that anon. Remember, 
I must be knoAvn here but as Werner. Come ! 
Come to my arms again ! Why, thou look'st all 
1 should have been, and AA^as not. Josephine ! 
Sure 't is no father's fondness dazzles me ; 



A stripling, 

For tAAelve long years, my father ! 

He faints ! 

No— I am better noAv— 



Hush! boy— 



ACT II. 



WERNER, 



SCENE IT. 



But, had I seen that form amid ten thousand 
Youth of the choicest, my heart would have chosen 
This for my son ! .* 

TJlr. And yet*you knew me not ! 

Wer. Alas ! I have had that upon my soul, 
Which makes me look on all men with an eye 
That only knows the evil at first glance. 

Ulr. My memory served me far more fondly : I 
Have not forgotten aught ; and ofttimes in 
The proud and princely halls of— (I '11 not name 

them, 
As you say that 't is perilous) — but i' the pomp 
Of your sire's feudal mansion, I look'd back 
To the Bohemian mountains many a sunset. 
And wept to see another day go down 
O'er thee and me, with those huge hills between us. 
They shall not part us more. 

Wer. I know not that. 

Are you aware my father is no more ? 

TJlv. Oh, heavens ! I left him in a green old age. 
And looking like the oak, worn, but still steady 
Amidst the elements, whilst younger trees 
Fell fast around him. 'T was scarce three months 
since. 

Wer. Why did you leave him ? 

Jos. [emhracing Ulric). Can you ask that ques- 
tion y 
Is he not here f 

Wer. True : he hath sought his parents, 

And found them ; but, oh ! how, and in what state ! 

Ulr. All shall be better'd. What we have to do 
Is to proceed, and to assert our rights. 
Or rather yours; for I waive all, unless 
Your father has disposed in such a sort 
Of his broad lands as to make mine the foremost. 
So that I must prefer my claim for form : 
But I trust better, and that all is yours. 

Wer. Have you not heard of Stralenheim ? 

ITlr. I saved 

His life but yesterday : he 's here. 

Wer. You saved 

The serpent who will sting us all ! 

Ulr. You speak 

Kiddles : what is this Stralenheim to us ? 

Wer. Every thing. One who claims our father's 
lands : 
Our distant kinsman, and our nearest foe. 

Ulr. I never heard his name till now. The count. 
Indeed, spoke sometimes of a kinsman, who, 
If his own line should fail, might be remotely 
Involved in the succession ; but his titles 
Were never named before me— and what then ? 
His right must yield to ours. 

Wer. Ay, if at Prague ; 

But here he is all-powerful ; and has spread 
Snares for thy father, which, if hitherto 
He hath escaped them, is by fortune, not 
By favor. 

Ulr. Doth he personally know you ? 

Wer. 'No ; but he guesses shrewdly at my person, 
As he betray'd last night ; and I, perhaps, 
But owe my temporary liberty 
To his imcertainty. 

Ulr. I think you wrong him 

(Excuse me for the phrase) ; but Stralenheim 
Is not what you prejudge him, or, if so. 
He owes me something both for past and present. 
I saved his life, he therefore trusts in me. 
He hath been plunder'd too, since he came hither 
Is sick ; a stranger ; and as such not now 
Able to trace the villain who hath robb'd him : 
I have pledged myself to do so ; and the business 
Which brought me here was chiefly that : but I 
Have found, in searching for another's dross, 
My own whole treasure— you, my parents ! 

Wer. (agitatedly). Who 

Taught you to mouth that name of " villain " ? 



Ulr. What 

More noble name belongs to common thieves ? 

Wer. Who taught you thus to brand an unknown 
being 
With an infernal stigma ? 

Ulr. My own feelings 

Taught me to name a ruffian from his deeds. 

Wer. Who taught you,long-songht and ill-found 
boy! that 
It would be safe for my own son to insult me ? 

Ulr. 1 named a villain . What is there in common 
Witli such a being and my father ! 

Wer. Every thing ! 

That ruffian is thy father ! 

Jos. Oh, my son! 
Believe him not— and yet! (her voice falters.) 

Ulr. [starts, looks earnestly at Werner, and then 
says slowly). And you avow it V 

Wer. Ulric ! before you dare despise your father. 
Learn to divine and judge his actions. Young, 
Rash, new to life, and rear'd in luxury's lap, 
Is it for you to measure passion's force, 
Or misery's temptation ? Wait — (not long, 
It Cometh like the night, and quickly)— Wait! — 
Wait till, ifke me, your hopes are blighted— till 
Sorrow and shame are handmaids of your cabin ; 
Famine and poverty your guests at table ; 
Despair your bed-fellow — then rise, but not 
From sleep, and judge! Should that day e'er 

arrive — 
Should you see then the serpent, who hath coil'd 
Himself around all that is dear and noble 
Of you and yours, lie slumbering in your path. 
With but his folds between your steps and happiness, 
When he, who lives but to tear from you name. 
Lands, life itself, lies at your mercy, with 
Chance your conductor ; midnight for your mantle ; 
The bare knife in your hand, and earth asleep, 
Even to your deadliest foe ; and he, as 'twere. 
Inviting death, by looking like it, while 
His death alone can save you :— Thank your God 
If then, like me, content with petty plunder 
You turn aside— —I did so. 

Ulr. But 

Wer. [abruptly). Hear me ! 

I will not brook a human voice — scarce dare 
Listen to my own (if that be human still) — 
Hear me ! you do not know this man — I do. 
He 's mean, deceitful, avaricious. You 
Deem yourself safe, as young and brave; but learn 
None are secure from desperation, few 
From subtilty. My worst foe, Stralenheim, 
Housed in a prince's palace, couch'd within 
A prince's chamber, lay below my knife ! 
An instant — a mere motion— the least impulse — 
Had swept him and all fears of mine from earth. 
He was within my power— my knife was raised — 
Withdrawn — and I 'm in his : — are you not so ? 
Who tells you that he knows you not? Who says 
He hath not lured you here to end you ? or 
To plunge you, with your parents, in a dungeon ? 

[He pauses. 

Ulr. Proceed— proceed ! 

Wer. 3fe he hath ever known. 

And hunted through each change of time — name — 

fortune — 
And why not you ? Are you more versed in men ? 
He wound snares round me ; flung along my path 
Reptiles, whom, in my youth, I would have spurn 'd 
Even from my presence ; but, in spurning now 
Fill only with fresh venom. Will you be 
More patient ? Ulric ! — Ulric ! — there are crimes 
Made venial by the occasion, and temptations 
Which nature cannot master or forbear. 

Ulr. [who looks first at him, and then at Josephine). 
My mother ! 

Wer. Ah ! I thought so: you have now 

283 



ACT IT. 



WERNER. 



SCENE II. 



Only one parent. I have lost alike 
Father and son, and stand alone. 

TJIt. But stay 

[ Werner rushes out of the chamber. 

Jos. (to Ulric). Follow him not, until this storm 
of passion 
Abates. Think'st thou, that were it well for him, 
I had not follow^l ? 

Illr. I obey you, mother. 

Although reluctantly. My first act shall not 
Be one of disobedience. 

Jos. Oh ! he is good ! 

Condemn him not from his own mouth, but trust 
To me, who have borne so much with him, and for 

him. 
That this is but the surface of his soul. 
And that the depth is rich in better things. 

Ulr. These then are but my father's principles ? 
My mother thinks not with him ? 

Jos. 'Not doth he 

Think as he speaks. Alas ! long years of grief 
Have made him sometimes thus. 

Ulr. Explain to me 

More clearly, then, these claims of Stralenheim, 
That, when I see the subject in its bearings, 
I may prepare to face him, or at least 
To extricate j^ou from your present perils. 
I pledge myself to accomplish this— but would 
I had arrived a few hours sooner ! 

Jos. Ay ! 

Hadst thou but done so ! 

Miter Gabor and Idenstein, icith Attendants. 

Gah. [to Ulric). I have sought you, comrade. 
So this is my reward ! 

Ulr. What do you mean ? 

Gab. 'Sdeath! have I lived to these years, and 
for this ! 
{To Idenstein.) But for your age and folly, I 
would 

Iden. Help ! 

Hands off ! Touch an intendant ! 

Gab. Do not think 

I '11 honor you so much as save your throat 
From the Eavenstone^ by choking you myself. 

Iden. I thank you for the respite : but there are 
Those who have greater need of it than me. 

Ulr. Unriddle this vile wrangling, or 

Gab. At once, then. 

The baron has been robb'd, and upon me 
This worthy personage has deign'd to fix 
His kind suspicions — me ! whom he ne'er saw 
Till yester evening. 

Iden. Wouldst have me suspect 

My own acquaintances ? You have to learn 
That I keep better company. 

Gab. You shall 

Keep the best shortly, and the last for all men, 
The worms ! you hound of malice ! 

[Gabor seizes on him. 

Ulr. [interfering). Nay, no violence : 

He 's old, uiiarm'd— be temperate, Gabor! 

Gab. (letting go Idenstein). True : 

I am a fool to lose myself because 
Fools deem me knave : it is their homage. 

Ulr. (to Idenstein). How 

Fare you V 

Iden. Help ! 

Ulr. I have help'd you. 

Iden. Kill him ! then 

I '11 say so. 

Gab. I am calm — live on ! 

Iden. That 's more 



* The Ravenstone, "Rabenstein," is the stone gibbet of Ger- 
many, and so called from the ravens perching on it. 
284 



Than yo.u shall do, if there be judge or judgment 
In Germany. The baron shall decide ! 

Gab. Does he abet you in your accusation ? 

Iden. Does he not ? ^ 

Gab. Then next time let him go sink 

Ere I go hang for snatching him from drowning. 
But here he comes ! 

Enter Stralenlieim. 

Gab. (goes up to him). My noble lord, I 'm here ! 

Stral. Well, sir ! 

Gab. Have you aught with me ? 

Stral. What should I 

Have with you ? 

Gab. You know best, if yesterday's 

Flood has not wasli'd away your memory ; 
But that 's a trifle. I stand'here accused. 
In phrases not equivocal, by yon 
Intendant, of the pillage of your person 
Or chamber : — is the charge your own or his? 

Stral. I accuse no man. 

Gab. Then you acquit me, baron ? 

Stral. I know not whom to accuse, or to acquit. 
Or scarcely to suspect. 

Gab. But you at least 

Should know whom not to suspect. I am insulted — 
Oppress'd here by these menials, and I look 
To you for remedy— teach them their duty! 
To look for thieves at home were part of it. 
If duly taught; but, in one word, if I 
Have an accuser, let it be a man 
Worthy to be so of a man like ine. 
I am your equal. 

Stral. You ! 

Gab. Ay, sir ; and, for 

Aught that you know, superior ; but proceed— 
I do not ask for hints, and surmises, 
And circumstance, and proofs : I know enough 
Of what I have done for jon, and what you owe me. 
To have at least waited your payment rather 
Than paid myself, had I been eager of 
Your gold. I also know, that were I even 
The villain I am deem'd, the service render 'd 
So recently would not permit you to 
Pursue me to the death, except through shame, 
Such as would leave your scutcheon but a blank. 
But this is nothing : I demand of you 
Justice upon your unjust servants, and 
From your own lips a disavowal of 
All sanction of their insolence : thus much 
You owe to the unknown, who asks no more, 
And never thought to have ask'd so much. 

Stral. This tone 

May be of innocence. 

Gab. 'Sdeath ! who dare doubt it. 

Except such villains as ne'er had it ? 

Stral. You 

Are hot, sir. 

Gab. Must I turn an icicle 

Before the breath of menials, and their master ? 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ; I found him in 
Tour company. 

Gab. We found you in the Oder ; 

Would we had left you there I 

Stral. I give you thanks, sir. 

Gab. I 've earn'd them ; but might have earn'd 
more from others, 
Perchance, if I had left you to your fate. 

Stral. Ulric ! you know this man ? 

Gab. No more than you do. 

If lie avouches not my honor. 

Ulr. I 

Can vouch your courage, and, as far as my 
Own brief connection led me, honor. 

Stral. Then 

I 'ra satisfied. 

Gab. (ironically). Right easily, methinks. 



1 



\ 



ACT II. 



WERNER, 



SCENE II. 



What is the spell in his asseveration 
More than in mine ? t 

Stral, I merely said that I 

"Was satisfied— not that you are absolved. 

Gcib. Again ! Am I accused or no V 

Stval. Go to ! 

You wax too insolent. If circumstance 
And general suspicion be against you, 
Is the fault mine ? Is 't not enough that I 
Decline all question of your guilt or innocence ? 

Gab. My lord, my lord, this is mere cozenage, 
A vile equivocation; you well know 
Your doubts are certainties to all around you— 
Your looks a voice— your frowns a sentence; you 
Are practicing your power on me — because 
You have it ; but beware ! you know not whom 
You strive to tread on. 

Stval. Threat 'st thou ? 

Gcib. Kot so much 

As you accuse. You hint the basest injury, 
And I retort it with an open warning. 

Stral. As you have said, 'tis true I owe you 
something, 
Eor which you seem disposed to pay yourself. 

Gab. Not with your gold. 

Stral. With bootless insolence. 

[To Ms Attendants and Idenstein. 
You need not further to molest this man, 
But let him go his way. Ulric, good morrow ! 

[Exit Straienheim, Idenstein, and Attendants. 

Gab. {following). I '11 after him and 

Ulr. (stopping him). JSTot a step. 

Gah. Wlio shall 

Oppose me ? 

tflr. Your own reason, with a moment's 

Thought. 

Gab. Must I bear this ? 

JJlr. Pshaw ! we all must bear 

The arrogance of something higher than 
Ourselves — the highest cannot temper Satan, 
Nor the lowest his vicegerents upon earth. 
I 've seen you brave the elements, and bear 
Things which had made this silkworm cast his skin— 
And shrink you from a few sharp sneers and words ? 

Gab. Must I bear to be deem 'd a thief ? If 't were 
A bandit of the woods, I could have borne it — 
There 's something daring in it ;— but to steal 
The moneys of a slumbering man !— 

Ulr. It seems, then. 

You are not guilty ? 

Gab. Do I hear aright ? 

Yoit too ! 

Ulr. I merely ask'd a simple question. 

Gab. If the judge ask'd me, I would answer 
"No"— 
To you I answer thus. {He draws.) 

Ulr. {drawing). With all my heart ! 

Jos. Without there ! Ho! help! help!— Oh, God! 
here 's murder ! 

[Exit Josephine, shrieMng. 

Gabor and TJlvic fight. Gabor is disarmed just as 
Stralenlieiin, Josephine, Idenstein, etc., re- 
enter. 

Jos. Oh ! glorious heaven ! He 's safe ! 
Stral. {to Josephine). Who '.s safe ? 

Jos. My 

Ulr. {interrupting her with a steril loolc, and turn- 
ing afterwards to Stralenheim) . Both! 

Here 's no great harm done. 

Stral. What hath caused all this ? 

Ulr. You, baron, I believe ; but as the effect 

Is harmless, let it not disturb you. — Gabor! 

There is your sword ; and when you bare it next. 

Let it not be against your friends. 

[Ulric pronounces the last icords sloivly and em- 
phatically in a louj voice to Gabor. 



Gab. I thank you 

Less for my life than for your counsel. 

Stral. These 

Brawls must end here. 

Gab. {taking his sword). They shall. You have 
wrong 'd me, Ulric, 
More with your unkind thoughts than sword: I 

would 
The last were in my bosom rather than 
The first in yours. I could have borne yon noble's 
Absurd insinuations — ignorance 
And dull suspicion are a part of his 
Entail will last him longer than his lands. — 
But I may fit him yet :— you have vanquish 'd m.e. 
I was the fool of passion to conceiA^e 
That I could cope with you, whom I had seen 
Already proved by greater perils than 
Best in this arm. We may meet by and by. 
However— but in friendship. [Exit Gabor. 

Stral. I will brook 

No more ! This outrage following up his insults. 
Perhaps his guilt, has cancell'd all the little 
I owed him heretofore for the so-vaunted 
Aid which he added to your abler succor. 
Ulric, you are not hurt ?— 

ZTlr. Not even by a scratch. 

Stral. {to Idenstein). Intendant ! take your meas- 
ures to secure 
Yon fellow : I revoke my former lenity. 
He shall be sent to Frankfort with an escort 
The instant that the waters have abated. 

Iden. Secure him ! He hath got his sword again — 
And seems to know the use on 't ; 't is his trade. 
Belike ; — I 'm a civilian. 

Stral. Fool ! are not 

Yon score of vassals dogging at your heels 
Enough to seize a dozen such ? Hence ! after him I 

Ulr. Baron, I do beseech you ! 

Stral. ' I must be 

Obey'd. No words ! 

Iden. Well, if it must be so — 

March, vassals! I 'm your leader, and will bring 
The rear up: a wise general never should 
Expose his precious life— on which all rests. 
I like that article of war. 

[Exit Idenstein and Attendants. 

Stral. • Come hither, 

Ulric ; what does that woman here ? Oh ! now 
I recognize her, 't is the stranger's wife 
Whom they nayne " Werner." 

ZUr. 'T is his name. 

Stral. Indeed ! 

Is not your husband visible, fair dame ?— 

Jos. "Who seeks him ? 

Stral. No one— for the present ; but 

I fain would parley, Ulric, with yourself 
Alone. 

Ulr. 1 will retire with you. 

Jos. Not so : 

You are the latest stranger, and command 
All jilaces here. 
{Aside to ZUriCj as she goes out.) Oh, Ulric ! have a 

care — 
Remember what dei)ends on a rash word ! 

Ulr. {to Josephine) . Fear not ! — 

[Exit Josephine. 

Stral. Ulric, I think that I may trust you: 
You saved my life— and acts like these beget 
Unbounded confidence. 

Ulr. Say on. 

Stral. ■ Mysterious 

And long-engender 'd circumstances 
(To be now fully enter'd on) have made 
This man obnoxious — perhaps fatal to me. 

Ulr. Who ? Gabor, the Hungarian ? 

Stral. No— this " Werner "— 

With the false name and habit. 
285 



ACT III. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



VTr. How can this be ? 

He is the poorest of the poor— and yellow 
Sickness sits cavern 'd in his hollow eye : 
The man is helpless. 

Stral. He is— 't is no matter ;— 

But if he be the man I deem (and that 
He is so, all around us here — and much 
That is not here — confirm my apprehension), 
He must be made secure ere^welve hours further. 

Vlr. And what have I to do with this ? 

Stral. I have sent 

To Frankfort, to the p:overnor, my friend 
(I have the authority to do so by 
An order of the house of Brandenburg), 
For a fit escort — but this cursed flood 
Biirs all access, and may do for some hours. 

TJlr. It is abating, 

Stral. That is well. 

TJlr. But how 

Am I concerned ? 

Stral. As one who did so much 

For me, you cannot be indifferent to 
That which is of more import to me than 
Tlie life you rescued.— Keep your eye on limi I 
The man avoids me, knows that I now know him. — 
Watch him ! — as you would watch the wild boar 

when 
He makes against you in the hunter's gaiD — 
Like him he must be spear'd. 

rir. Why so? 

Stral. He stands 

Between me and a brave inheritance ! 
Oh ! could you see it ! But you shall. 

TJlr. I hope so. 

Stral. It is the richest of the rich Bohemia, 
Unscathed by scorching war. It lies so near 
The strongest city, Prague, that fire and sword 
Have skimm'd itlightly : so that now, besides 
Its own exuberance, it bears double value, 
Confronted with whole realms far and near 
Made deserts. 

TJlr. You describe it faithfully. 

Stral. Ay, could you see it, you would say so — but, 
As I have said, you shall. 

TJlr. I accept the omen. 

Stral. Then claim a recompense from it and me, 
Such as hoth may make worthy your acceptance 
And services to me and mine for ever. 

TJlr. And this sole, sick, and miserable wretch— 
This wayworn stranger — stands between you and 
This Paradise ?— (As Adam did between 
The devil and his.) — [JL.sicZe.] 

Stral. He doth. 

TJlr. Hath he no right ? 

Stral. Right! none. A disinherited prodigal. 
Who for these twenty years disgraced his lineage 
In all his acts— but chiefly by his marriage, 
And living amidst commerce-fetching burghers, 
And dabbling merchants, in a mart of Jews. 



TJlr. He has a wife, then ? 



You 'd be sorry to 
You have seen the woman 



Stral. 
Call such your mother. 
He calls his wife. 

rir. Is she not so ? 

Stral. Xo more 

Than he 's j^our father : — an Italian girl. 
The daughter of a banish 'd man, who lives 
On love and poverty with this same AVerner. 

Vlr. They are childless, then ? 

Stral. There is or Avas a bastard, 

Whom the old man — the grandsire (as old age 
Is ever doting) took to warm his bosom," 
As it went chilly downward to the grave : 
But the imp stands not in my path— he has fled, 
No one knows whither ; and if he had not, 
His claims alone were too contemptible 
To stand. — Why do you smile ? 

TJlr. At your vain fears : 

A poor man almost in his grasp— a child 
Of doubtful birth — can startle a grandee ! 

Stral. All 's to be fear'd, where all is to be 
gain'd. 

TJlr. True ; and aught done to save or to obtain 
it. 

Stral. You have harp'd the very string next to 
my heart. 
I may depend upon you ? 

TJlr. 'T were too late 

To doubt it. 

Stral. Let no foolish pity shake 

Your bosom (for the appearance of the man 
Is pitiful) — he is a wretch, as likely 
To have robb'd me as the fellow more suspected, 
Except that circumstance is less against him ; 
He being lodged far off, and in a chamber 
Without approach to mine : and, to say truth, 
I think too well of blood allied to mine. 
To deem he would descend to such an act : 
Besides, he was a soldier, and a brave one 
Once— though too rash. 

TJlr. And they, my lord, we know 

By our experience, never plunder till 
They knock the brains out first— which makes tliem 

heirs, 
Not thieves. The dead, who feel nought, can lose 

nothing, 
Nor e'er be robb'd : their spoils are a bequest — 
No more. 

Stral. Go to ! you are a wag. But say 
I may be sure you '11 keep an eye on this man, 
And let me know his slightest movement towards 
Concealment or escape V 

TJlr. You may be sure 

You yourself could not watch him more than I 
Will be his sentinel. 

Stral. By this you make me 

Yours, and for ever. 

Vlr. Such is my intention. [Exeunt. 



J^CT III. 



SCENE I. — A Hall in the same Palace^ from whence 
the secret Passage leads. 

Enter Werner and Gabor. 

Gah. Sir, I have told my tale : if it so please you 
To give me refuge for a few hours, well — 
If not, I '11 try my fortune elsewhere. 

Wer. How 

Can I, so WTetched, give to Misery 
A shelter ? — wanting such myself as much 
As e'er the hunted deer a covert 

Gah. Or 

286 



The wounded lion his cool cave. Methinks 
You rather look like one would turn at bay, 
And rip the hunter's entrails. 

Wer. ' Ah ! 

Gab. I care not 

If it be so, being much disposed to do 
The same myself. But will you shelter me ? 
T am oppress 'd like you— and poor like you— 
Disorraced 

Wer. (ahrimtly). Who told you that I was dis- 
graced ^ 

Gah. No one ; nor did I say you were so : with 
Your poverty my likeness ended ; but 



ACT III. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



I said /was so— and would add, with truth, 
As undeservedly as you. 

Wer. Again ! 

As If 

6ra&. Or any other honest jnan. 
What the devil would you have ? You don't believe 

me 
Guilty of this base theft ? 

Wer. Xo, no — I cannot. 

Gab. Why that 's my heart of honor ! yon young 
gallant — 
Your miserly intendant and dense noble — 
All— all suspected me ; and why ? because 
I am the worst clothed, and least named amongst 

them ; 
Although, were Momus' lattice in your breasts. 
My soul might brook to open it more widely 
Than theirs : but thus it is— you poor and helpless— 
Both still more than myself. 

Wer . How knew you that? 

Gal). You 're right : I ask for shelter at the hand 
Which I call helpless ; if you now deny it, 
I were well paid. But you, who seem to have proved 
The wholesome bitterness of life, know well. 
By sympathy, that all the outspread gold 
Of the ISTew'World tlie Spaniard boas4s about. 
Could never tempt the man who knows its worth 
Weigh 'd at its proper value irr the balance, 
Save in such guise (and there I grant its power, 
Because I feel it) as may leave no*nightmare 
Upon his heart o' nights. 

Wer. What do j^ou mean ? 

Gab. Just what I say; I thought my speech was 
plain : 
You are no thief — nor I — and, as true men, 
Should aid each other. 

Wer. It is a damn'd world, sir. 

Gab. So is the nearest of the two next, as 
The priests say (and no doubt they should know 

best). 
Therefore I '11 stick by this— as being loth 
To suifer martyrdom, at least with such 
An epitaph as larceny upon my tomb. 
It is but a night's lodging wliich I crave : 
To-morrow I will try the waters, as 
The dove did, trusting that they have abated. 

Wer. Abated ? Is there hope of that ? 

Gab. There was 

At noontide. 

Wer. Then we may be safe. 

Gab. Are you 

In peril ? 

Wer. Poverty is ever so. 

Gab. That I know by long practice. Will you not 
Promise to make mine less ? 

Wer. Your poverty ? 

Gab. Xo— you don't look a leech for that disorder ; 
I meant my peril only : you 've a roof. 
And I have none ; I merely seek a covert. 

Wer. Rightly ; forliow should such a Avretch as I 
Have gold ? 

Gab.* Scarce honestly, to say the truth on 't. 

Although I almost wish you had the baron's. 

Wer. Dare you insinuate ? 

Gab. Wliat ? 

Wer. Are you aware 

To whom you speak ? 

Gab. No ; and I am not used 

Greatly to care. [A noise heard icithout.) But hark! 
they come ! 

Wer. Who come ? 

Gab. The intendant and his man-hounds after me : 
I 'd face them — but it were in vain to expect 
Justice at hands like theirs. Where shall I go ? 
But show me any place. I do assure you, 
If there be faith in man, I am most guiltless : 
Think if it were your own case ! 



Wer. [aside). Oh, just God ! 

Thy hell is not hereafter ! Am I dust still ? 

Gab. 1 see you 're moved ; and it shows well in 
you: 
I m.ay live to requite it. 

Wer. Are you not 

A spy of Stralenheim's ? 

Gab. Kot I ! and if 

I -were, what is there to espy in you ? 
Although, I recollect, his frequent question 
About you and your spouse might lead to some 
Suspicion ; but you best know — what — and why. 
I am his deadliest foe. 

Wer. You? 

Gab. ■ After such 

A treatment for the service which in part 
I render'd liim, I am liis enemy : 
If you are not his friend, you will assist me. 

Wer. 1 will. 

Gab. But how ? 

Wer. {sliowhifjthepanel). There is a secret spring: 
Remember, I discover'd it by chance. 
And used it but for safety. 

Gab. Open it. 

And I will use it for the same. 

Wer. I found it. 

As I liave said : it leads through winding walls 
(So thick as to bear paths within their ribs, 
Yet lose no jot of strength or stateliness). 
And hollow cells, and obscure niches, to 
I know not whither ; you must not advance : 
Give me your word. 

Gah. It is unnecessary : 

How sliould I make my way in darkness through 
A Gothic labyrinth of unknown windings ? 

Wer. Yes, but who knows to what place it mav 
lead ? 
J know not — (mark you !) — ^but who knows it miglit 

not 
Lead even into the chamber of your foe ? 
So strangely were contrived these galleries 
By our Teutonic fathers in old days. 
When man built less against the elements 
Than his next neighbor. You must not advance 
Beyond the two first windings ; if you do 
(Albeit I never pass'd them), I '11 not answer 
For what you may be led to. 

Gab. - But I will. 

A thousand thanks ! 

Wer. You '11 find the spring more obvious 

On the other side ; and, when you would return. 
It vields to the least touch. 

Gab. I '11 in— farewell ! 

[Gahor goes in by the secret panel. "> 

Wer. (soZns). What have I doiie? Alas! what 
had I done 
Before to make this fearful ? Let it be 
Still some atonement tliat I save the man. 
Whose sacrifice had saved perhaps my own — 
They come ! to seek elsewhere what is before 
them ! 

Enter Idenstein and Others. 
Iden. Is he not here ? He must have vanish 'd then 
Through the dim Gothic glass by pious aid 
Of pictur'd saints upon the red and yellow 
Casements, through which the sunset streams like 

sunrise 
On long pearl-color'd beards and crimson crosses. 
And gilded crosiers, and cross'd arms, and cow]s, 
And helms, and twisted armor, and long svrords. 
All the fantastic furniture of windows 
Dim with brave knights and holy hermits, whose 
Likeness and fame alike rest in some panes 
Of crystal, which each rattling wind proclaims 
As frail as any otlier life or glory. 
He 's gone, however. 

287 



ACT III. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



Wer. AVliom do you seek ? 

Id en. A villain. 

Wer. Why need you come so far, then ? 

Men. In the searcli 

Of him who robb'd the baron. 

Wer. Are you sure 

You have divined the man ? 

Men. As sure as you 

Stand there : but where 's he gone ? 

Wer. ^ Who? 

Men. " He we sought. 

Wer. You see he is not here. 

Men. And yet Ave traced him 

Up to this hall. Are you accomplices ? 
Or deal you in the black art ? 

Wer. I deal plainly, 

To many men the blackest. 

Men. It may be 

I have a question or two for yourself 
Hereafter; but we must continue now 
Our search f or t 'other. 

Wer. You had best begin 

Your inquisition now ; I may not be " 
So patient always. 

Men. I should like to know, 

In good sooth, if you really are the man 
That Stralenheim 's in quest of. 

Wer. Insolent ! 

Said you not that he was not here ? 

Men. Yes, 0776,' 

But there 's another whom he tracks more keenly, 
And soon, it may be, with authority 
Both paramount to his and mine. But, come ! 
Bustle, my boys I we are at fault. 

\^%it Menstein and Attendants. 

Wer. In what 

A maze hath my dim destiny involved me ! 
And one base sin hath done me less ill than 
The leaving undone one far greater. Down, 
Tliou busy devil, rising in my heart ! 
Thou art too late ! I '11 nought to do with blood. 

Enter Ulric. 

Ulr. I so.ught j^ou, father. 

Wer. Is 't not dangerous ? 

Ulr. Xo ; Stralenheim is ignorant of all 
Or any of the ties between us : more — 
He sends me here a spy upon your actions, 
Deeming me wholly his. 

Wer. I cannot think it ; 

'T is but a snare he winds about us both, 
To swoop the sire and son at once. 

Ulr. I cannot 

Pause in each petty fear, and stumble at 
The doubts that rise like briers in our path, 
But must break • through them, as an unarm'd 

carle 
Would, though with naked limbs, were the wolf 

rustling 
In the same thicket where he hew'd for bread. 
^STets are for thrushes, eagles are not caught so : 
We '11 overfly or rend them. 

Wer. Show me how ? 

Ulr. Can you not guess ? 

Wer. I cannot. 

Ulr. That is strange. 

Came the thought ne'er in your mind last night ? 

Wer. I understand you not. 

Ulr. Then we shall never 

ISIore understand each other. But to change 
The topic 

Wer. You mean to pursue it, as 

'T is of our safety. 

Ulr. Right ; I stand corrected. 

I see the subject now more clearly, and 
Oar general situation in its bearin£>-s. 
The waters are abating ; a few hours 
288 



Will bring his summon'd myrmidons from Frank- 
fort, 
When, you will be a prisoner, perhaps worse, 
And I an outcast, bastardized by practice 
Of this same baron to make way for him. 

Wer. And now your remedy ! I thought to escape 
By means of this accursed gold ; but now 
I dare not use it, show it, scarce look on it. 
Methinks it wears upon its face my guilt 
For motto, not the mintage of the state ; 
And, for the sovereign's head, my own begirt 
With hissing snakes, wliich curl around my temples, 
And cry to all beholders, Lo ! a villain ! 

Ulr. You must not use it, at least now; but 
take 
This ring. [He gives Werner a jewel. 

Wer. A gem ! It was my father's ! 

Ulr. And 

As such is now your own. With this you must 
Bribe the intendant for his old caleche* 
And horses to pursue your route at sunrise, 
Together with my mother. 

Wer. And leave you, 

So lately found, in peril too ? 

Ulr.' Fear nothing! 

The only fear were if we fled together, 
For that would make our ties beyond all doubt. 
The waters only lie.in flood between 
This burgh and Frankfort ; so far 's in our favor. 
The route on ta Bohemia, though encumber'd, 
Is not impassable ; and when you gain 
A few hours' start, the difticulties will be 
The same to your pursuers. Once beyond 
The frontier, and you 're safe. 

Wer. My noble boy ! 

Ulr. Hush ! hush ! no transports : we '11 indulge 
in them 
In Castle Siegendorf ! Display no gold : 
Show Idenstein the gem (I know the man, 
And have look'd through him) : it will answer thus 
A double purpose. Stralenheim lost gold — 
JSTo jewel : therefore it could 7iot be hi's ; 
And then the man who was possest of this 
Can hardly be suspected of abstracting 
The baron's coin, when he could thus convert 
This ring to more than Stralenheim has lost 
By his last night's slumber. Be not over timid 
In your address, nor yet too arrogant, 
And Idenstein will serve you. 

Wer. 1 will follow 

In all things your direction. 

Ulr. I would have 

Spared you the trouble ; but had I appear'd 
To take an interest in you, and still more 
By dabbling with a jewel in your favor. 
All had been known at once. 

TFer. My guardian angel ! 

This overpays the past. But how wilt thou 
Fare in our absence ? 

Ulr. Stralenheim knows nothing 

Of me as aught of kindred with yourself. 
I will but wait a day or two with him 
To lull all doubts, and then rejoin my fatlier. 

Wer. To part no more. 

Ulr. I know not that ; but at 

Tlie least we '11 meet again once more. 

Wer. My boy! 

My friend ! my only child, and sole preserver ! 
Oh , do not hate me ! 

Ulr. Hate my father ! 

Wer. Ay, 

My father hated me. Why not my son ? 

Ulr. Your father knew you not as I do. 

Wer. Scorpions 

Are in thy words ! Thou know me ? in this guise 
Thou canst not know me, I am not myself; 
Yet (hate me not) I will be soon. 



ACT ITT. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



Ulr. I'll wait I 

In the mean time be sure that all a son 
Can do for parents shall be done for mine. 

Wer. I see it, and I feel it ; yet 1 feel 
Further — that you despise me. 

Vlr. Wherefore should I ? 

Wer. Must I repeat my humiliation ? 

Vlr. No ! 

I have fathom 'd it and you. But let us talk 
Of this no more. Or if it must be ever, 
Not now. Yonr error has redoubled all 
The present difficulties of our house, 
At secret war with that of Stralenheim : 
All we have now to think of is to baffle 
Him. I have shown one way. 

Wer. The only one, 

And I embrace it, as T did my son. 
Who showed himself and father safety in 
One day. 

Ulr. You shall be safe ; let that suffice. 
Would Stralenheim's appearance in Bohemia 
Disturb your right, or mine, if once we were 
Admitted to our lands ? 

Wer. Assuredly, 

Situate as we are now, although tlie first 
Possessor might, as usual, prove the strongest, 
Especially the next in blood. 

JJlr. Blood ! 't is 

A word of many meanings : in the veins. 
And out of them, it is a different thing— 
And so it should be, when the same in blood 
(As it is call'd) are aliens to each other. 
Like Theban brethren : when a part is bad, 
A few spilt ounces purify the rest. 

Wer. I do not apprehend you. 

Ulr. , That may be— 

And should, perhaps— and yet but get ye ready; 

You and my mother must away to-night. 

Here comes the intendant: sound him with the 

gem; 
'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead 
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud. 
And ooze too, from the bottom, as the lead doth 
With its greased understratum ; but no less 
Will serve to warn our vessels through these shoals. 
The freight is rich, so heave the line in time ! 
Farewell ! I scarce have time, but yet your hand, 
My father ! 

Wer. Let me embrace thee ! 

Ulr. We may be 

Observed : subdue your nature to the hour ! 
Keep off from me as from your foe ! 

Wer. Accursed 

Be he who is the stifling cause which smothers 
The best and sweetest feeling of our hearts ; 
At such an hour too ! 

Ulr. Yes, curse— it will ease you ! 

Here is the intendant. 

Enter Idenstein. 

Master Idenstein, 
How fare you in your purpose ? Have you caught 
The rogue ? 

Iden. No, faith ! 

Ulr. Well, there are plenty more : 

You may have better luck another chase. 
Where is the baron ? 

Iden. Gone back to his chamber : 

And, now I think on 't, asking after you 
With nobly-born impatience. 

Ulr. Your great men 

Must be answered on the instant, as the bound 
Of the stung steed replies unto the spur : 
'T is well they have horses, too ; for, if they had not, 
I fear that men must draw their chariots, as 
They say kings did Sesostris. 

Iden, Who was he ? 

19 



Ulr. An old Bohemian — an imperial gipsy. 

Iden. A gipsy or Bohemian, 't is the same. 
For they pass by both names. And was he one ? 

Ulr. I 've heard so; but I must take leave. In- 
tendant, 
Your servant ! — Werner {toWerner slightly),4t that 

be your name. 
Yours. [Exit Ulric. 

Iden. A well-spoken, pretty-faced young man! 
And prettily behaved ! He knows his station, 
You see, sir : how he gave to each his due 
Precedence ! 

Wer. I perceived it, and applaud 

His just discernment and your own. 

Iden. That 's well- 

That 's very well. You also know your place, too ; 
And yet I don't know that I know your place. 

Wer. {shoiving the ring). Would this assist your 
knowledge ':* 

Iden. How !— What !— Eh ! 

A jewel ! 

Wer. 'T is your own on one condition. 

Iden. Mine I — Name it ! 

Wer. That hereafter you parmit me 

At thrice its value to redeem it : 't is 
A family ring. 

Iden. A family \— yours I — a gem ! 

I 'm breathless ! 

Wer. You must also furnish me, 

An hour ere daybreak, with all means to quit 
This place. 

Iden. But is it real ? Let me look on it : 

Diamond, by all that 's glorious ! 

Wer. Come, I '11 trust you : 

You have guess 'd, no doubt, that I was born above 
My present seeming. 

Iden. I can't say I did. 

Though this looks like it : this is the true breeding 
Of gentle blood ! 

Wer. I have important reasons 

For wishing to continue privily 
My journey hence. 

Iden. So then you are the man 

Whom Stralenheim 's in quest of ? 

Wer. I am not ; 

But being taken for him might conduct 
So much embarrassment to me just now. 
And to the baron's self hereafter — 't is 
To spare both that I would avoid all bustle. 

Iden. Be you the man or no, 't is not my business ; 
Besides, I never should obtain the half 
From this proud, niggardly noble, who would raise 
The country for some missing bits of coin, 
And never offer a precise reward- 
But this I — another look ! 

Wer. Gaze on it freely ; 

At day-dawn it is yours. 

Iden. Oh, thou sweet sparkler ! 

Thou more than stone of the philosopher ! 
Thou touchstone of Philosophy herself ! 
Thou bright eye of the Mine ! thou loadstar of 
The soul ! the true magnetic Pole to which 
All hearts point dulynorth, like trembling needles ! 
Thou flaming Spirit of the Earth ! which, sitting 
High on the monarch's diadem, attractest 
More worship than the majesty who sweats 
Beneath the crown which makes his head ache, like 
Millions of hearts which bleed to lend it lustre ! 
Shalt thou be mine ? I am, methinks, already 
A little king, a lucky alchemist !— 
A wise magician, who has bound the devil 
Without the forfeit of his soul. But come, 
Werner, or what else ? 

Wer. Call me Werner still ; 

You may yet know me by a loftier title. 

Men. I do believe in thee ! thou art the spirit 
Of whom I long have dream 'd in a low garb.— 
289 



ACT III. 



WERNER 



SCENE IV. 



But come, I '11 serve tliee : thou shalt be as free 

As air, despite the waters ; let us hence : 

I '11 show thee I am honest — (oh, thou jewel!) 

Thou Shalt be furnish 'd, AVerner, with such means 

Of fli,s:ht, tliat if thou wert a snail, not birds 

Should'overtake thee.— Let me .^-aze again ! 

I have a foster brother in the mart 

Of Hamburgh skill'd in precious stones. How 

many 
Carats may it weigh ? — Come, Werner, I will wing 

thee. [Exeunt. 

SCENE 11.— Stralenhewi's Chamber. 
Stralenheim and Fritz. 

Fritz. All 's ready, my good lord ! 

Stral. ' I am not sleepy, 

And yet I must to bed; I fain would say 
To rest, but something heavy on my spirit, 
Too dull for wakefulness, too quick for slumber, 
Sits on me as a cloud along the sky, 
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet 
Descend in rain and end, but spreads itself 
'Twixt earth and heaven, like envy betw'een man 
And man, an everlasting mist :— I will 
Unto my pillow. 

Fritz. May you rest there well ! 

Stral. I feel, and fear, I shall. 

Fritz. And wherefore fear? 

Stral. I know not why, and therefore do fear 
more, 

Because an undescribable but 'tis 

All folly. Were the locks (as I desired) 
Changed, to-day, of this chamber? for last night's 
Adventure makes it needful. 

Fritz. Certainly, 

According to your order, and beneath 
The inspection of myself and tlie young Saxon 
Who saved your life. I think they callhim " Ulric." 

Stral. You think! you supercilious slave! what 
right 
Have you to tax your memory, which should be 
Quick, proud, and happy to retain the na7ne 
Of him wlio saved your master, as a litany 
Whose daily repetition marks your duty ?— 
Get hence ! " You //n'rifc," indeed ! you who stood 

still 
HoAvling and dripping on the bank, wiiilst I 
Lay d3ing, and the stranger dash'd aside 
The roaring torrent, and restored me to 
Thank hini— and despise you. " You think I " and 

scarce . 
Can recollect his name ! I will not waste 
More words on you. Call me betimes. 

Fritz. Good night ! 

I trust to-morrow will restore your lordship 
To renovated strength and teniper. 

[T7ie scene closes. 

SCENE 111.— The secret Passage. 
Gahor (solus). Four — 

Five— six hours have I counted, like the guard 
Of outposts on the never-merry clock : 
That hollow tongue of time, which, even when 
It sounds for joy, takes something from enjoyment 
With every clang. 'T is a perpetual knell. 
Though for a marriage feast it rings : each stroke 
Peals for a hope the less ; the funeral note 
Of Love deep-buried without resurrection 
In the grave of Possession; while the knoll 
Of long-lived parents finds a jovial echo 
To triple Time in the son's ear. 

I 'm cold— 
I 'm dark ; I 've blown my fingers — number'd o'er 
And o'er my steps — and knock'd my head against 
Some fifty buttresses— and roused the rats 
And bats in general insurrection, till 
200 



Their cursed pattering feet and wiiirling wings 

Leave me scarce hearing for another sound. 

A light ! It is at distance (if I can 

Measure in darkness distance) : but it blinks 

As through a crevice or a keyhole, in 

The inhibited direction : I must on. 

Nevertheless, from curiosity. 

A distant lamp-light is an incident 

In such a den as this. Pray Heaven it lead m.e 

To nothing that may tempt me ! Else— Heaven aid 

me 
To obtain or to escape it ! Shining still ! 
Were it the star of Lucifer himself. 
Or he himself girt with its beams, I could 
Contain no longer. Softly ! mighty well ! 
That corner 's turn'd — so— ah ! no ! — right ! it draws 
Nearer. Here is a darksome angle — so, 
Tliat 's weathered. — Let me pause. — Suppose it leads 
Into some greater danger than that which 
r have escaped— no matter, 't is a new^ one ; 
And novel perils, like fresh mistresses, 
Wear more magnetic aspects : I will on. 
And be it where it may — I have my dagger, 
Which may protect me at a pinch. — Burn still, 
Thou little light ! Thou art my ignis fatuus ! 
My stationary AVill-o'-the-wisp ! — So I so ! 
He hears my invocation, and fails not. 

[The scene closes. 

SCENE IV.— ^ Garden. 
Enter "Werner. 

Wer. I could not sleep— and now the hour 's at 
hand; 
All 's ready. Idenstein has kept his word ; 
And station 'd in the outskirts of the town, 
Upon the forest's edge, the vehicle 
Awaits us. Now the dwindling stars begin 
To pale in heaven : and for the last time I 
Look on these horrible walls. Oh ! never, never 
Shall I forget them. Here I came most poor, 
But not dishonor'd: and I leave them with 
A stain, — if not upon my name, yet in 
My heart ! — a never-djing canker-worm, 
Which all the coming splendor of the lands. 
And rights, and sovereignty of Siegendorf 
Can scarcely lull a moment. I must find 
Some means of restitution, which would ease 
My soul in part ; but how without discovery ? — 
It must be done, however ; and I '11 pause 
Upon the method the first hour of safety. 
The madness of my misery led to this 
Base infamy ; repentance must retrieve it : 
I will have nought of Stralenheim 's upon 
My spirit, though he would grasp all of mine ; 
Lands, freedom, life,— and yet he sleeps as soundly. 
Perhaps, as infancy, with gorgeous curtains 
Spread for his canopy, o'er silken pillows. 

Such as wiien Hark ! what noise is that ? Again ! 

The branches shake ; and some loose stones have 

fallen 
From yonder terrace. 

[Ulric leaps down from the terrace. 
Ulric ! ever welcome ! 
Thrice welcome now ! this filial 

Ulr. Stop! Before 

We approach , tell me 

Wer. Why look you so ? 

Ulr. Do I 

Behold my father, or 

Wer. What ? 

Ulr. An assassin ? 

Wer. Insane or insolent ! 

Ulr. Keply, sir, as 

You prize your life, or mine ! 

Wer. To wiiat must I 

Answer ? 



ACT III. 



WERNER. 



SCENE IV. 



Vlr. Are you or are you not the assassin 
Of Stralenheim V 

Wer. I never was as yet 

The murderer of any man. What mean you ? 

TJlr. Did not you this night (as the night before) 
Retrace the secret passage ? Did you not 

Again revisit Stralenheim 's chamber ? and 

\_TJlric jjauses. 

Wer. Proceed. 

TJlr, Died he not by your hand ? 

Wer. Great God ! 

Ulr. You are innocent, then ! my father 's inno- 
cent ! 
Embrace me! Yes, — your tone — your look — yes, 

yes,— 
Yet say so. 

Wer. Tf I e'er, in heart or mind, 

Conceived deliberately such a tliought. 
But rather strove to trample back to hell 
Such thoughts— if e'er they glared a moment 

through 
The irritation *of my oppress'd spirit- 
May heaven be shut for ever from my hopes 
As from mine eyes ! 

Wr. But Stralenheim is dead. 

Wer. 'T is horrible ! 't is hideous, as 'tis hateful ! — 
But what have I to do with this? 

TJlr. Xo bolt 

Is forced ; no violence can be detected,* 
Save on his body. Part of his own household 
Have been alarm 'd ; but as the intendant is 
Absent, I took upon myself the care 
Of mustering the police. His chamber has. 
Past doubt, been enter'd secretly. Excuse me, 
If nature 

Wer. Oh, my boy ! what unknown woes 

Of dark fatality, like clouds, are gathering 
Above our house ! 

TJlr. My father ! I acquit you ! 

But will the world do so ? will even the judge. 
If But you must away this instant. 

Wer. . No ! 

I '11 face it. Who shall dare suspect me V 

Ulr. Yet 

You had no guests — no visitors — no life 
Breathing around you, save my mother's ? 

Wer. Ah ! 

The Hungarian ! 

TJlr. He is gone ! he disappear'd 

Ere sunset. 

Wer. No ; I hid him in that very 

Conceal'd and fatal gallery. 

TJlr. 27?ere I'll find him. 

[TJlric is going. 

Wer. It is too late ; he had left the palace ere 
I quitted it. I found the secret panel 
Open, and the doors which lead from that liall 
Which masks it : I but thought he had snatch 'd the 

silent 
And unfavorable moment to escape 
The myrmidons of Idenstein, who were 
Dogging him y ester even. 

TJlr. " You reclosed 

The. panel ? 

Wer. Yes ; and not without reproach 

(And inner trembling for the avoided {)eril) 
At his dull heedlessness, in leaving thus 
His shelterer's asylum to the risk 
Of a discovery. 

TJlr. You are sure you closed it ? 

Wer. Certain. 

Vlr. That 's well ; but had been better if 
You ne'er had turn'd it to a den for [Hejjanses. 

Wer. Thieves ! 

Thou wouldst say : I must bear it and deserve it ; 
But not 

Ulr. No, father ; do not speak of this : 



This is no hour to think of petty crimes. 
But to prevent the consequence of great ones. 
Whv would 5^ou shelter this man ? 

Wer. Could I shun it ? 

A man pursued by my chief foe ; disgraced 
For my own crime ; a victim to my safety. 
Imploring a few hours' concealment from 
The very wretch who was the cause he needed 
Such refuge. Had he been a wolf, I could not 
Have in such circumstances thrust him forth. 

Ulr. And like the wolf he hath repaid you. But 
It is too late to ponder thus :— you must 
Set out ere dawn. I will remain here to 
Trace the murderer, if 't is possible. 

Wer. But this my sudden flight will give the Mo- 
loch 
Suspicion two new victims in the lieu 
Of one, if I remain. The fled Hungarian, 
Who seems the culprit, and 

Ulr. Who seems f Who elt-e 

Can be so ? 

Wer. Not I, though just now you doubted — 
You, my son ! — doubted 

Ulr. And do j^ou doubt of him 

The fugitive ? 

Wer. Boy ! since I fell into 

The abyss of crime (though not of such crime), I, 
Having seen the innocent oppress'd for me, 
May doubt even of the guilty's guilt. Your heart 
Is free, and quick with virtuous wrath to accuse 
Appearances ; and views a criminal 
In Innocence's shadow, it may be. 
Because t 'is dusky. 

Ulr. And if I do so. 
What will mankind, who know you not, or knew 
But to oppress ? You must not stand the hazard. 
Away !— I '11 make all easy. Idenstein 
Will for his own sake and his jewel's hold 
His peace — he also is a partner in 
Your flight— moreover 

Wer. Fly ! and leave my name 

Link'd with the Hungarian's, or preferr'd as 

poorest. 
To bear the brand of bloodshed? 

Ulr. Pshaw ! leave anything 

Except our father's sovereignty and castles, 
For which j^u have so long panted, and in vain ! 
What name? You have no name, since that you bear 
Is feign 'd. 

Wer. Most true ; but still I would not have it 
Engraved in crimson in men's memories, 
Though in this most obscure abode of men— 
Besides, the search 

t^r. I will provide against 

Aught that can touch you. No one knows you 

here 
As heir of Siegendorf : if Idenstein 
Suspects, 'tis hut suspicion., and he is 
A fool : his folly shall have such employment. 
Too, that the unknown Werner shall give way 
To nearer thoughts of self. The laws (if e'er 
Laws reach 'd this village) are all in abeyance 
With the late general war of thirty years, 
Or crush 'd. or rising slowly from the dust. 
To which the march of armies trampled them. 
Stralenheim, although noble, is unheeded 
Here., save as such — without lands, influence. 
Save what hath perish 'd with him. Few prolong 
A week beyond their funeral rites their sway 
O'er men, unless by relatives, whose interest 
Is roused : such is not here the case ; he died 
Alone, unknown,— a solitary grave, 
Obscure as his deserts, without a scutcheon, 
Is all he '11 have, or wants. If /discover 
The assassin, 't will be well— if not, believe me 
None else ; though ar the full-fed train of menials 
May howl above his ashes (as they did 
291 



ACT IV. 



WERNER, 



SCENE I. 



Around him in his danger on tlie Oder), 
Will no more stir a finger now than then. 
Hence! hence! I must not hear your answer.— 

Look! 
The stars are almost faded, and the gray 
Begins to grizzle the black hair of night. 
You shall not answer :— Pardon me tliat I 
Am peremptory ; 't is your son that speaks, 
Your long-lost, late-found son.— Let's call my 

mother ! 
Softly and swiftly step, and leave the rest 
To me : I '11 answer for the event as far 



As regards you, and that is the chief point, 
As my first duty, which shall be observed. 
We '11 meet in Castle Siegendorf — once more 
Our banners shall be glorious ! Think of that 
Alone, and leave all other thoughts to me. 
Whose youth may better battle with them. — Hence ! 
And may your age be happy !— I will kiss 
My mother once more, then Heaven's speed be with 
you! 

Wer. This counsel 's safe — ^but is it honorable ? 

TJlr, To save a father is a child's chief honor. 

[Exeunt. 



^CT IV. 



SCENE l.—A Gothic Hall in the Castle of Siegen- 
dorf^ near Prague. 

Enter Eric and Henrick, Bctainers of the Count. 

Eric. So, better times are come at last; to these 
Old walls new masters and high wassail — ^both 
A long desideratum. 

Hen. Yes, for masters. 

It might be unto those who long for novelty. 
Though made by a new grave : but as for wassail, 
Methinks the old Count Siegendorf maintain 'd 
His feudal liospitality as high 
As e'er another prince of the empire. 

EHc. . Wliy, 

For the mere cup and trencher, we no doubt 
Fared passing well ; but as for merriment 
And sport, without which salt and sauces season 
The cheer but scantily, our sizings were 
Even of the narrowest. 

Hen. The old count loved not 

The roar of revel ; are j^ou sure that this does ? 

Eric. As yet he hath been courteous as he's 
bounteous, 
And we all love him. 

Hen. His reign is as yet 

Hardly a year o'erpast its honeymoon. 
And the first year of sovereigns is bridal : 
Anon, we shall perceive his real sway 
And moods of mind. 

Eric. Pray Heaven he keep the present ! 

Then his brave son, Count Ulric— there 's a knight ! 
Pitv the wars are o'er ! 

Hen. Why so? 

Eric. Look on him ! 

And answer that yourself. 

Hen. He 's very youthful, 

And strong and beautiful as a young tiger. 

Eric. That 's not a faithful vassal's likeness. 

Hen. But 

Perhaps a true one. 

Eric. Pity, as I said. 

The wars are over : in the hall, who like 
Count Ulric for a Avell-supported pride. 
Which awes, but yet offends not ? in the field. 
Who like him with his spear in hand, when, 

gnashing 
His tusks, and ripping up from right to left 
The howling hounds, the boar makes for the thicket? 
Who backs a horse, or bears a hawk, or wears 
A sword like him ? Whose plume nods knightlier ? 

Hen. No one's, I grant you. Do not fear, if war 
Be long in coming, he is of that kind 
Will make it for himself, if he hath not 
Already done as much. 

Eric. What do you mean ? 

Hen. You can't deny his train of followers 
(But few our native fellow vassals born 
On the domain ) are such a sort of knaves 
As {Pauses.) 

Eric. What ? 

292 



Hen. The war (you love so much) leaves living. 
Like other parents, she spoils her worst children. 

Eric. Nonsense ! they are all brave, iron-visaged 
fellows. 
Such as old Tilly loved. 

Hen. And who loved Tilly ? 
Ask that at Magdebourg— or for that matter 
Wallenstein either ; — they are gone to 

Eric. Best ; 

But what beyond 't is not ours to pronounce. 

Hen. I wish they had left us something of their 
rest. 
The country (nominally now at peace) 
Is overrun with— God know^s wdio : they fly 
By night, and disappear with sunrise ; but 
Leave us no less desolation, nay, even more, 
Than the most open warfare. 

Eric. But Count Ulric— 

What has all this to do with him ? 

Hen. With him ! 

He might prevent it. As you say he 's fond 

Of war, why makes he it not on those marauders ? 

Eric. You 'd better ask himself. 

Hen. 1 would as soon 

Ask the lion why he laps not milk. 

Eric. And here he comes ! 

Hen. The devil ! you '11 hold your tongue ? 

Eric. Why do you turn so pale ? 

Hen. 'T is nothing — but 

Be silent. 

Eric. I will, upon what you have said. 

Hen. I assure you I meant nothing, — a mere sport 
Of words, no more; besides, had it been otherwise, 
He is to espouse the gentle baroness 
Ida of Stralenheim, the late baron's heiress; 
And she, no doubt, will soften whatsoever 
Of fierceness the late long intestine wars 
Have given all natures, and most unto those 
Who were born in them, and bred up upon 
The knees of Homicide; sprinkled, as it were. 
With blood even at their baptism. Prithee, peace 
On all that I have said ! 

Enter Ulric and Rodolph. 

Good morrow, count. 

TJlr. Good morrow, worthy Henrick. Eric, is 
All ready for the chase ? 

Eric. The dogs are order'd 

Down to the forest, and the vassals out 
To beat tlie bushes, and the day looks promising. 
Shall I call forth your excellency's suite ? 
What courser will you please to mount ? 

Ulr. The dun, 

Walstein. 

Eric. I fear he scarcely has recovei-'d 
The toils of Monday : 't w^as a noble chase : 
You spear'd/oitr with your own hand. 

Ulr. True, good Eric ; 

T had forgotten— let it be the gray, then. 
Old Ziska : he has not been out this fortnight. 



ACT IV. 



WERNER, 



SCENE I. 



Eric. He shall be straight caparison'd. How many 
Of your immediate retainers shall 
Escort you ? 

TJlr. I leave that to "Weilburg, our 

Master of the horse. \_Exit Eric. 

Rodolph ! 

Bod. My lord ! 

JJlr. The news 

Is awkward from the — [Ttodolph points to Henrick.) 

How now, Henrick ? why 
Loiter you here ? 

Hen. For your commands, my lord. 

Ulr. Go to my father, and present my duty, 
And learn if he would aught with me before 
I mount. [Exit Henrick. 

Rodolph, our friends have had a check 
Upon the frontiers of Franconia, and 
'T is rumor'd that the column sent against them 
Is to be strengthen'd. I must join them soon. 

Rod. Best wait for further and more sure advices. 

Ulr. 1 mean it— and indeed it could not well 
Have fallen out at a time more opposite 
To all my plans. 

Rod. It will be difficult 

To excuse your absence to the count your father. 

Ulr. Yes, but the unsettled state of our domain 
In high Silesia will permit and cover 
My journey. In the mean time, when we are 
Engaged in the cliase, draw off the eighty men 
Wliom Wolffe leads— keep the forests on your route : 
You know it well ? 

Rod. As well as on that night 

When we 

Ulr. We Avill not speak of that until 

We can repeat the same with like success : 
And when you have join'd, give Rosenberg this 
letter. [Gives a letter. 

Add further, that I have sent this slight addition 
To our force with you and Wolffe, as herald of 
My coming, though I could but spare them ill 
At this time, as my father loves to keep 
Full numbers of retainers ronnd the castle, 
Until this marriage, and its feasts and fooleries, 
Are rung out with its peal of nuptial nonsense. 

Rod. I thought you loved the lady Ida ? 

Ulr. Why, 

I do so— but it follows not from that 
I would bind in my youth and glorious years, 
So brief and burning, with a lady's zone. 
Although 't were that of Venus ;— but I love her, 
As woman should be loved, fairly and solely. 

Rod. And constantly ? 

Ulr. I think so ; for I love 

Nought else. — But I have not the time to pause 
Upon these gewgaws of the heart. Great things 
We have to do ere long. Speed ! speed ! good Ro- 
dolph ! 

Rod. On my return, however, I shall find 
The baroness Ida lost in Countess Siegendorf ? 

Ulr. Perhaps : my father wishes it ; and sooth 
'T is no bad policy : this union with 
The last bud of the rival branch at once 
Unites the future and destroys the past. 

Rod. Adieu. 

Ulr. Yet hold — we had better keep together 

Until the chase begins ; then draw thou off. 
And do as I have said. 

Rod. I will. But to 

Return — 't was a most kind act in the count 
Your father to send up to Konigsberg 
For this fair orphan of the baron, and 
To hail her as his daughter. 

Ulr. Wondrous kind ! 

Especially as little kindness till 
Then grew between them. 

-Roc?. The late baron died 

Of a fever, did he not ? 



Ulr. How should I know ? 

Rod. I have heard it whispered there was some- 
thing strange 
About his death— and even the place of it 
Is scarcely known. 

Ulr. Some obscure village on 

The Saxon or Silesian frontier. 

Rod. He 

Has left no testament — no farewell words. 

Ulr. I am neither confessor nor notary, 
So cannot say. 

Rod. Ah ! here 's the lady Ida. 

Enter Ida Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You are early, my sweet cousin ! 

Ida. Not too early, 

Dear Ulric, if I do not interrupt you. 
Why do you call me " cousin " ? 

Ulr. ismiling). Are we not so ? 

Ida. Yes, but I do not like the name ; methinks 
It sounds so cold, as if you thought upon 
Our pedigree, and only weigh 'd our blood. 

Ulr. [starting). Blood! 

Ida. Why does yours start from your cheeks ? 

Ulr. Ay ! doth it ? 

Ida. It doth — but no ! it rushes like a torrent 
Even to your brow again. 

tllr. {recovering himself). And if it fled. 
It only was because your presence sent it 
Back to my heart, which beats for you, sweet cousin ! 

Ida. " Cousin " again. 

Ulr. Nay, then, I '11 call you sister. 

Ida. 1 like that name still worse. — Would we had 
ne'er 
Been aught of kindred ! 

Ulr. [qloomily). Would we never had ! 

Ida. Oh, heavens! and can you wish that? 

Ulr. Dearest Ida ! 

Did I not echo your own wish ? 

Ida. Yes, Ulric, 

But then I wish'd it not with such a glance. 
And scarce knew what I said ; but let me be 
Sister, or cousin, or what you will, so that 
I still to you am something. 

Ulr. You shall be 

All— all 

Ida. And you to me are so already ; 

But I can wait. 

Ulr. Dear Ida. 

Ida. Call, me Ida, 

Your Ida, for I would be yours, none else's— 
Indeed I have none else left, since my poor father — 

[She pauses. 

Ulr. You have mine — you have me. 

Ida. Dear Ulric, how I wish 

My father could but view my happiness, 
Which wants but this ! 

Ulr. Indeed! 

Ida. You would have loved him, 

He you ; for the brave ever love each other : 
His manner was a little cold, his spirit 
Proud (as is birth's prerogative) ; but under 

This grave exterior Would you had known each 

other ! 
Had such as you been near him on his journey, 
He had not died without a friend to soothe 
His last and lonely moments. 

Ulr. ' ^Yho says that? 

Ida. What ? 

Ulr. That he died alone. 

Ida. The general rumor, 

And disappearance of his servants, who 
Have ne'er return'd : that fever was most deadly 
Which swept them all away. 

Ulr. If they were near him. 

He could not die neglected or alone. 

Ida. Alas ! what is a menial to a death-bed, 
293 



ACT IV. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



When the dim eye rolls vainly round for what 
It loves ?— They say he died of a fever. 

JJIt. Say I 

It was so. 

Ida. I sometimes dream otherwise. 

TJlr. All dreams are false. 

Ida. And yet I see him as 

I see you. 

Ulr. Where? 

Ida. In sleep— I see him lie 

Pale, bleeding, and a man with a raised knife 
Beside him, 

Ulr. But you do not see his /ace ? 

Ida [looking at him). No! Oil, my God! do youf 

Ulr. Why do you ask V 

Ida. Because you look as if you saw a murderer ! 

Ulr. [agitatedly). Ida, this is mere childishness ; 
yoiir weakness 
Infects me, to my shame ; but as all feelings 
Of yours are common to me, it affects me. 
Prithee, sweet child, change 

Ida. Child, indeed! I have 

Full fifteen summers. [^1 bugle sounds- 

Bod. Hark, my lord, the bugle ! 

Ida [peevishly to Bodolph). WJiy need you tell 
him that ? Can he not hear it 
Without your eciio V 

Bod. Pardon me, fair baroness ! 

Ida. I will not pardon you, unless you earn it 
By aiding me in my dissuasion of 
Count Ulric from the chase to-day. 

Bod. You will not, 

Lady, need aid of mine. 

Ulr. I must not now 

Forego it. 

Ida. But you shall ! 

Ulr. Shall! 

Ida. Yes, or be 

No true knight.— Come, dear Ulric ! yield to me 
In this, for this one day : the day looks heavy. 
And you are turn'd so pale and ill. 

Ulr. You jest. 

Ida. Indeed I do not : — ask of Bodolph. 

Bod. Truly, 

My lord, within this quarter of an hour 
You have changed more than e'er I saw you change 
In years. 

Ulr. 'Tis nothing ; but if 'twere, the air 
Would soon restore me. I 'm the true chameleon, 
And live but on'the atmosphere ; your feasts 
In castle halls, and social banquets, nurse not 
My spirit— I 'm a forester and breather 
Of the steep mountain-tops, where I love all 
The eagle loves. 

Ida. Except his prey, I hope. 

Ulr. Sweet Ida, wish me a fair chase, and I 
Will bring you six boars' heads for trophies home. 

Ida. And will you not stay, then? You shall 
not go ! 
Come ! I will sing to you. 

Ulr. Ida, you scarcely 

Will make a soldier's wife. 

Ida. 1 do not wish 

To be so ; for I trust these wars are over. 
And you will live in peace on your domains. 

Enter "Werner as Count Siegendorf. 

Ulr. My father, I salute you, and it grieves me 

With such brief greeting. — You have heard our 

bugle ; 
The vassals wait. 

Sieg. So let them.— You forget 

To-morrow is the appointed festival 
In Prague for peace restored. You are apt to 

follow 
The chase with such an ardor as will scarce 
Permit you to return to-day, or if 
294 



Return 'd, too much fatigued to join to-morrow 
Tlie nobles in our marshall'd ranks. 

Ulr. You, count, 

Will well supply the place of both — I am not 
A lover of these pageantries. 

Sieg. No, Ulric : 

It were not well that you alone of all 
Our young nobility 

Ida. And far the noblest 

In aspect and demeanor. 

Sieg. [to Ida). True, dear child, 

Though somewliat frankly said for a fair damsel — 
But, Ulric, recollect too our position, 
So lately reinstated in our honors. 
Believe me, 'twould be mark'd in any house. 
But most in ours, that one should be found wanting 
At such a time and place. Besides, the Heaven 
AVhich gave us back our own, in the same moment 
It spread its peace o'er all, hath double claims 
On us for thanksgiving : first, for our country ; 
And next, that we are here to share its blessings. 

Ulr. [aside). Devout, too ! Well, sir, I obey atonce. 

[TJien aloud to a Servant.) Ludwig, dismiss the train 

without ! [Exit Luduig. 

Ida. And so 

You yield at once to him what I for hours 
Might supplicate in vain. 

Sieg. (smiling). You are not jealous 

Of me, I trust, my pretty rebel ! who 
Would sanction disobedience against all 
Except thyself ? But fear not ; thou shalt rule him 
Hereafter with a fonder sway and firmer. 

Ida. But I should like to govern now. 

Sieg: You shall, 

Your /mrp, which by the way awaits you with 
The countess in her chamber. She complains 
That you are a sad truant to your music : 
She attends you. 

Ida. Then good morrow, my kind kinsmen ! 

Ulric, you '11 come and hear me ? 

Ulr. By and by. 

Ida. Be sure I '11 sound it better than your bugles ; 
Then pray you be as punctual to its notes: 
I '11 play you King Gustavus' march. 

Ulr. ' And why not 

Old Tilly's ? 

Ida. Not that monster's ! I should think 

My harp-strings rang with groans, and not with 

music. 
Could aught of his sound on it : — but come quickly ; 
Your mother will be eager to receive you. [Exit. 

Sieg. Ulric, I wish to speak with you alone. 

Ulr. My time 's your vassal. 
[Aside to Bodolph. ) Rodolph, hence ! and do 

As I directed : and by his best speed 
And readiest means let Rosenberg reply. 

Bod. Count Siegendorf, command you aught ? I 
am bound 
Upon a journey past the frontier. 

Sieg. [starts). Ah! — 

Where ? on what frontier ? 

Bod. The Silesian, on 

My way — [aside to Ulric.)— Where shall I say ? 

Ulr. [aside to Bodolph). To Hamburgh. 

[Aside to himself.) That 
Word will, I think, put a firm padlock on 
His further inquisition. 

Bod. Count, to Hamburgh. 

Sieg. [agitated). Hamburgh ! No, I have nought 
to do there, nor 
Am aught connected with that city. Then 
God speed you ! 

Bod. Fare ye well, Count Siegendorf! 

[Exit Bodolph. 

Sieg. Ulric, this man, wiio has just departed, is 
One of those strange companions whom I fain 
Would feasoii with you on. 



ACT IV. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



TJlr, My lord, he is 

Noble by birth, of one of the first houses 
In Saxony. 

Sieg. I talk not of his birth, 

But of his bearing. Men speak lightly of him. 

Vlr. So they will do of most men. Even the 
monarch 
Is not fenced from his chamberlain's slander, or 
Tlie sneer of the last courtier whom be has made 
Great and ungrateful. 

Sieg. If I must be plain, 

The world speaks more than lightly of this Eodolph : 
They say he is leagued with the "• black bands " who 

still 
Ravage the frontier. 

Ulr. And will vou believe 

The world ? 

Sieg. In this case — yes. 

TJlr. In any case, 

I thought you knew it better than to take 
An accusation for a sentence. 

Sieg. Son ! 

I understand you ; you refer to but 

My destiny has so involved about me 
Her spider web, that I can only flutter 
Like the poor fly, but break it not. Take heed, 
Ulric ; you have seen to wdiat the passions led me : 
Twenty long years of misery and famine 
Quench'd them not— twenty thousand more, per- 
chance. 
Hereafter (or even here in moments which 
Might date for j^ears, did Anguish make the dial), 
May not obliterate or expiate 
The madness and dishonor of an instant. 
Ulric, be warn\l by a father ! — I was not 
By mine, and vou behold me ! 

Ulr. " I behold 

The prosperous and beloved Siegendorf , 
Lord of a priiice's appanage, and lionor'd 
By tliose he rules and those he ranks with. 

Sieg. Ah ! 

Why wilt thou call me prosperous, while I fear 
For thee ? Beloved, when thou lovest me not ? 
All hearts but one may beat in kindness for me— 
But if my son's is cold I 

Ulr. Who dare say that ? 

Sieg. None else but I, wiio see it— feel it— keener 
Than would your adversary, who dared say so, 
Your sabre in liis heart ! But mine survives 
The w^ound. 

Ulr. You err. My nature is not given 

To outward fondling : how should it be so. 
After twelve years' divorcement from my parents ? 

Sieg. And did not I too pass those twelve torn 
years 
In a like absence ? But 't is vain to urge* you — 
Nature was never call'd back by remonstrance. 
Let 's change the theme. I wish you to consider 
That these young violent nobles of high name, 
But dark deeds (ay, the darkest, if all Rumor 
Reports be true), with whom thou consortest, 
Will lead thee 

Ulr. {impatiently). I '11 be led by no m.an. 

Sieg. Nor 

Be leader of such, I would hope : at once 
To wean thee from the perils of thy youth 
And haughty spirit, I have thought it well 
Tliat thou shouldst wed the lady Ida— more 
As thou appear'st to love her. 

Ulr. 'I liave said 

I will obey your orders, were they to 
Unite with Hecate — can a son say more ? 

Sieg. He says too much in saying this. It is not 
The nature of thine age, nor of thy blood, 
Nor of thy temperament, to talk so coolly. 
Or act so carelessly, in that which is 
The bloom or blight of all men's happiness 



(For Glory's pillow is but restless if 

Love lay not down his cheek there) : some strong 

bias, 
Some master fiend is in thy service, to 
Misrule the mortal who believes him slave, 
And makes his every thought subservient; else 
Thou 'dst say at once—" I love young Ida, and 
Will wed her ; " or, " I love her not, and all 
The powers of earth shall never make me." — So 
Would I have answer'd. 

Ulr. Sir, you ired for love. 

Sieg. I did, and it has been my only refuge 
In many miseries. 

Ulr. Which miseries 

Had never been but for this love-match. 

Sieg. . Still 

Against your age and nature ! Who at twenty 
E'er answer'd thus till now ? 

Ulr. Did you not warn me 

Against your ow'n example ? 

Sieg. Boyish sophist ! 

In a word, do you love, or love not, Ida ? 

Ulr. AVhat matters it, if I am ready to 
Obey you in espousing her ? 

Sieg. As far 
As you feel, nothing, but all life for her. 
She 's young — all-beautiful — adores you — is 
Endow'd with qualities to give happiness, 
Such as rounds conimon life into a dream 
Of something which your poets cannot paint, 
And (if it were not wisdom to love virtue) 
For which Philosophy might barter Wisdom ; 
And giving so much happiness, deserves 
A little in return. I would not have her 
Break her heart for a man who has none to break ; 
Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she tliought a nightingale. 
According to the Orient tale. She is " 

Ulr. The daughter of dead Stralenheim, your foe : 
I '11 wed her, ne'ertlieless ; though, to say truth. 
Just now I am not violently transported 
In 'favor of such unions. 

Sieg. But she loves you. 

Ulr. And I love her, and therefore would think 
tioice. 

Sieg. Alas ! Love never did so. 

Ulr. Then 't is time 

He should begin, and take the bandage from 
His eyes, and look before he leaps ; till now 
He hath ta'en a jump i' the dark. 

Sieg. But you consent ? 

Ulr. I did, and do. 

Sieg. Then fix the day. 

Ulr. ' 'T is usual, 

And certes courteous, to leave that to the lady. 

Sieg. I will engage for her. 

Ulr. So will not / 

For any woman : and as what I fix, 
I fain would see unshaken, when she gives 
Her answer, I '11 give mine. 

Sieg. But 'tis your office 

To woo. 

U'lr. Count, 't is a marriage of your making, 
So be it of your wooing ; but to please you 
I will now pay my duty to my mother. 
With whom, you know, the lady Ida is. — 
What would you have ? You have forbid my stir- 
ring 
For manly sports beyond the castle walls. 
And I obey ; you bid me turn a chamberer, 
To pick up gloves, and fans, and knitting needles, 
And list to songs and tunes, and watch for smiles, 
x\nd smile at pretty prattle, and look into 
The eyes of feminiiae, as though they were 
The stars receding early to our wish 
Upon the dawn of a w^orld-winning battle— 
What can a son or man do more ? \^Exit Ulric. 

295 



ACT IV. 



WERNER, 



SCENE I. 



Sieg. {solus). Too much! — 

Too much of duty, and too little love ! 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not : 
For such hath been my wayward fate, I could not 
Fulfill a parent's duties by his side 
Till now ; but love he owes me, for my thoughts 
Is^e'er left him, nor my ej^es long'd without tears 
To see my child again, and now I have found him ! 
But how!— obedient, but with coldness; duteous 
In my sight, but with carelessness ; mysterious — 
Abstracted— distant— much given to long absence, 
And where — none know— in league with the most 

riotous 
Of our young nobles ; though, to do him justice. 
He never stooi)S down to tlieir vulgar pleasures ; 
Yet there 's some* tie between ttiern which I cannot 
Unravel. They look up to him— consult him— 
Throng round him as a leader: but with me 
He hath no confidence ! Ah ! can 1 hope it 
After — what ! doth my father's curse descend 
Even to my child ? Or is the Hungarian near 
To shed more blood ? or— Oh ! if it should be ! 
Spirit of Stralenheim, dost thou w^alk these walls 
To wither him and his— who, though they slew not, 
Unlatcird the door of death for thee ? 'T was not 
Our fault, nor is our sin : thou w^rt our foe. 
And 5^et I spared thee when my own destruction 
Slept with thee, to aw^ake with thine aw^akening ! 
And only took— Accursed gold ! thou liest 
Like poison in my hands ; I dare not use thee, 
Xor part from thee ; thou camest in such a guise, 
Methinks thou wouldst contaminate all hands 
Like mine. Yet I have done, to atone for thee. 
Thou villainous gold ! and thy dead master's doom, 
Though he died not by me or mine, as much 
As if he W'Cre my brother ! I have ta'en 
His orphan Ida — cherish'd her as one 
Who will be mine. 

Enter an Attendant. 
Atten. The abbot, if it please 

Your excellency, w^hom you sent for, waits 
Upon you. . [Exit Attendant. 

Enter the Prior Albert. 

Prior. Peace be with these walls, and all 
Within them ! 

Sieg. Welcome, welcome, holy father! 
And may thy prayer be heard ! — ail men have need 
Of such, and I 

Prior. Have the first claim to all 

The prayers of our community. Our convent, 
Erected by your ancestors, is still 
Protected by their children. 

Sieg. Yes, good father; 

Continue daily orisons for us 
In these dim days of heresies and blood. 
Though the schismatic Swede, Gustavus, is 
Gone home. 

Prior. To the endless home of unbelievers. 
Where there is everlasting wail and woe. 
Gnashing of teeth, and tears of blood, and fire 
Eternal, and the worin which dieth not ! 

Sieg. True, father : and to avert those pangs from 
one, 
Who, though of our most faultless holy church. 
Yet died without its last and dearest offices. 
Which smooth the soul through purgatorial pains, 
I have to offer humbly this donation 
In masses for his spirit. 

[Siegtndorf ojfers the gold ichich he had taken 
from Stralenheim. 

Prior. Count, if I 

Receive it, 't is because I know too well 
llefusal w^ould offend you. Be assured 
The largess shall be only dealt in alms. 
And every mass no less sung for the dead. 
29G 



Our house needs no donations, thanks to yours, 
Which has of old endow 'd it ; but from you 
And yours in all meet things 't is fit we obey. 
For whom shall mass be said ? 

Sieg. [faltering). > For— for— the dead. 

Prior. His name ? 

Sieg. 'T is from a soul, and not a name, 

I would avert perdition. 

Prior. I meant not 

To pry into your secret. We will pray 
For one unknown, the same as for the proudest. 

Sieg. Secret ! I have none ; but, father, he who 's 
gone 
Might ha;ve one ; or, in short, he did bequeath- 
No, not bequeath— but I bestow this sum 
For pious purposes. 

Prior. A proper deed 

In the behalf of our departed friends. 

Sieg. But he who 's gone, was not my friend, but 
foe. 
The deadliest and the stanchest. 

Prior. Better still ! 

To employ our means to obtain heaven for the souls 
Of our dead enemies is worthy those 
Who can forgive them living. 

Sieg. But I did not 

Forgive this man. I loathed him to the last, 
As he did me. I do not love him now, 
But 

Prior. Best of all ! for this is pure religion ! 
You fain would rescue him you hate from hell — 
An evangelical compassion — with 
Your own gold too ! 

Sieg. Father, 't is not my gold. 

Prior. Whose then V You said it w^as no legacy. 

Sieg. IS^o matter whose — of this be sure, that he 
Who own'd it never more will need it, save 
In that which it may purchase from your altars : 
'T is yours, or theirs. 

Prior. Is there no blood upon it ? 

Sieg. Ko ; but there 's worse than blood— eternal 
shame ! 

Prior. Did lie who own'd it die in his hedf 

Sieg. Alas ! 

He did. 

Prior. Son ! you relapse into revenge. 
If you regret your enemy's bloodless death. 

Sieg. His death w^as fathomlessly deep in blood. 

Prior. You said he died in his bed, not battle. 

Sieg. He 

Died, I scarce know— but— he was stabb'd i' the 

dark, 
And now you have it— perished on his pillow 
By a cut-throat !— Ay !— you may look upon me ! 
I am not the man. I '11 meet your eye on that point, 
As I cair one day God's. 

Prior. ISTor did he die 

By means, or men, or instrument of yours ? 

Sieg. No I by the God who sees and strikes ! 

Prior. Nor know you 

Who slew him ? 

Sieg. I could only guess at one, 

And he to me a stranger, unconnected. 
As unemploy'd. Except by one day's knowdedge, 
I never saw the man who was suspected. 

Prior. Then you are free from guilt. 



-say 



Sieg. [eagerly). Oh ! am 1 ? 

Prior. You have said so, and know best. 

Sieg. Father ! I have spoken 

The truth, and nought but truth, if not the whole : 
Yet say I am not guilty ! for the blood 
Of this man weighs on me, as if I shed it. 
Though, by the Power who abhorreth human blood, 
I did not! — nay, once spared it, Avhen I might 
And could— 'dj, perhaps, should (if our self-safety 
Be e'er excusable in such defences 
Against the attacks of over-potent foes) : 



ACT V. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



But pray for him, for me, and all my house ; 

For, as I said, though I be innocent, 

I know not why, a like remorse is on me, 

As if he had fallen by me or mine. Pray for me, 

Father ! I have pray'd myself in vain. 

Prior. I will. 

Be comforted ! You are innocent, and should 
Be calm as innocence. 

Sieg. But calmness is not 

Always the attribute of innocence. 
1 feerit is not. 



Prior. But it will be so. 

When the mind gathers up its truth within it. 
Remember the great festival to-morrow% 
In which you rank amidst our chief est nobles, 
As well as your brave son ; and smooth your aspect, 
Nor in the general orison of thanks 
For bloodshed stopt, let blood you shed not rise 
A cloud upon your thoughts. This were to be 
Too sensitive. Take comfort, and forget 
Such things, and leave remorse unto the guilty. 

\_Exeunt. 



^CT v. 



SCENE I. — A large and magnificent Gothic Hall 
in the Castle of Siegendorf, decorated with Trophies^ 
Banners, and Arms of that Family. 

Enter Arnheim and Meister, attendants of Count 
Sieg-endorf. 

A7'n. Be quick ! the count will soon return : the 
ladies 
Already are at the portal. Have you sent 
The messengers in search of him he seeks for ? 

3feis. I have, in all directions, over Prague, 
As far as the man's dress and figure could 
By your description track him. The devil take 
These revels and processions ! All the pleasure 
(If such there be) must fall to the spectators. 
I 'm sure none doth to us who make the show. 

Am. Go to ! my lady countess comes. 

Meis. I 'd rather 

Ride a day's hunting on an outworn jade, 
Than follow in the train of a great man 
III these dull pageantries. 

Am. Begone! and rail 

Within, [Exeunt. 

Enter the Countess Josephine Siegendorf and 
Ida Stralenheim. 

Jos. Well, Heaven be praised, the show is over ! 

Ida. How can you say so ? Never have I dreamt 
Of aught so beautiful. The flowers, the boughs, 
The banners, and the nobles, and the knights. 
The gems, the robes, the plumes, the happy faces, 
The coursers, and the incense, and the sun 
Streaming through the stain'd windows, even the 

tombs, 
Which look'd so calm, and the celestial hymns, 
Which seem'd as if they rather came from heaven 
Than mounted there. The bursting organ's peal 
Rolling on high like an harmonious thunder ; 
The white robes and the lifted eyes ; the world 
At peace ! and all at peace with one anotlier ! 
Oh, my sweet mother ! [Embracing Josephine. 

Jos. My beloved child ! 

For such, I trust, thou shalt be shortly. 

Ida. . Oh ! 

I am so already. Feel how my heart beats ! 

Jos. It does, my love; and never may it throb 
W^ith aught more bitter. 

Ida. Never shall it do so ! 

How should it ? What should make us grieve ? I 

hate 
To hear of sorrow: how can we be sad. 
Who love each other so entirely ? You, 
The count, and Ulric, and your daughter Ida. 

Jos. Poor child ! 

Ida. Do you pity me ? 

Jos. No : I but envy. 

And that in sorrow, not in the world's sense 
Of the universal vice, if one vice be 
More general than another. 

Ida. I '11 not hear 

A word against a world which still contains 



You and my Ulric. Did you ever see 

Aught like him V How he tower'd amongst them 

all! 
How^ all eyes follow'd him ! The flowers fell faster— 
Rain'd from each lattice at his feet, methought, 
Than before all the rest ; and where he trod 
I dare be sworn that they grow^ still, nor e'er 
Will wither. 

Jos. You will -spoil him, little flatterer, 

If he should hear you. 

Ida. But he never will. 

I dare not say so much to him— I fear him. 

Jos. Why so ? he loves you well. 

Ida. But I can never 

Shape my thoughts of him into words to him : 
Besides, he sometimes frightens me. 

Jos. How so ? 

Ida. A cloud comes o'er his blue eyes suddenly, 
Yet he says nothing. 

Jos. It is nothing : all men, 

Especially in these dark troublous times. 
Have much to think of. 

Ida. But I cannot think 

Of aught save him. 

Jos. Yet there are other men, 

In the world's eye, as goodly. There's, for in- 
stance, 
The 5^oung Count Waldorf, who scarce once with- 
drew 
His eyes from yours to-day. 

Ida. I did not see him, 

But Ulric. Did you not see at the moment 
When all knelt, and I wept ? and yet methought. 
Through my fast tears, though they were thick and 

warm, 
I saw him smiling on me. 

Jos. I could not 

See aught save heaven, to which my eyes were raised 
Together with the people's. 

Ida. I thought too 

Of heaven, although I look'd on Ulric. 

Jos. Come, 

Let us retire ; they will be here anon 
Expectant of the banquet. We will lay 
Aside these nodding plumes and dragging trains. 

Ida. And, above all, these stiff and heavy jewels, 
Which make my head and heart ache, as both throb 
Beneath their glitter o'er my brow and zone. 
Dear mother, I am with you. [Exeunt. 

Enter Count Siegendorf, in full dress, from the 
solemnity, and Ludwig. 

Sieg. Is he not found ? 

Lud. Strict search is m^aking every where ; and if 
The man be in Prague, be sure he will be found. 

Sieg. Where 's Ulric ? 

Lud. He rode round the other way 

With some young nobles ; but he left them soon ; 
And, if I err not, not a minute since 
I heard his excellency, with his train, 
Gallop o'er the west drawbridge. 
297 



ACT V. 



WERNER. 



SCENE T. 



Enter Ulric, splendidly dressed. 

Sieg. {to Ludwig). See they cease not 

Their quest of him I have described. [Exit Ludwig. 

Oh, Ulric ! 
How have I loiig'd for thee ! 

Ulr. Your wisli is granted — 

Behold me ! 

Sieg. I have seen the murderer. 

Ulr. Whom? Where? 

Sieg. Tlie Hungarian, who slew* Stralenheim. 

Ulr. You dream. 

Sieg. I live ! and as I live, I saw him — 

Heard him ! he dared to utter even ra}^ name. 

Uh. What name ? 

Sicq. Werner ! -t was mine. 

ITir, It must be so 

No more : forget it. 

Sieg. ISTever ! never I all 

My destinies were woven in that name : 
It will be not engraved upon my tomb. 
But it may lead me there. 

Ulr. ' To the point — the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Listen!— The churcli was throng'd; the 
hymn was raised; 
" Te Deum " peafd from nations, ratlier than 
From choirs, in one great cry of ''God be praised " 
For one day's peace, after thrice ten dread years, 
Each bloodier than the former : I arose, 
With all the nobles, and as I lookVi down 
Along the lines of lifted faces,— from 
Our banner'd and eseutcheon'd gallery, I 
Saw, like a flash of liglitning (for I saw 
A moment and no more), wiiat struck me sightless 
To all else— the Hungarian's face ! I grew 
Sick: and when I recover'd from tlie mist 
Which curl'd about my senses, and again 
Look'd down, I saw^ him not. The tlianksgiving 
Was over, and we march 'd back in procession. 

Ulr. Continue. 

Sirg. When v.^e reacli'd the Muldau's bridge, 
The joyous crowd above, the numberless 
Barl^s mann'd with revellers in their best garbs. 
Which shot along the glancing tide below. 
The decorated street, the long" array. 
The clashing music, and the thundering 
Of far artillery, which seem'd to bid 
A long and loiid farewell to its great doings, 
The standards o'er me, and the tramplings round. 
The roar of rushing thousands, — all — all could not 
Chase this man from my mind, although my senses 
No longer held him palpable. 

Ulr. You saw him 

No more, then ? 

Sieg. I look'd, as a dying soldier 
Looks at a draught of water, for this man : 
But still I saw him not ; but in his stead 

Ulr. What in his stead ? 

Stcg. My eye for ever fell 

Upon your dancing crest : the loftiest 
As on "the loftiest and the loveliest head 
It rose the highest of the stream of plumes. 
Which overflow'd the glittering streets of Prague. 

Ulr. What 's this to the Hungarian ? 

Sieg. Much : for I 

Had almost then forgot him in my son ; 
When just as the artillery ceased, and paused 
The music, and the crowd embraced in lieu 
Of shouting, I lieard in a deep, low voice, 
Distinct and keener far upon my ear 
Than the late cannon's volume, this word — 
" Werner I " 

Ulr. Uttered by 

Sieg. Him ! I turn'd — and saw— and fell. 

Ulr. And wlierefore V Were you seen ? 

Sieg. The officious care 

Of those around me dragg'd me from the spot, 
298 



Seeing my faintness, Ignorant of the cause : 
You, too, were too remote in the procession 
(Tlie old nobles being divided from their children) 
To aid me. 

Ulr. But I '11 aid you now. 

Sieg. In what ? 

Ulr. In searching for this man, or When he 's 

found 
What shall we do with him ? 

Sieg. . I know not that. 

Ulr. Then wherefore seek ? 

Sieg. Because I cannot rest 

Till he is found. His fate, and Stralenheim 's, 
And ours, seem intertwisted ! Jior can be 
Unravell'd till 

Enter an Attendant. 

Atten. A stranger to wait on 

Your excellency. 

Sieg. Who ? 

Atten. He gave no name. 

Sieg. Admit him ne'ertheless. 

[The Attendant introduces Gabor, and 
afterwards exit. 

Ah ! . 

Gab. 'T is, then, Werner! 

Sieg. {haughtily). The same you knew, sir, by that 
name ; and you ! 

Gah. {looking round). I recognize you botli : 
father and son , 
It seems. Count, I have heard that you, or j-ours. 
Have lately been in search of me : lam here. 

Sieg. I have sought you, and have found you : 
you are charged 
(Your own heart may inform you why) with such 
A crime as ' [He pauses. 

Gah. Give it utterance, and then 

1 11 meet the consequences. 

Sieg. You shall do so — 

Unless 

Gah. First, who accuses me ? 

Sieg. All things, 

If not all men : the universal rumor — 
My own presence on the spot— the place— the time — 
And every speck of circumstance unite 
To fix the blot on you. 

Gab. And on me only f 

Pause ere you answer : is no other name. 
Save mine, stain'd in this business ? 

Sieg. Trifling villain I 

Who play'st with thine own guilt! Of all that 

breathe 
Thou best dost know^ the innocence of him 
'Gainst whom thy breath would blow thy bloody 

slander. 
But I will talk no further with a wretch, 
Furtlier than justice asks. Answer at once, 
And without quibbling, to my charge. 

Gnh. 'T is false! 

Sieg. Who says so ? 

Gah. I. 

Sieg. And how disprove it ? 

Gah. By 

The presence of the murderer. 

Sleq. Name him ! 

Gah. He 

May have more names than one. Your lordship 

had so 
Once on a time. 

Sieg. If you mean me, I dare 

Y(mr utmost. 

Gab. You may do so, and in safety ; 

I know the assassin. 

Sieg. Where is he ? 

Ga h . ( pointin g to Ulric) . Beside you ! 

[Ulric rushes forward to attack Gahor ; Siegen- 
dorf interposes. 



ACT V. 



WERNER. 



SCENE I. 



Sieg. Liar and fiend ! but you sliall not be slain ; 
These walls are mine, and you are safe within them. 

[He turns to JJlric. 
IJlric, repel this calumny, as T 
Will do. I avow it is a growth so monstrous, 
I could not deem it earth-born : but be calm ; 
It w^ill refute itself. But touch him not. 

[Ulric endeavors to compose himself. 
I Gab. Look at him, count, and then hear me. 
, Sieg. [first to Gahor^ and then looking at Ulric). 

I hear thee. 
Mv God ! you look 

Ulr. How? 

Sieg. As on that dread night 

When we met in the garden. 

Ulr. [composes himself). It is nothing. 

Gah. Count, you are bound to hear me." I came 
hither 
Not seeking you, but sought. Wlien I knelt down 
Amidst the people in the church, I dream 'd not 
To find the beggar 'd Werner in the seat 
Of senators and princes ; but you have calFd me. 
And we have met. 

Sieg. Go on, sir. 

Gal). Ere I do so. 

Allow me to inquire who profited 
By Stralenheim's death ? Was 't I— as poor as ever ; 
And poorer by suspicion on my name ! 
Tiie baron lost in that last outrage neither 
Jewels nor gold ; his life alone was sought. — 
A life which stood between the claims of others 
To honors and estates scarce less than princely. 

Sieg. These hints, as vague as vain, attach no less 
To me than to my son. 

Gab. I can't help that. 

But let the consequence alight on him 
Who feels himself the guilty one among us. 
I speak of you, Count Siegendorf, because 
T know you innocent, and deem you just. 
But ere I can ]roceed -r/are you protect me? 
Bare you command me ? 

[Siegendorf frst looks at the Hungarian, and then 
at Ulric, icho has unbuckled, his sabre, and is 
drawing lines with it on the floor — still in its 
sheath. 

Ulr. [looks at his father and says) 

Let' the man f^o on! 

Gab. I am unarm 'd, count— bid your son lay down 
His sabre. 

Ulr. [offers it to him contemptuously). 
Take it. 

Gab. IsTo, sir, 'tis enough 

That we are both unarm 'd — I would not choose 
To w^ear a steel w^hich may be stain 'd with more 
Blood than came there in battle. 

Ulr. [casts the sabre from him in contempt). 

It — or some 
Such other weapon, in my hands— spared yours 
Once, when disarm'd and at my mercy. 

Gab. True— 

I have not forgotten it : you spared me for 
Your own especial purpose— to sustain 
An ignominy not my own. 
. Ulr. Proceed. 

The tale is doubtless worthy the relator. 
But is it of my father to hear further ? 

[To Siegendorf. 

Sieg. [takes his son by the hand). My son, I know 
my own innocence, and doubt not 
Of yours — but I have promised this man patience ; 
Let him continue. 

Gab. I will not detain you 

By speaking of myself much : I began'^ 
Life early— and am what the world has made me. 
At Frankfort on tlie Oder, where I pass'd 
A winter in obscurity, it was 
My chance at several places of resort 



(Which I frequented sometimes, but not often) 

To hear related a strange circumstance 

In February last. A martial force, 

Sent by the state, had^ after strong resistance, 

Secured a band of desperate men, supposed 

Marauders from the hostile camp.— They proved, 

However, not to be so — but banditli, 

Whom either accident or enterprise 

Had carried from their usual haunt — the forests 

Wliich skirt Bohemia — even into Lusatia. 

Many amongst them were reported of 

High rank — and martial law slept for a time. 

At last they were escorted o'er the frontiers, 

And placed beneath the civil jurisdiction 

Of the free town of Frankfort. Of their fate, 

I know no more. 

Sieg. And what is this to Ulric ? 

Gab. Amongst them there was said to be one 
man 
Of wonderful endowments :— birth and fortune. 
Youth, strength, and beauty, almost superhuman, 
And courage as unrivalPd, were proclaim'd 
His by the public rumor; and his sway, 
Not only over his associates, but 
His judges, was attributed to witchcraft, 
Such was his influence :— I have no great faith 
In any magic save that of tlie mine — 
I therefore deem'd him wealthy. — But my soul 
Was roused with various feelings to seek out 
Tills prodigy, if only to behold him. 

Sieg. And did you so ? 

Gab. You '11 hear. Chance favor'd me : 

A popular affray in the public square 
Drew crowds together— it was one of those 
Occasions where men's souls look out of them, 
And show them as they are — even in their faces : 
The moment my eye met his, I exclaim'd, 
" This is the man ! " though he was then, as since, 
With the nobles of the city. I felt sure 
I had not err VI, and watch 'd him long and nearly; 
I noted down his form— his gesture — features. 
Stature, and bearing— and amidst them all, 
'Midst every natural and acquired distinction, 
I could dipcern, methought, the assassin's eye 
And gladiator's heart. 

Ulr. [smiling). The tale sounds well. 

Gab. And mjay sound better.— He appear'd to me 
One of those beings to whom Fortune bends 
Asslie doth to the daring — and on whom 
The fates of others oft depend ; besides. 
An indescribable sensation drew me 
Near to this man, as if my point of fortune 
AVas to be fixVl by him. — There I was wrong. 

Sieg. And may not be right now. 

Gab. I follow'd him, 

Solicited his notice — and obtain 'd it— 
Though not his friendship : — it was his intention 
To leave the city privately — we left it 
Together— and together we arrived 
In the poor town wiiere Werner was conceal'd. 

And Stralenlieim was succor'd Now w^e are on 

The verge — dare you hear further ? 

Sieg. 1 must do so — 

Or I have heard too much. 

Gab. I saw in you 

A man above his station— and if not 
So high, as now I find 3^ou, in my then 
Conceptions, 'twas that I had rarely seen 
Men such as you appear'd in height of mind 
In the most high of w^orldly rank ; you were 
Poor, even to all save rags : I would have shared 
My purse, though slender, with you— you refused it. 

Sieg. Doth my refusal make a debt to you. 
That thus you urge it ? 

Gab. Still you ow^e me something, 

Though not for that; and I owed you my safety, 
At least my seeming safety, when the slaves 
299 



ACT Y. 



WERNER, 



SCENE I. 



Of Stralenheim pursued me on the grounds 
That Ihadrobb'd him. 

Sieg. Jconceal'd you — T, 

"Whom and whose house you arraign , reviving viper ! 

Gah. I accuse no man — save in my defence. 

You, count, liave made yourself accuser— j udge : 
Your hall 's my court, your lieart is my tribunal. 
Be just, and I'W be merciful ! 

Sicg. You merciful I— 

You ! Base calumniator ! 

Gah. I. 'T will rest 

With me at last to be so. You couceal'd me 
In secret passages known to yourself, 
You said, and to none else. At dead of night, 
Weary with watching in the dark, and dubious 
Of tracing back my way, I saw a glimmer. 
Through distant crannies, of a twinkling light: 
I followed it, and reach -d a door — a secret 
Portal — which open'd to the chamber, wiiere. 
With cautious hand and slow, having first undone 
As much as made a crevice of the fastening, 
1 look'd through and beheld a purple bed, 
And on it Stralenheim !— 

Sieg. Asleep ! And yet 

You slew him I— Wretch ! 

Gah. He v/as already slain, 

And bleeding like a sacrifice. My own 
Blood became ice. 

Sieg. But he was all alone ! 

You saw" none else ? You did not see the 

[^He pauses from agitation. 

Gah. No, 

He, whom you dare not name, nor even I 
Scarce dare to recollect, ^vas not then in 
The chamber. 

Sieg. (to JJlric). Then, my boy! thou art guiltless 
still— 
Thou bad'st me say J was so once— Oh ! now 
Do thou as much ! 

Gah. Be patient! I can not 

Recede now, though it shake the very walls 
Which frown above us. You remember,— or 
If not, your son does,— that the locks were changed 
-Beneath his chief inspection on the morn 
AVhich led to this same night : how^ he had enter'd 
He best knows— but within an antechamber, 
The door of w^hich w^ashalf ajar, I saw" 
A man w"ho wash'd his bloody hands, and oft 
With stern and anxious glance gazed back upon 
The bleeding body — ^but it moved no more. 

Sieg. Oh !" God of fathers ! 

Gah. I beheld his features 

As I see yours — but yours they were not, though 
Resembling tliem— behold them in Count Ulric's ! 
Distinct, as I beheld them, though the expression 
Is not now what it then was ;— but it was so 
When I first charged him with the crime— so lately. 

Sieg. This is so 

Gah. {interrupting him). Nay — but hear me to the 
end! 
Noro you must do so. — I conceived myself 
Betray'd by you and him (for now I saw 
There was 'some tie between you) into this 
Pretended den of refuge, to become 
The victim of your guilt ; and my first thought 
Was vengeance : but, though arm'd with a short 

poniard 
(Having left my sword without), I was no match 
For him at any time, as had been proved 
That morning— either" in address or force. 
I turn'd, and fled— i' the dark : chance rather than 
Skill made me gain the secret door of the hall, 
And thence the chamber wiiere you slept : if I 
Had foimd you waking. Heaven alone can tell 
What vengeance and suspicion might have 

prompted ; 
But ne'er slept guilt as Werner slept that night. 
300 



Sieg. And yet I had horrid dreams! and such 
brief sleep. 
The stars had not gone down when I aw^oke. 
Why didst thou spare me ? I dreamt of my father— 
And now my dream is out ! 

Gah. 'T is not my fault, 

If I have read it.— Well ! I fled and hid me— 
Chance led me here after so many moons — 
And show'd me Werner in Count Siegendorf ! 
Werner, whom I had sought in huts in vain, 
Inhabited the palace of a sovereign ! 
You sought me and have found me— now you know 
My secret, and may w^eigh its w^orth. 

Sieg. [after a2jause). Indeed! 

Gah. Is it revenge or justice which inspires 
Your meditation ? 

Sieg. Neither — I was weighing 

The value of your secret. 

Gah. You shall know it 

At once :— When you were poor, and I, though poor, 
Rich enough to relieve such poverty 
As might have envied mine, I offer'd you 
My purse— you would not share it : — I '11 be franker 
With 3"ou : you are wealthy, noble, trusted by 
The imperial pov/ers— you understand me ? 

Sieg. Yes. 

Gab. Not quite. You think me venal, and 
scarce true : 
'Tis no less true, however, that my fortunes 
Have made me both at present. You shall aid me ; 
I would have aided you — and also have 
Been somewhat damaged in my name to save 
Yours and your son's. Weigh well wiiat I have 
said. 

Sieg. Dare you await the event of a few minutes' 
Deliberation ? 

Gah. {casts his ei/es on JJlric, who is leaning against 
a pillar). If I should do so ? 

Sieg. I pledge my life for yours. Withdraw" into 
This tower. [Ope?is a turret door. 

Gah. {hesitatingly). This is the second safe asylum 
You have offer'd ine. 

Sieg. And w"as not the first so ? 

Gah. I know not that even now— but will approve 
The second. I have still a further shield. — 
I did not enter Prague alone ; and should I 
Be put to rest with Stralenheim, there are 
Some tongues without will w"ag in my behalf. 
Be brief in your decision ! 

Sieg. I will be so.— 

My word is sacred and irrevocable 
Within these w"alls, but. it extends no further. 

Gah. I '11 take it for so much. 

Sieg. {points to Ulric''s sabre still upon the ground). 

Take also that— 
I saw you eye it eagerly, and him 
Distrustfully. 

Gah. {takes up the sahre). I will ; and so provide 
To sell my life— not cheaply. 

[Gahor goes into the turret, which Siegendorf 
closes. 

Sieg. {advances to XJlric). Now", Count TJlric! 
For son I dare not call thee— What sayst thou ? 

Vlr. His tale is true. 

Sieg. True, monster ! 

TJlr. Most true, father! 

And you did well to listen to it : w"hat 
We know, w"e can provide against. He must 
Be silenced, 

Sieg. Ay, with half of my domains ; 

And with the other half, could he and thou 
Unsay this villainy. 

Vlr. It is no time 

For trifling or dissembling. I have said 
His story 's true ; and he too must be silenced. 

Sieg. How so ? 

TJlr. As Stralenheim is. Are you so dull 



ACT V. 



WERNER. 



SCEXE II. 



As never to have hit on this before ? 

When we met in the garden, what except 

Discovery in the act could make me know 

His death ? Or had the prince's household been 

Then summon 'd, would the cry for the police 

Been left to such a stranger ? Or should I 

Have loiter 'd on the way ? Or could you^ Werner^ 

The object of the baron's hate and fears, 

Have tied, unless by many an hour before 

Suspicion woke? I sought and fathom'd you, 

Doubting if you were false or feeble : I 

Perceived you were tlie latter : and yet so 

Confiding have I found you, that I doubted 

At times your weakness. 

Sieg. Parricide I no less 

Than common stabber ! Wliat deed of my life. 
Or thought of mine, could make you deem me fit 
For your accomplice ? 

Vlr. Pather, do not raise 

The devil you cannot lay between us. This 
Is time for union and for action, not 
Por family disputes. While you were tortured, 
Could J be calm ? Think you that I haye heard 
This fellow's tale without some feeling ? — You 
Have taught me feeling for you and myself ; 
Por whom or what else did you ever teach it H 

Sieg. Oh ! my dead father's curse ! 't is working 
now. 

TJlr. Let it work on ! the grave will keep it down ! 
Ashes are feeble foes: it is more easy 
To baffle such, than countermine a mole. 
Which winds its blind but living path beneath you. 
Yet hear me still ! — If you condemn me, yet 
Remember who hath taught me once too often 
To listen to him ! Who proclaimed to me 
Tliat there icere crimes made venial by the occasion ? 
That passion was our nature ? that the goods 
Of Heaven waited on the goods of fortune ? 
Who show'd me his humanity secured 
By his nerves only ? Who deprived me of 
All power to vindicate myself and race 
In open day ? By his disgrace which stamp'd 
(It might be) bastardy on me, and on 
Himself — a/eZon's brand ! The man wh.o is 
At once both warm and weak invites to deeds 
He longs to do, but dare not. Is it strange 
That I should act what you could think ? We have 

done 
With right and wrong ; and now must only ponder 
Upon effects, not causes. Stralenheim, 
Whose life I saved from impulse, as, unknown., 
1 would have saved a peasant's or a dog's, I slew 
Known as our foe — but not from vengeance. He 
Was a rock in our way which I cut through. 
As doth the bolt, because it stood between us 
And our true destination — but not idly. 
As stranger I preserved him, and he oiced me 
His life: when due, I but resumed the debt. 
He, you, and I stood o'er a gulf wherein 
I have plunged our enemy. You kindled first 
The torch — you showYl the path ; now trace me that 
Of safety— or let me ! 

Sieg. I have done with life ! 

Ulr. Let us have done with that which cankers 
life— 
Pamiliar feuds and vain recriminations 
Of things which cannot be undone. We have 
Xo more to learn or hide : I know no fear, 
And have within these very walls men who 
(Although you know them not) dare venture all 

things. 
You stand high with the state ; what passes here 
Will not excite her too great curiosity : 
Keep your own secret, keep a steady eye, 
Stir not, and speak not ;— leave tlie rest to me ; 
We must have no third babblers thrust between us. 

[Exit Ulric. 



Sieg. (solus). Am I awake '? are these my fathers' 
halls? 
And yon — my son ? 3fy son ! mine! who have ever 
Abhorr'd both mystery and blood, and yet 
Am plunged into the deepest hell of both ! 
I must be speedy, or more will be shed — 
The Hungarian's !— Ulric— he hath partisans. 
It E^ems: I might have guess'd as much. Oh, fool! 
Wolves prowl in company. He hath the key 
(As I too) of the opposite door which leads 
Into the turret. Now then ! or once more 
To be the father of fresh crimes, no less 
Than of the criminal ! Ho ! Gabor ! Gabor ! 

[Exit into the turret, closing the door after him, 

SCENE II.— T/ic Interior of the Turret. 

Gabor and Siegendorf. 

Gal). Who calls? 

Sieg. I — Siegendorf ! Take these, and fly! 

Lose not a moment I 

[Tears off a diamond star and other jeivels, and 
thrusts them into Gabor^s hand. 

Gab. What am I to do 

AVith these ? 

Sieg. Wh ate 'er you will : sell them, or hoard, 
And prosper ; but delay not, or you are lost ! 

Gah. You pledged your honor for my safety ! 

Sieg. And 

Must thus redeem it. Ply ! I am not master, 
It seems, of my own castle — of my own 
Retainers— nay, even of these very walls, 
Or I would bid them fall and crush me ! Ply ! 
Or you will be slain by 

Gab. Is it even so ? 

Parewell, then ! Recollect, however, count, 
You sought this fatal interview ! 

Sieg. I did : 

Let it not be more fatal still !— Begone ! 

Gab. By the same path I enter d ? 

Sieg. Yes ; that 's safe still : 

But loiter not in Prague ; — ^you do not know 
With whom you have to deal. 

Gab. I know too well— 

And knew it ere yourself, unhappy sire ! 
Parewell I [Exit Gabor. 

Sieg. [solus and listening). He hath clear 'd the 
staircase. Ah I I hear 
The door sound loud behind him ! He is safe ! 

Safe I— Oh, my father's spirit ! — I am faint 

[He leans down upon a stone seat, near the wall 
of the tower, in a drooping posture. 

Enter Ulric, with others armed, and with weapons 
drawn. 

Ulr. Despatch !— he 's there ! 

Lud. The count, my lord ! 

Ulr. (recognizing Siegendorf). Tou here, sir 1 

Sieg. Yes : if you want another victim, strike ! 

Ulr. (seeing him strivt of his jewels) . Where is the 
ruffian who hath plunder 'd you ? 
Yassals, despatch in search of him I You see 
'T Avas as I said— the wretch hath stript my father 
Of jewels which might form a prince's heirloom ! 
Away ! I '11 follow you forthwith. 

[Exeunt all but Siegendorf and Ulric. 
What 's this ? 
Where is the villain ? 

Sieg. There are two, sir : which 

Are you in quest of ? 

Ulr. Let us hear no more 

Of this : he must be found. You have not let him 
Escape ? 

Sieg. He 's gone. 

Ulr. With your connivance ? 

Sieg. With 

My fullest, freest aid. 

301 



ACT V. 



WERNER, 



SCENE IT. 



JJlv. Then fare yoti well ! 

[Ulric 18 going. 

Sieg. Stop ! 1 command — entreat — implore! Oh, 
Ulric ! 
Will you then leave me ? 

Ulr. AVhat! remain to be 

Denounced— dragged, it may be, in chains; and all 
IJy your inherent weakness, half-humanity, 
Sellish remorse, and temporizing pity. 
That sacrihces your whole race to save 
A wretch to prorit by our ruin ! ]S^o, count, 
Henceforth you have no son I 

Siey. I never had one ; 

And would vou ne'er had borne the useless name ! 
AVhere will you go ? 1 would not send you forth 
AVithout protection. 

Ulr. Leave that unto ine. 

I am not alop.e : nor merely the vain heir 
Of your domains : a thousand, ay, ten thousand 
iSwords, hearts, and hands, are mine. 

Sieg. The foresters ! 

With whom the Hungarian found you tirst at 
Frankfort I 

Ulr. Yes— men— who are worthy of the name ! 
Go tell 
Your senators that they look well to Prague ; 
Their feast of peace was early for the times ; 
There are more spirits abroad than have been laid 
AVith Wallenstein ! 



Enter Josephine and Ida. 

Jos. What is 't we hear ? My Siegendorf ! 

Thank Heav'n, I see you safe ! 
Sieg. Safe ! 

Ida. Yes, dear father! 

Sieg. No, no ; I have no children : never more 
Call me by that worst name of parent. 

Jos. What 

Means my good lord ! 

Sieg. That you have given birth 

To a demon ! 
Ida {taking Ulricas hand). AVho shall dare say 

this of Ulric ? 
Sieg. Ida, beware ! there 's blood upon that hand. 
Ida {stoopl)ig to kiss it). I 'd kiss it off, though it 

were mine. 
Sieg. It is so ! 

Ulr. Away ! it is your father's ! [Exit Ulric. 

Ida. Oh, great God I 

And 1 have loved this man! 
j [Ida falls senseless — Josephine stands speech- 

\ less ivith horror. 

Sieg. The wretch hath slain 

j Them both !— My Josephine ! we are now alone I 
I Would we had ever been so I— All is over 
! For me !— Now open wide, my sire, thy grave ; 

Thy curse hath dug it deeper for thy son 
I In mine ! — The race of Siegendorf is past ! 




i 



•While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 
Calming the lightning- which he thence hath riven. 
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth."- 

Page 415, stanza v. 



302 



^^ss 




5^^ 


^m 




S 



HOURS OF IDLENESS: 

% Series of |oms, ©niginal antl ©raiisIatEtl. 



Virginibus puerisque canto.— Horace, lib. iii., Ode 1. 

Mrjr' ap ^e /xaA" alvee, iJ-rjre Ti I'etKet. — HoMER, Iliad, X. 249. 

He whistled as he went, for want of thought.— Deyden. 



TO THE BIGHT HONORABLE FBEDEBICK, EABL OF CABLISLE, 

KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC., 
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 

BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,f 

THE AUTHOB, 



PBEFACE. 



IN submitting to the public eye the following collection, 
I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers 
of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of 
presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, with- 
out doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. 
These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours 
of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth 
year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish 
mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some 
few were written during the disadvantages of illness and 
depression of spirits: under the former infiuencc, 
" Childish Recollections," in particular, were com- 
posed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the 
voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. 
A considerable portion of these poems have been pri- 
vately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my 
friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently 
injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the crite- 
rion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, 
" to do greatly," we must " dare greatly ; " and I have 
hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand 
or fall by the " cast of the die." In the latter event, I 
shall submit without a murmur ; for, though not without 
solicitude for the fate of these effiisions, my expectations 
are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
have dared much and done little ; for, in the words of 
Cowper, " it is one thing to write what may please our 
friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little 
biassed in our favor, and another to write what may please 
every body ; because they who have no connection, or 

* First published in 1807. For the famous criticism of the 
Edinburgh Review upon "Hours of Idleness," and which 
provoked from Byron " English Bards and Scotch Review- 
ers," see Appendix, Note 47. 



even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if 
they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly 
subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced that these 
trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if 
they possess any, will be liberally allowed : their numer- 
ous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor 
Avhicli has been denied to others of maturer years, decided 
character, and far greater ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have 
I studied any particular model for imitation : some trans- 
lations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In 
the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence 
with authors whose works I have been accustomed to 
read ; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. 
To produce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in 
rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has 
already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, how- 
ever, is not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull mo- 
ments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, 
urged me " to this sin : " little can be expected from so 
unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is 
all I shall derive from these productions ; and I shall 
never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a sin- 
gle additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an 
intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to 
rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scot- 
land, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such 
pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me 
to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed 
both these advantages. But they derive considerable 
fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions ; 

+ Isabella, the daughter of William, fourth Lord Byron 

(great-great uncle of the poet), became, in 1742, the wife of 

Henry, fourth earl of Carlisle, and Avas the mother of the 

fifth earl, to whom this dedication was addressed. 

303 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, cer- 
tainly without the latter, and in all probability with a 
very slight share of the former. I leave to others " virum 
volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with pa- 
tience " dulce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies 
1 resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and 
content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of 
ranking amongst "the mob of gentlemen who write;" — 
my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in " The Cata- 
logue of Koyal and Noble Authors," — a work to which 
the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as 
many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity 
are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily 
overshadows several voluminous productions of their 
illustrious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first 



and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may 
be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally ab- 
surd. To a few of my own age the contents may afford 
amusement : I trust they will, at least, be found harmle.-s. 
It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits 
hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second 
time on the public ; nor, even, in the very doubtful event 
of present indulgence, shall 1 be tempted 'to commit a fu- 
ture trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. 
Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,* 
" That when a man of rank appeared in the character of 
an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely al- 
lowed," t can have little weight with verbal, and still less 
with periodical, censors ; but were it otherwise, I should 
be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather 
incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than 
triumph in honors granted solely to a title. 



I 



mn 



turn. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, 

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.| 

Hush'd are the winds, and stijl the evening gloom, 
i^ot e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 
And scatter flowers on the dust 1 love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
That clay, where once such animation beam'd : 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; 
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate, 

Not here the mourner wo aid his grief reveal, 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

But wherefore weep ? Her matchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign. 
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 

Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;— 
I '11 ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet in remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ; 

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 

11802.?^-] 



*TheEarlof Carlisle. 

+ The passage referred to by Lord Byron occurs in Bos- 
well's Life of Johnson. 

$The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for 
this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection ; but as 
it Ar^as written at an earlier period than the rest (being com- 
posed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred 
submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present 
state, to making either addition or alteration. 

§ " My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the 
ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Parker 
(daughter and granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), 
304 



TO E .11 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined. 

And though unequal is thy fate. 
Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
Thine is the pride of modest worth. 

Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
Since worth of rank supplies the place. 

[November^ 



180i.\ 



TO D •. 

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 
A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 

Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
Detach 'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest, 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given, 

On thy dear breast I '11 lay my head- 
Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 

[February, 1803.] 



one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long- 
forgotten the verse ; but it would be difficult for me to forget 
her— her dark eyes— her long eye-lashes— her completely 
Greek cast of face and figure ! 1 was then about twelve — 
she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or 
two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her 
spine, and induced consumption.- Uyron's Diary, 1821. 

II This little poem, and some others in the collection, refer 
to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of his ten- 
ants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic 
attachment, of earlier date than any of his school friend- 
ships. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 

'A(TTr)p nplv fjLev eAa^iTre? evi ^woio-iv ewos- — LaERTIUS. 

Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier. 

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 

Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 

Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; 

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 

Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 

Thou stiil hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 

Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delight. 

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 

A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 

Xo marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep. 

But living statues there are seen to weep ; 

Affliction's semblance bends not o'er tliy tomb, 

Afflictioh's self deplores thy youthful doom. 

What though thy sire lament his failing line, 

A fatlier's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 

Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, 

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 

But, who with me shall hold thy former place ? 

Thine image, what new friendsliip can efface ? 

All ! none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 

Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 

To all, save one, is consolation known. 

While solitary friendship sighs alone. [isos.] 



A FRAGMENT. 

When", to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their clioice ; 
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns. 
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
Ko lengthen 'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone : 
My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
If that with honor fail to crown my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
27iat, only that, shall single out the spot ; 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. [isos.-^ 



OJS' LEAVING NEWSTEAB ABBEY* 

"Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? 
Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet a few j^ears, and 
the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." 

— OSSIAN. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow 

winds whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decav : 

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom 'd in 

the way. 



* The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, 
was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and dedicated 
to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of Henry VIII., 
on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by a royal grant, 
it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other posses- 
sions of the Byron family. The favorite upon whom they 
were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier 
who fought by the side of Richmond at Bosworth, and is 
distinguished from the other knights of the same Christian 
name, in the family, by the title of "Sir John Byron the 
Little, with the great beard." A portrait of this personage 
was one of the few family pictures with which the walls of 
the abbey, while in the possession of the poet, were decorated. 
For an illustration of Newstead, see, ante, " Life of Byron." 
20 



Of the mail-cover'd barons, who proudly to battle 
Led their vassals from Europ^ to Palestine's 
plain, [rattle. 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast 
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 

jSTo more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing 
numbers, 
Eaise a flame in the breast for the war-la urelFd 
wreath ; 
IsTear Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, 
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ;t 
For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 

My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
How you fought, how you died, still her annals 
can tell. 

On Marston,J with Rupert^ 'gainst traitors con- 
tending, 
Pour brothers enrich 'd with their blood the bleak 
field; 
Por the rights of a monarch their country defend- 
ing. 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd-jl 

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, de- 
parting 

Prom the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 

New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

Par distant he goes, with the same emulation. 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

That fame, and that memory, still Avill he cherish ; 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown : 
Like you will he live, or like jow will he perish : 

When decay 'd, may he mingle his dust with your 
own ! 11803.-] 



LINES 

W^RITTEN IN " LETTERS TO AN ITALIXn NUN AND 
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : 
FOUNDED ON FACTS." 

" Away, aw^ay, your flattering arts. 
May now betray some simple hearts ; 
And you will smile at their believing. 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO 

MISS . » 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts. 

Prom which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts,, 

Exist but in imagination, — 

Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 

Por he who views that witching grace, 

That perfect form, that lovely face. 



+ Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving 
with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III.,, 
and as among the knights who fell on the glorious held of 
Cressy. 

$ The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of 
Charles I. were defeated. 

§ Son of the elector palatine, and nephew to Charles I. 
He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles 
II. 

II Sir Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low 
Countries ; and, in the Great Rebellion, he was one of the 
first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle of 
Edgehill, he was made colonel-general of Cheshire and 
Shropshire, and governor of Chester. 
305 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, 

He never wishes to deceive thee : 

Once in thy polish 'd mirror glance, 

Thou 'It there descry that elegance. 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises : 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 

Believe me, only does his duty : 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 't is truth. [juiy, isol 



ADBIAN'SADDBESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN 

DYING. 

[Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes comesque corporis, 
Quse nunc abibis in loca— 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos?] 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, w^av'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne, 
Wilt thou now wing tliy distant flight ? 
Is o more with w^onted humor gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. 



TRANSLATION FBOM CATULLUS. 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove tliat youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
AVho, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms : 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thou'sand fears, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres. 
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, 
jSIy limbs deny their slight support. 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
AVith deadly languor droops my head. 
My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light. 
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
And feels a teinporary death. 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd. 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love. 

By Death's * unequal hand alike controU'd, 
Pit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome tlie pain. 
That I might live for love and you again ; 
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate : 
By death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

[Lug-ete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.] 

Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread. 
My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead. 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved; 
For he was gentle, and so true, , , 

Obedient to her call he flew, 
No fear, no wild alarm he knew. 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never souglit to cleave the air. 
But chirrup 'd oft, and, free from care. 
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. ^^^. 
( Now having pass'd the gloomy bournej^'*^ 
V From whence he never can return, ^ f* 
His death and Lesbia 's grief I mourn. 
Who sighs, alas ! but sighs iu vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly power can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the bird aw^ay : 
From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow. 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
Thou art the cause of all her woe. 

Receptacle of life's decay. 



^ 



<s 




IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench desire : 
Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
Nought should my kiss from tliine dissever ; 
Still would w^e kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en thougli the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part w^ould be a vain endeavor : 
Could I desist ? — ^ah ! never — never ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

"Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. 4. 

Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ? 

* The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as 
Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. 
30G 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 
[Justum et tenacem propositi \arum, etc.] 

The man of firm and noble soul 

No factious clamors can control ; 

No threat 'ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent: 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent. 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain. 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors there unfurl 'd. 

He would unmoved, uiiawed, behold. 
The flames of an expiring world. 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd. 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd. 
Might light liis glorious funeral pile : 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he 'd sni 



!e. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



FROM ANACREON. 

[©e'Aw Aeyetv ArpeiSa^, k. r. A.] 

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; . 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell, 
When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
But still, to martial strains unknown, 
My lyre recurs to love alone. 
Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due : 
-With glowing strings, tlie epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds. 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deed's my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal. 
To tell the tale my heart must feel: 
Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



FROM ANACBEOK. 

[Mecroi/UKTiats ■rfoS' topais, k. t. A..] 

'T WAS now the hour when Night had driven 

Her car half round yon sable heaven ; 

Bootes, only, seemed to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole ; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep. 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep: 

At tins lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from tlie realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarm 'd I rose, — 

'' What stranger breaks my blest repose ? " 

" Alas ! " replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

" A hapless infant here I roam. 

Far from my dear maternal liome. 

Oil ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

'No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering baby who can fear ? " 

I heard his seeming artless tale, 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's w^oe. 

I drew the bar, and by the light. 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; ' 

His bow across his shoulders flung. 

And thence his fatal quiver hung 

(Ah ! little did I think the dart ' 

Would rankle soon within my heart). 

With care I tend my weary guest. 

His Jittle fingers chill my breast ; 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring : 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm. 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow. 

Than swilt he seized his slender bow :— 



* My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a 
translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of ^schylus, 
were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head 



" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost ; 

I fear, relax 'd with midnight dews. 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies. 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh 'd:— 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ? " 



FBOM THE PROMETHEUS VINGTUS OF 
^SCHYLTJS. 

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 

Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 

My voice shall raise no impious strain 
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 

How different now thy joyless fate, 
Shice first Hesione thy bride. 

When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 

Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless 

frOWn'd.* [Harroio, Dec. 1, ISGU-] 



TO EMMA. 



Sr^^CE now the hour is come at last. 
When you must quit your anxious lover ; 

Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
Which bids us part to meet no more ; 

Which tears me far from one so dear, 
Departing for a distant shore. 

Well I we have pass'd some happy hovirs, 
And joy will mingle with our tears ; 

When thinking on tiicse ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, tlie dell ; 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight. 
We lingering look a last farewell. 

O'er fields through which we used to run. 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Reposing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst T, admiring, too remiss, 
Forgot to scare the hovering flies. 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 
It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 

See still the little painted bark. 
In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 

See there, high waving o'er the park. 
The elm I clamber 'd for your sake. 



master), but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least 
notion that I should subside into poesy."— Byron Diary. 

307 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



These times are past— onr joys are s:one, 
You leaA-e ine, leave tliis bappy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail? 

"Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

Tliis is the deepest of our woes, 
For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; 

This is of love the final close, 
Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu ! 



TO 3LS. G. 



Whexe'er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast. 
How could I dwell upon its snows ! 

Yet is the daring wish represt, 
For that— woiild banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 

Yet I conceal my love,— and why ? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? 

1^0 ! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the priest's decree : 

By any ties but those divine. 
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 
Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 

With joy I court a certain doom, 
Katiier than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart, 
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; 

Bather than such a sting impart, 
Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for Avhich I 'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell ; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair. 
And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 

Which to obtain my soul w^ould dare 
All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
Xo matron shall thy shame reprove ; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
]Sro martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO CAB OL IKE. 

Thixk'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 

And heard unmoved thy plentecTQs sighs, 
AVhich said far more than words can say ? 
308 



Though keen the grief thy tears exprest. 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown. 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd Avith deep sorrow as thine own. 

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd. 
When thy sweet lips were joined to mine, 

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
Tliy gushing tears had quench 'd its flame 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! 

Ah ! if thou canst, overcome regret; 
I^or let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget !- 



TO CAROLINE. 

When I hear you express an affection so warm, 
Xe'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm. 
And your eye beams a ray which can never 
deceive. 

Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere ; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, deplor- 
ing. 
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retain- 
ing 
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the 
breeze, 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

'T is this, my beloved, wdiich spreads gloom o'er my 

features, 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 

Which God has proclaimed as the fate of his 

creatures. 

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 

• 
Mistake not, sweet skeptic, the cause of emotion, 

Xo doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'er- 
take us. 
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy 
glow. 
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid 
low,— 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of 
pleasure, 
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly 
flow ; 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full 
measure. 
And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 

[ISOn.l 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



TO CABOLINE. 

Oh! when shall the grave hide for ever my sor- 
rows ? 
Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this 
clay ? 
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no 
curses, 
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from 
bliss : 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes 
bright'ning. 
Would my lips breathe a flame wiiich no stream 
could assuage, 
On our foes should, my glance launch in vengeance 
its lightning, 
With transport my tongue give a loose to its 
rage. 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resigna- 
tion, 
Life beams not for us with one ray that can 
cheer ; 
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola- 
tion ; 
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place 
me. 
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are 
fled? 
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee. 
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead . 

[1805.] 



STANZAS TO A LADY, 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.* 

This votive pledge of fond esteem. 
Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou 'It prize ; 

It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
A theme we never <jan despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 

The old and disappointed maid ; 
Or pupil of the prudish school. 

In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain I shall not i)lead 
In pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 

His was no faint, fictitious flame ; 
Like his, may love be thy reward. 

But not thy hapless fate the same. 

* "The latter years of Camoens present a mournful pic- 
ture, not merely of indi^^dual calamity, but of national in- 
gratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to the ser- 
vice of his country, he who had taug-ht her literary fame to 
rival the proudest efforts of Italy Itself, and who seemed born 



THE FIBST KISS OF LOVE. 

A BapjStTO? Se xopSat? 

'EpuiTa fj-ovvov ^X^'- — AnaCREON. 

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; 

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove : 
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance. 

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of 
love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow. 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; 

From what blest inspiration yOur sonnets would 
flow. 
Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse. 
Or the Nine be disposed from j^our service to rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, • 
And try the effect of the first kiss of love. 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art ! 
Thougli prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- 
prove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the heart, 
AVhich throbs with delight to the first kiss of 
love. 

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical 
themes. 
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 
What are visions like these to the first kiss of 
love? 

Oh! cease to aflirm that man, since his birth. 
From Adam till now, has -w^ith wretchedness 
strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are 
past — 

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove— 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last. 

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 



ON A CHANGE OF IfASTEBS AT A 
GBEAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. 

Where are those honors, Ida ! once your own, 
When Probus fiU'd your magisterial throne ? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Ca3sar's place, 
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd. 
With florid jargon, and with vaih parade; 
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules. 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws. 
He governs, sanction'd but by self -applause ; 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom ; 
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 

iJuly, 1805.'] 



to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian 
heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, a 
wretched dependent on casual contribution. Camoens sank 
beneath the pressure of penury and disease, and died in an 
almshouse early in the year 1579." 
309 



HOURS OF IDLENESS: 



TO THE DUKE OF DOBSET."^ 

Dorset ! t whose earl}^ steps with mine have stray \1 , 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend. 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
Bade^/iec obey, and gave me to command ; % 
Tliee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
Tiie gift of riches and the pride of power ; 
E"en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
To shun fair science, or evade control. 
Though passive tutors, § fearful to dispraise 
The titled child, whose future breatli may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
When these declare, " that pomp alone should wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ; •' 
Believe them not ; — they point the path to shame. 
And seek to blast the honors of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
iS'one dare to raise the sterner voice of trutli , 
Ask thine own heart ; 't will bid thee, boy, forbear ; 
For well I know that virtue lingers there. 

Yes ! I have mark'd thee many^a passing day, 
But now new scenes invite me far away; 
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah ! though myself by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favorite child ; 
Though every error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone: 
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside ; 
Then share with titled crowds the common lot— 
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
That well-emblazon 'd but neglected scroll. 
Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 

*In looking over my papere to select a few additional 
poems for this second edition, I found the ahove lines, which 
I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a 
short time previous to my departure from Harrow. They 
were addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who 
had been my frequent companion in some rambles through 
the neighboring country : however, he never saw the lines, 
and most probably never will. As, on a reperusal, I found 
them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I 
have now published them, for the first time, after a slight 
revision. 

t George-J,ohn-Frederick, fourth duke of Dorset, born 
November 15, 1793. This amiable nobleman was killed by a 
fall from his horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 22, 
1815, being on a "v^sit at the time to his mother, the duchess- 
dowager, and her second husband, Charles Earl of Whitworth, 
then lord lieutenant of Ireland. 

$At every public school the junior boys are completely 
subservient to the upper forms till thej' attain a seat in the 
higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, 
no rank is exempt ; but after a certain period, they command 
in turn those who succeed. 

310 



Tliere sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 

That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 

A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 

In records destined never to be read. 

Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 

Exalted more among the good and wise, 

A glorious and a long career pursue, 

As first in rank, the first in talent too : 

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 
And call'd, proud boast ! the British drama forth. 1| 
Another view, not less renown 'd for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
Bold in the field, and favor'd by the Xine ; 
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng. 
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.^ 
Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 
Xot heir to titles only, but to fame. 
The hour draws nigh", a few brief days will close, 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were 

mine : 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew; 
Peace, that reflection never frown 'd away, 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
Belield by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer j^ear. 
Since chance lias thrown us in the self-same 

sphere, 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 
May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
We hence may meet, and pass each other by, 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
Xo more, as once, in social hours rejoice. 
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice : 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought. 



§ Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the 
most distant : I merely mention generally what is too often 
the weakness of preceptors. 

II '"• Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. 
While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy 
of Gorboduc, which was played before Queen Elizabeth at 
Whitehall, in 1561. His tragedy, and his contribution of the 
Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the 
'Mirror for Magistrates,' compose the poetical history of 
Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was cre- 
ated Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the 
council table in consequence of a dropsy on the brain." 

t Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637, and 
died in 1706. He was esteemed the most accomplished man 
of his day, and alike distinguished in the voluptuous court 
of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He be- 
haved with considerable gallantry in the sea-flght with the 
Dutch in 1665 ; on the day pre^-ious to which he is said to have 
composed his celebrated song, To all you Ladies now at Land. 
His character has been drawn in the highest colors by Dry- 
den, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



If these, — but let me cease the lengthen 'd strain,— 
Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 

11805.-] 

FBAGMERT. 

AVKITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF 
MISS CHAWORTII. 

Hills of Annesley ! bleak and barren, 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray 'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above tliy tufted shade ! 

Now no more, the hoiirs beguiling, 

Former favorite haunts I see; 
Kow no more my Mary smiling 

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.* iiaos.-] 



GBANTA. A Medley. 

'ApYupe'ats k6yxai<TL fiaxov kol ndvTa Kpar^o-atS" 

Oh! could Le Sage'sf demon's gift 

Be realized at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on Saint Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls 

Pedantic inmates full display ; 
Fellows who dream on lawm or stalls, 

The price of venal votes to pay. 

Then would I view each rival wight, 

Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
Who canvass there with all their might, 

Against the next elective day. t 

Lo ! candidates and voters lie 
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number : 

A race renown'd for piety, 
Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. 

Lord H , § indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage, reflecting men : 
They know preferment can occur 

But very seldom,— now and then. 

They know the Chancellor has got 

Some pretty livings in disposal : 
Each hopes that one maybe his lot, 

And therefore smiles on his proposal. 

"• Kow from the soporific scene 

[ '11 turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
To view, unheeded and unseen. 
The studious sons of Alma Mater. 



* The circumstances which lent so peculiar an interest to 
Lord Byron's introduction to the family of Cha worth, are suffi- 
ciently explained in the sketch of his life. " The young lady 
herself combined," says Mr. Moore, " with the many worldly 
advantages that encircled her, much personal beauty, and a 
disposition the most amiable and attaching. Though already 
fully alive to her charms, it was at this period (1804) that the 
young poet seems to have drunk deepest of that fascination 
whose effects were to be so lasting ; six short weeks which he 
passed in her company being sufficient to lay the foundation 
of a feeling for all life. With the summer holidaj's ended 
this dream of his youth. He saw Miss Chaworth once more 
in the succeeding year, and took his last farewell of her on 
that hill near Annesley, which, in his poem of ' The Dream,' 
he describes so happily as ' crowned with a peculiar diadem.' " 
In August, 1805, she was married to John Musters, Esq., and 
died at "^iverton Hall, in February, 1832, in consequence, it 
is believed, of the alarm and danger to which she had been 
exposed during the sack of Colwick Hall by a party of rioters 
from Nottingham. The unfortunate lady had been in a feeble 
state of health for several years, and she and her daughter 



There, in apartments small and damp. 

The candidate for college prizes 
Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

He surely wtII deserves to gain them, 
AVith all the honors of his college. 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them. 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 

To scan precisely metres Attic ; 
Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic : 

Who reads false quantities in Scale, || 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 

Deprived of many a wiiolesome meal ; 
In barbarous Latin ^ doom'd to wrangle : 

Eenouncing every pleasing page 

From authors of historic use ; 
Preferring to the letter 'd sage 

The square of the hypothenuse.^'^ 

Still, harmless are these occupations. 
That hurt none but the hapless student, 

Compared w4th other recreations, 
Which bring together the imprudent ; 

Whose daring revels shock the sight. 
When vice and infamy combine. 

When drunkenness and dice invite, 
As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

^ot so the method! Stic crew, 

Who plans of reformation lay : 
In humble attitude they sue. 

And for the sins of others pray : 

Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 

Their exultation in their trial. 
Detracts most largely from the merit 

Of all their boasted self-denial. 

'T is morn :— from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye ? 
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,tf 

Across the green in numbers fly. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; 

'T is liush'd : — what sounds are these I hear 
The organ's soft celestial swell 

Kolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song. 
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 



were obliged to take shelter from the \-iolence of the mob in 
a shrubbery, where, partly from cold, partly from terror, her 
constitution sustained a shock which it wanted vigor to re- 
sist. 

+ The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the 
demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and 
unroofs the houses for inspection. 

$ On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry 
Petty and Lord Palmerston were candidates to represent the 
University of Cambridge in parliament. 

§ Edward-Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke. His lord- 
ship died in 1824. 

II Scale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable 
talent and ingenuity, but, as mig-ht be expected in so difficult 
a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. 

1 The Latin of the schools is of the canine species., and not 
very intelligible. 

** The discovery of Pythagoras, that of the square of the 
hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides 
of a right-angle triangle. 

•H" On a saint's day, the students wear surplices in chapel. 
311 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Our choir Avould scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners ; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If David, when his toils were ended, 
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended,— 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 

13y some inhuman tyrant's order, 
"Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 

On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear. 
They might have set their hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But if I scribble longer now. 
The deuce a soul will stay to read : 

My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
'T is almost time to stop, indeed. 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires ! 

No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires: 

The reader 's tired, and so am I. \i806a 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND 

SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL. 

Oh ! mihi prgeteritos ref erat si Jupiter annbs.— Virgil. 

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recol- 
lection 
Embitters the present, compared with the past; 
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of re- 
flection , 
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to 
last ; ^ 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remem- 
brance, 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 
The streams where we swam, and the fields where 
we fought ; 
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we re- 
sorted. 
To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd 
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay: 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wan- 
der'd, 
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 

I once more view the room, with spectators sur- 
rounded. 
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown ; 
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re- 
sounded, 
I fancied that Mossopf himself w^as outshone : 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation. 
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason de- 
prived ; 

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, 
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 



* "My school-friendships were with me "passions (for I 
was always violent) ; but I do not know that there is one 
which has endured (to he sure, some have been cut short 
by death) till now. At Harrow I fought my Avay very 

312 



Ye dreams of my boj'hood, how much I regret you ! 

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. 

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me. 
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. 
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 

But if, through the course of the years which await 

me. 

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate 

me, 

" Oh ! such were the days w^hich my infancy 



knew.' 



{1806. 



TO M- 



Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire. 
With bright but mild affection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despair ; 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone, 

She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 
The skies might claim thee for their o^vn : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest vrork. 
Lest angels might dispute the prize. 

She bade a secret lightning lurk 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sj-lph appall. 
When gleaming with meridian blaze; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all : 
But Avho can dare thine ardent gaze ? 

'T is said that Berenice's hair 
In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 

But they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll. 
Thy sister lights would scarce appear : , 

E'en suns, which systems now control. 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 

[isoo.^ 

TO WOMAN. 

WoHAX ! experience might have told me. 

That all must love thee who behold thee : 

Surely experience might have .taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought : 

But, placed in all thy charms before me. 

All i forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh, memory! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing ; 

But how much cursed by every lover 

When hope is fled and passion 's over. 

AYoman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

How prompt are striplings to believe her ! 

How^ throbs the pulse when first we view 

The eye that rolls in glossy blue. 

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam fi-om under hazel brows ! 



fairly. I think I lost but one battle out of seven."— i?y?ore 
Diary, 1821. 

t Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his per- 
formance of Zang-a. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, 

When lo ! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."* 



TO M. S. G. 



When I dream that you love me, you'll surely 
forgive ; 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live,— 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelop my faculties fast. 

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
Sliould the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 

What rapture celestial is mine ! 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death. 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath. 

If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 

Ah ! fro war not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may 
smile, 

Oh ! think not my penance deficient ! 
Wlien dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, 

To awake will be torture sufficient. 



TO MABY, 

ON RECEIVIXG HER PICTURE. f 

This faint resemblance of thy charms, 
Though strong as mortal art could give, 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 
Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me beauty's slave. 

Here I can trace— ah, no ! that eye, 

Whose azure floats in liquid fire. 
Must all the painter's art defy, 

And bid him from the task retire. 

Here I behold its beauteous hue : 
But where 's the beam so sweetly straying, 

Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
Like Lmia o'er the ocean playing ? 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear. 
Lest time might shake my wavering soul. 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 



* The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish 
proverb. 

i Of this "Mary," who is not to he confounded with the 
heiress of Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen, all that has 
been ascertained is that she was of an humble, if not equiv- 



Through hours, through years, through time, 
't will cheer ; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; 
In life's last conflict 't will appear. 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



TO LESBIA. 



Lesbia ! since far from j^ou I 've ranged, 
Our souls Avith fond affection glow not ; 

You say 't is I, not you, have changed, 
I 'd tell you why,— but yet I know not. 

Your polish 'd brow no cares have crost ; 

And, Lesbia ! we are not much older 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost. 

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age. 

Two years have lingeriug pass'd away, love! 
And now new thoughts our minds engage. 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 

'T is I that am alone to blame, 
I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 

Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice must be my only reason. 

I do not, love! suspect j-our truth, 
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; 

Warm was the passion of my youth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 

JS'o, no, my flame was not pretended ; 

For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely : 
And — though our dream at last is ended — 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

1^0 more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made me prone to roving ; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving. 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpaired, 
New beauties still are daily bright 'ning, 

Your eye for conquest beams prepared. 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas 1 they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ABDBESSED TO A YOUNG 
LADY. 

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies 
passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing 
near them ; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed 
the next morning.J] 

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms. 

And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, 
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Yex'd to behold such beauty liere, 

Impell'd the bullet's viewless course. 
Diverted from its first career. 



ocal, station in life, and that she had long- light golden hair, 
"of which," says Mr, Moore, "the poet used to show a lock, 
as well as her picture, among his friends." 

$ The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beauti- 
ful lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson. 
313 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; 

But Heaven, with interposing power, 
In pity turn'd the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, til' unconscious cause of fear. 
Extracted from its glistening cell : 

Say, wdiat dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee ? 

Arraign 'd before thy beauty's throne, 
What punishment wilt thou decree ? 

Might I perform the judge's part, 
The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 

It only would restore a heart 
Which but belong'd to thee before. 

The least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Thou Shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 

Such expiation of my guilt : 
Come then, some other mode elect ; 

Let it be death, or what thou wilt. 

Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
]^oiight shall thy dread decree prevent ; 

Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 

Aei 5' c.ei /xe <l>€vyet. — AnACREON. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life, 
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent 
dew, 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife. 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu ! 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 

The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief -swol- 
len breast. 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew : " 
With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's represt, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
Love twined round their childhood his tlow'rs as 
they grew; 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 

Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
Thy reason has perished with love's last adieu ! 

Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 

From cities to caves of the forest he' flew : 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu! 



* In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the 
ag-e of twenty-one. 

+ Moore says, "• The sort of life which young Byron led at 

this period, between the dissipations of London and Cam- 

bridg-e, without a home to welcome or even the roof of a 

single relative to receive him, was but little calculated to 

314 



Kow hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; 

Despair now inflames tlie dark tide of his veins ; 
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few. 
Who laughs at the pang which lie never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu ! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 

Xo more with love's former devotion we sue : 
lie spreads his youiig wing, he retires with the blast ; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due : 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle 
shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels-to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu I 



DAMMTAS. 



In law an infant,^ and in years a boy. 

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 

Yersed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ; 

Damsetas ran throu'gh all the maze of sin. 

And found the goal when others just begin : 

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul. 

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 

And what was once his bliss appears his bane.f 



TO MARION. 



Marion! why that pensive brow? 

AVhat disgust to life hast thou ? 

Change that discontented air ; 

Frowns become not one so fair. 

'T is not love disturbs thy rest. 

Love 's a stranger to thy breast ; 

He in dimpling smiles appears. 

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. 

Or bends the languid eyelid down. 

But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 

Then resume thy former fire. 

Some will love, and all admire; 

While that icy aspect chills us, 

I^ought but cool indifference thrills us. 

Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 

Smile at least, or seem to smile. 

Eyes like thine were never meant 

To hide their orbs in dark restraint. 

Spite of all thou fain wouldst say. 

Still in truant beams they play. 

Thy lips— but here my modest Muse 

Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 

She blushes, curt'sies, frowns— in short she 

Dreads lest the subject should transport me: 



render him satisfied either with himself or the world. Unre- 
stricted as he Avas by deference to any will but his own, even 
the pleasures to which he was naturally most inclined pi-e- 
maturely palled upon him, for want of those best zests of all 
enjoyment— rarity and restraint." 



g}- 



f 




Oh ! mark you yon pair ; in the sunshine of youth 

Love twined round their childhood his flovv'rs as they grew 

They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
Till chili'd by the winter of love's last adip" ' 



HOURS OF IDLENESS.— Page 314. 



^— 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And flying off in search of reason, 
Brings prudence back in proper season. 
All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
I think, is neither here nor there) 
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 
Were form'd for better tilings than sneering 
Of smoothing compliments divested, 
Advice at least 's disinterested ; 
Such is my artless song to thee, 
From all the flow of flattery free ; 
Counsel like mine is like a brother's.: 
My heart is given to some others ; 
That is to say, unskiU'd to cozen, 
It shares itself among a dozen. 

Marion, adieu ! oh, prithee slight not 
This warning, though it may delight not ; 
And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
At once I '11 tell thee our opinion 
Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
Howe'er those beauties may distract us, 
Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
These cannot fix our souls to love ; 
It is not too severe a stricture 
To say they form a pretty picture ; 
But wouldst thou see the secret chain 
Which binds us in your humble train, 
To hail you queens of all creation. 
Know, in a word, 'tis Animation. 



TO A LADY 

who presented to the author a lock ov 
ha'ir braided with his own, and appointed 
a night in december to meet him in the 

GARDEN. 

These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
In firmer chains our hearts confine. 
Than all tli' unmeaning protestations 
Which swell with nonsense love orations. 
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it ; 
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 
With groundless jealousy repine, 
With silly whims and fancies frantic. 
Merely to make our love romantic ? 
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 
lAnd fret with self -created anguish ? 
Or doom the lover you have chosen. 
On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 
In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 
Only because the scene 's a garden ? 
For gardens seem, by one consent, 
Since Shakspeare set the precedent, 
Since Juliet first declared her passion, 
To form the place of assignation.* 
Oh ! would some modern muse inspire. 
And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 

* In the above little piece the author has been accused by 
some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from 
whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this 
was written : and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in " the 
tomb of all the Capiilets," has been converted, with a trifling 
alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a 
garden of their own creation, during the month of Decemher, 
in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such 
has been the candor of some ingenious critics. We would 
advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of 
decorum to read Shakspeare. 

+ Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure 
.has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in 



Or had the bard at Christmas written, 
And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
He surely, in commiseration. 
Had changed the place of declaration. 
In Italy I 've no objection ; 
Warm nights are proper for reflection ; 
But here our climate is so rigid. 
That love itself is rather frigid : 
Think on our chilly situation. 
And curb this rage for imitation ; 
Then let us meet, as oft we 've done, 
Beneath the influence of the sun ; 
Or, if at midniglit I must meet you, 
Within your mansion let me greet you : 
There we can love for hours together. 
Much better, in such snowy v/eather. 
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
That ever witness 'd rural loves ; 
Then, if my passion fail to please, 
Next night I '11 be content to fi-eeze ; 
No more I '11 give a loose to laughter, 
But curse my fate for ever after.f 



OSCAB OF ALVA.% 

A TALE. 

How sweetly shines through azure skies, 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the din of arms no more ! 

But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon, 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array 'd : 

And on the crimson 'd rocks beneath, 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 

Pale in the scatterxl ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low ; ' 

While many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

Turn'd feebly from the gory plain. 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light ; 

But now she glimmer'd from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night. 

Faded is Alva's noble race, 
And gray her towers are seen afar ; 

No more her heroes urge the chase, 
Or roll the crimson tide of war. 

But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 

And when that gale is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 



a quotation from an admired work, "Carr's Stranger in 
France : " — "As we were contemplating a painting on a large 
scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole 
length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to 
have touched the age of desperation, after having atten- 
tively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, 
that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. 
Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my ear, ' that the inde- 
corum was in the remark.' " 

% The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story 
of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's 
Armenian, or the Ghost-Beer. 

315 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



It riees hoarsely tlirougli the skj^ 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 

But there no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth. 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 

They feast upon the mountain deer, 
The pibroch raised its piercing note : 

To gladden more their highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers tloat : 

And they who heard the war-notes wild 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child 
While he should lead the tartan train. 

Another year is quickly past. 

And Angus hails another son ; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe. 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But ere their years of youth are o'er, , 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair. 
Wildly it stream 'd along the gale ; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fair. 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul. 

His dark eye shone through beams of truth ; 
Allan had early learn'd control. 

And smooth his words had been from youth. 

Both, both were brave : the Saxon spear 
Was shiver 'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear. 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 

While Allan's soul belied his form. 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm, 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claim 'd the beauteous bride, 

And Angus on his Oscar smiled : 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 

Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 

Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 

Attending on their chieftain's call.' 

It is not war their aid demands, 
The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
316 



To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 

But where is Oscar ? sure 't is late : 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 

At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
" Why comes not Oscar ? " Angus said : 

" Is he not here ? " the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade. 

" Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'T is Ills to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 

" Oh, no ! " the anguish 'd sire rejoin 'd, 
" Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 

W^ould he to Mora seem unkind ? 
Would aught to her impede his way ? 

" Oh, search, jq chiefs ! oh, search around ! 

Allan, witli these through Alva fly ; 
Till Oscar, till my son is found. 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply. " 

All is confusion— through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings. 

It rises on the murmuring gale, 
Till night expands her dusky wings ; 

It breaks the stillness of the night. 
But echoes through her shades in vain, 

It sounds through morning's misty light. 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

Three days, three sleepless nights, the chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave ; 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief. 
His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 

" Oscar! my son !— thou God of Heav'n, 
Restore the prop of sinking age ! 

Or if that hope no more is given. 
Yield his assassin to my rage. 

" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten 'd bones must lie ; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more. 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 

" Yet he may live,— away, despair ! 

Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
T' arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! * 

Oh, God ! my impious prayer forgive. 

" What, if he live for me no more, 

I sink forgotten in the dust. 
The hope of Alva's age is o'er; 

Alas ' can pangs like these be just ? " 

Thus did the hapless parent mourn. 
Till Time, which soothes severest woe, 

Had bade Serenity return. 
And made the tear-drop cease to flow. 

For still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear; 

His hope now droop 'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious year. 

-Days roU'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race ; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight. 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

For youthful Altan still remain 'd, 
And now his father's only joy: 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair'd boy. 

She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair; 

If Oscar lived, some otlier maid 
Had claim 'd his faithless bosom's care. 

And Angus said, if one year more 
In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 

His fondest scruples should be o'er. 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling, past. 
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn ! 

Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
In joyous strains the voices float. 

And still the choral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
' Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 
The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 

And tall his plume of gory red ; 
His voice is like the rising storm. 

But light and trackless is his tread. 

'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round. 
The bridegroom's health is deeply quafC'd ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger chief arose, 
And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 

And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man ! " he cried, " this pledge is done : 
Thou saw'st 'twas duly drunk by me : 

It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 
IS'ow will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot. 
Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 

" Alas ! " the hapless sire replied. 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

" When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her conrse 
Since Oscar's form has bless 'd my siglit ; 

And Allan is my last resource, 
Since martial* Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'Tis well," replied the stranger stern. 
And fiercely flash 'd his rolling eye : 

" Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn ; 
Perhaps the hero did not die. 

" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 

Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
For him thy beltane yet may burn.* 

* Beltane Tree, a Highland festival on the first of Maj-, held 
near fires lighted for the occasion.— Seal-fain means the fire 



"Fill high the bowl the table round. 
We will not claim the pledge by stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crown'd; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said. 

And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 
" Here 's to my boy ! alive or dead, 

I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand.'^ 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
Adown in agonizing dew. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high. 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 
A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear ? " 

Boused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
" Would Oscar now could share our mirth ! " 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 
He said, and dash'dthe cup to earth. 

'"T is he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form. 

" A murderer's voice ! " the roof replies, 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

Tlie tapers wink, the chieftains shrink. 

The stranger 's gone, — amidst the crew 
A form w^as seen in tartan green, 

And tall the shade terrific grew. 

« 

His waist was bound w^ith a broad belt round. 
His plume of sable stream 'd on high ; 

But his breast was bare, with the red wounds 
there. 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 

And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 

On Angus bending low tlie knee ; 
And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the ground. 

Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole, 
The thunders through the welkin ring. 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of tlie 
storm, 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press 'd old Angus' breast. 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 

"Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes :" 

His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh ! never more shall AUan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 

His locks are lifted by the gale : 
And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentanar's vale. 



of Baal, and the name still preserves the Drimeval origin of 
this Celtic superstition. 

317 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doiibts the form of 11a me, 
For Alva's sous knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved j^oung Allan's hand, 
Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 

While Env}' waved her burning brand, 
And pour'd her venom round his heart. 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow; 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side ? 
Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 

The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora's e5^e could Allan move, 
She bade his wounded pride rebel ; 

Alas I that eyes which beam'd with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 
Which held his clan's great ashes stood ; 

And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
For they were stain "d with kindred blood. 

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strhigs raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 
But wdio can strike a murderer's praise ? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand, 
No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 

Guilt would benumb his palsied hand. 
His harp in shuddering chords would break. 

iNo lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse. 
Shall sound his glories high in air: 

A dying father's bitter curse, 
A brother's deatli-groan echoes there. 



THE EPISODE OF KISUS AND EUBY- 
ALUS. 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE ^XEID, I.IB. IX. 

Xisi:s, the guardian of the portal, stood. 

Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 

Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield. 

Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 

From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave. 

And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 

To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 

With him Eurj^alus sustains the post ; 

Xo lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 

And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 

Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 

As 5^et a novice in the martial strife, 

'T was his, with beauty, valor's gifts to share— 

A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 

These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 

In peace, in war, united still they move; 

Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 

And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 

"What god," exclaim 'd the first, "instills this 
fire? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
My laboring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd. 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
The love of fame with this can ill accord. 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinklhig dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
318 



Where confidence and ease the watch disdain. 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief : 
Xow could the gifts and promised prize be tliine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine). 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found ; 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
And lead ^neas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardor fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy :— 
" Tliese deeds, my Xisus, shalt thou dare alone ? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar. 
As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
Xot thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Xot thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly fate, 
I track'd JEneas through the walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear. 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
And life, ignoble life, for glor/j spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd'by fieeting breath : 
The price of honor is the sleep of death." 

Then Kisus : — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valor than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall,— and he who dares advance 
Through hostile legions must abide by chance,— 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow. 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be. 
Whose gentle ej^es will shed one tear for me : 
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny. 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie. 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb. 
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
AYlio, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war 's deadly peril shared ; 
^Yho braved what woman never braved before, 
And left her native for the Latian shore." 
"In vain j^'ou damp the ardor of my soul," 
Replied Euryalus ; "it scorns control! 
Hence, let us haste ! "—their brother guards arose. 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing. 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king. 

Xow o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Each lean'd upon tlfe lance he well could wield, 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear :' 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command. 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience " (thus Hyrtacides began) 
"Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced. 
Between the ocean and the portal placed, 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
Whose shade securely our design will cloak ; 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, — 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
Then sliall ^neas in his pride return. 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed. 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd,— 
" Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus j^e raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive. 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
And, quivering, strain'd them to his aged breast ; 
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd. 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise V 
Our deities the first best boon have given — . 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth, 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth, 
^neas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 

lulus then :— " By all the powers above ! 
By those Penates who my country love ! 
By hoary Yesta's sacred fane, I swear. 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Arisba-'s stately domes o'erthrown ! 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Pnnic wave : 
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
When great ^neas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed. 
Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive 

dames, 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames. 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
The labors of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun. 
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy, 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus :— " No day shall shame 
The rising glories which from this I claim. 
Fortune may favor, or the skies may frown, 
But valor, spite of fate, obtains renown. 



Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 

One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 

My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 

Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 

Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain 

Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 

Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 

A bright example of maternal love. 

Unknown the secret enterprise I brave. 

Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave ; 

From this alone no fond adieus I seek. 

No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek; 

By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 

Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 

Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 

In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 

Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 

Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress ; 

So dear a hope must all my soul inflame. 

To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 

Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 

In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt ; 

Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow ; 

Such love was his, and such had been his woe. 

" All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince replied; 

" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 

To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 

Creusa's* style but wanting to the dame. 

Fortune an adverse wayward course may run. 

But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 

Now, by my life !— my sire's most sacred oath — 

To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth. 

All the reAvards which once to thee were vow'd, 

If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 

Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view 

A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 

Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel. 

For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 

A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil. 

Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 

Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows. 

And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 

Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train. 

To aid their cause, implore tlie gods in vain. 

More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 

lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 

His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail. 

Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ? 

The trench is pass'd, and, favor'd by the night, 
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen : 
And flowing flasks, and scattered troops between : 
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
With me the conquest and the labor share : 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies : 
I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress 'd. 
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panti^^g 

breast : 
Stretch 'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed: 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince. 
His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all. 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armor-bearer, hapless, fell. 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 

* The mother of lulus, lost on the night when Troy was 
taken. 

319 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Tlie charioteer along his courser's sides 
]Oxpires, the steel liis sever'd neck divides ; 
And, last, his lord is nnmber'd with the dead: 
]5ounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents 

pour ; 
Stain'd is tlie couch and earth with clotting gore. 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Serranus, filPd with youthful fire; 
Half the long night In childish games was pass'd ; 
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey 'd, 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill displayed. 

In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, 
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls,' 
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 

IN'or less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
Tet wakeful Ehsesus sees the threatening steel ; 
His coward breast beliind a jar he hides. 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion searched his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, 
One feeble spirit seeks tlie shades below. 
Xow wliere Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
"Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
Tliere, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
Brave ^isus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too flush 'd with carnage, and with conquest warm : 
'• Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd ; 
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last : 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Kow let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

What silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt. 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
Tliis from the pallid corse was quickly torn. 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend. 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course : 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
Tlie knights, impatient, spur along the way: 
Tliree hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped : 
Xow they approach the trench, and view the walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls : 
The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Yolscens with question loud the pair alarms :— 
'• Stand, stragglers ! stand I why early tlius in arms ? 
From whence ? to whom ? " — He meets with no 

reply ; 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy s])oils impede, 
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead ; 
320 



But JSTisus scours along the forest's maze 
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
" Oh, God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft. 
In what impending perils art thou left ! " 
Listening he runs— above the waving trees. 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
Tlie war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround. 
While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
Him with loud sliouts the furious knights pursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers 

dare ? 
Ah ! must he rush. his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay. 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give. 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high. 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied ej^e : — 
" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove ; 
If e'er mj^self, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase. 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus -having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay. 
Transfix 'd his heart, and stretch 'd him on the clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
Whilepale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven, 
A second shaft with equal force is driven : 
Fierce Yolscens rolls around his lowering eyes ; 
Yeil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all ! " 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, 
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Xisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth he starts, and ail his love reveals ; 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise. 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
" Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
He could not— durst not— lo ! the guile conf est ! 
All, all was mine,— his early fate suspend; 
He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage re- 
move ; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the sno^\^ bosom gored ; 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest. 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower. 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head. 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge liis leader, and despair his guide ; 
Yolscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Yolscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ; 
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



In vain beneath nnnnmber'd wounds he bleeds,- 
Nor Avomids, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
111 viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his tliroat its end the weapon found. 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace. 

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim. 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame I 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire. 
No future "day shall'see your names expire, 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish 'd millions hail their empress, Rome ! 



TRANSLATION FR03f THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 

['EpojTe? VTrep fjicv ayav, k. t. A.] 

When fierce conflicting jiassions urge 

The breast where love is wont to glow, 
Wliat mind can stem the stormy surge 

Which rolls the tide of human woe ? 
The hope of praise, the dread of shame. 

('an rouse the tortured breast no more ; 
The wild desire, tlie guilty flame, 

Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dream:s possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast : 
If thus thou comest in disguise, 

Fair Venus! from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire I 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears I 

With others wage internal war; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love I 
May all the hours be wing'd with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above I 
Fair Venus ! on thy mjTtle sliiine 

May I with some fond lover sigh. 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine — 

With me to live, with me to die. 

My native soil ! beloved before, 

Now dearer as m.y peaceful home. 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish 'd wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour. 

May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 



* Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted 
by him for the daug-hter of Creon, king of that city. The 
chorus from which this is taken here addresses Medea; 
thovig-h a considerable liberty is taken with the original, by 
expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the trans- 
lation. 

+ The original is Kaeapdv avoi^avTi «rA^5a tppevHiv, literally, 
"disclosing the bright key of the mind." 

J No reflection is here intended against the person men- 
21 



Have I not heard the exile's sigh, 

And seen the exile's silent tear. 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here ? 
Ah, hapless dame !* no sire bewails, 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart. 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key f 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
May sucli a friend be far from me, 

And ocean's storms between us roll ! 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
EXAMINATION 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus J his ariTple front sublime uprears : 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit Avrapt in speechless gloom, 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried. 
Though little versed in any art beside ; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scan Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled. 
When civil discord piled the fields Vvitli dead, 
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France : 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid; 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deatidess fame, 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honors, medals, fellowships, await ; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize. 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within liis scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's^ glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
No borrow 'd grace of action must be seen ; 
The slightest miotion would dis])lease the Dean ; || 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate. 

The man who hopes t' obtain the ])romised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; 

tioned under the name of Magnus. He is merely represented 
as performing an unavoidable function of his office. Indeed, 
such an attempt could only recoil upon myself : as that gen- 
tleman is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, and 
the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as lie 
was in his younger days for wit and conviviality. 

§ Demosthenes. 

II In most colleges, the follow who superintends the chapel 
service is called dean. 

321 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Nor stop, but rattle over every word- 
No matter wliat, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him liurry on, nor think to rest : 
Wlio speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best ; 
Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science tliese, who, thus repaid. 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggisli shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie. 
Unknown, unhonor'd live, unwept-for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their haJls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls : 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts altecting to despise ; 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's* note. 
More thanthe verse on which the critic wrote: 
Vain as their honors, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, tliough not untaught to feel 
W^ien Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of pov>^er, 
Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; f 
To him, Avith suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
But sliould a storm o'erwlielm him with disgrace, 
They 'd tly to seek the next who fill'd his place, 
Sucii are the men who leaming's treasures guard ! 
Such is their practice, such is their reward 1 
This much, at least, we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price they pav. 

\l806.^ 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though 'we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would not say, "I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represt ; 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 

Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 

The tongue in flattering falsehood deals. 

And tells a tale it never feels : 

Deceit the guilty lips impart, 

And hush the mandates of the heart ; 

But soul's interpreters, tlie eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us." 

Though what they utter'd I repress. 

Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess ; 

For as on thee my memory ponders. 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I '11 say. 

Thy form appears through night, tlirough day 

Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : 

The vision charms the hours away, 

And bids me curse Aurora's ray 

For breaking slumbers of delight 

Which make me wish for endless night. 



* The present Greek professor of Trinity Colleg-e, Cam- 
bridg'e — a man whose powers of mind and writings may, per- 
haps, justify their preference. 

+ Since this was written. Lord Henry Petty has lott his place, 
322 



Since, oh ! M^hate'er my future fate, 
Shall joy or woe my steps await. 
Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Tliine image I can ne'er forget. 
Alas ! again no more we meet. 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, 
That anguisli never can o'ertake her ; 
Tliat peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ! 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related. 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover ! 
May tliat fair bosom never know 
What 't is to feel the restless woe 
Which stings the soul, with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget ! " 



THE CORNELIAN. 

No specious splendor of this stone 
Endears it to my m.emory ever; 

With lustre only once it shone, 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, w^ho can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me ; 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 

He offer'd it with downcast look, 
As fearful that I might refuse it ; 

I told him, when the gift I took. 
My only fear should be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Methouglit one drop the stone bedew'd, 
And ever since I 've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth nor birth theu^ treasures yield 
But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 

Must quit the garden for the field. 

'T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth. 
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care. 
For once forgetting to be blind. 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well proportion'd to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen. 
His form had flx'd her fickle breast : 

Her countless hoards would Ids liave been, 
And none remain'd to give the rest. 



AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE 
OF " THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE " AT A PRIVATE 
THEATRE. 

Since the refinement of this polish 'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now ex])unged licentious wit. 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 

and subsequentlj' (I had almost said consequently) the honor 
of representing- the university. A fact so glaring requires 
no comment. 



HOURS OF TDIENJESS. 



Since now to please with purer scenes v/e seek, 

Nor dare to call tlie blush from Beauty's cheek ; 

Oil ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 

And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 

Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 

Others appear more conscious of defect : 

To-nig*]it no veteran Roscii you behold, 

In all the arts of scenic action old ; 

No Cook, no Kemble, can salute you here, 

No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; 

To-night you throng to witness the debut 

Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 

Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 

Failing in this our first attempt to soar. 

Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays. 

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet j'our praise : 

But all our dramatis persona3 wait 

In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 

No venal views our progress can retard, 

Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. 

For these, each Hero all his power displays, 

Eacli timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 

Surely the last will some protection find ; 

None to the softer sex can prove unkind; 

While Youth and Beauty form the female shield. 

The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 

Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 

Should, after all, our best endeavors fail, 

Still let some mercy in your bosoms live. 

And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MB. FOX. 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU AP- 
PEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue. 
We give the palm where Justice points its due." 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT 
THE FOLL OWNING REPLY. 

Oh, factious viper ! whose envenom 'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
What though our " nation's foes " lament the fate, 
With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour. 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread. 
For noble spirits " war not with the dead : " 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state : 
When, lol'a Hercules'in Fox appear'd, 
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
He, too, is fall'n, v/ho Britain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
Not one great people only raise his urn, 
All Europe's far extended regions mourn. 
" These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
To give the palm where Justice points its due ; " 
Yet let not canker 'd Calumny assail. 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must 

weep, 
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep ; 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 



Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine. 
Nor e'en to Pitt tlie patriot's palm resign : 
AVhich Envy, wearing Candor's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 



THE TEAR. 

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex anirao ; quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Peetore te, pia Nympha, sensit."— Grat. 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
When Truth in a glance sliould api)ear. 

The lips may beguile with a dim.ple or smile, 
But the test of affection 's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst tlie soul-telling eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
Shows the soul from barbarity dear; 

Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt. 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 

Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his 
grave. 

The green sparkles bright with a TeaT. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath • 

In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises tlie foe when in battle laid low. 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride. 
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, 

All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid. 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 

Sweet scene of my youth ! * seat of Friendship and 
Truth, 
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year. 
Loth to leave thee, I mourn 'd, for a last look I 
turn'd. 
But thy spire was scarce seen througli a Tear. 

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more. 

My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
In tlie shade of her bower I remember the hour 

She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, may she live ever blest ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
W^itli a sigh I resign wliat I once tliought was mine, 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart. 
This hope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, . 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of 
night. 

And my corse shall recline on its bier. 
As jQ pass by the tomb where my ashes consume. 

Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marble bestow the splendor of woe. 

Which the children of vanity rear ; 
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name ; 

And all I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

lOctoher 28, 1806.-] 
* Harrow. 

323 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



REPLY TO SOME VEBSES OF J. M. B. 
PIGOT, ESQ., ON' THE CRUELTY OF 
HIS MISTBESS. 

Why, Pigot, complain of this daTnsel's disdain, 

Why tluis in despair do you fret ? 
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 

Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love ? for a time seem to 
rove ; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave lier awhile, slie shortly will smile, 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, 

They th.ink all our homage a debt : 
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 

And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain, 

And seem lier liauteur to regret ; 
If again you sliall sigh, she no more will deny 

That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, 

This whimsical virgin forget ; 
Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, 

And laugh at the little coquette. 

For me, I adore some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but yet, 

Though my heart they enthrall, I 'd abandon them 
all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

No longer repine, adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-Avoven net ; 

Away with despair, no longer forbear 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her. my friend ! your bosom defend, 
Ere quite with her snares you 're beset : 

Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by 
the smart. 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

[ October 27. 1S06.] 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend ; 

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er: 
Fr(nn friendship I strove your pangs to remove, 

But I swear I will do so no more. 

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, 

No more I your folly regret ; 
She 's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known 
• From your verses what else she deserved ; 
Your ])ain seem'd so great, I j)itied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved. 

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss 
Can such wonderful transports produce ; 

Since* the " world you forget, when your lips once 
have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse. 



* Miss Elizabeth Pig-ot, of Southwell, to whom several of 
lK)r(i Byron's earliest letters were addressed. See, ante, Sketch 
of his Life. 

i Lachin y Gairr or, as it is pronounced in the Ei-se, Loch 
na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern High- 
lands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists men- 
tions it as the hig:hest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. 
Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and i thography, 
324 



You say, when " I rove, I know nothing of love ; " 

'Tis true, I am given to range; 
If I rightly remember, I 've loved a good number, 

Yet tliere 's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance, 

To humor a whimsical fair; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't 
affright. 

Or drive me to dreadful despair. 

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, 

To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, 

Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun every woman for one, 
Whose image must fill my whole breast — 

Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her — 
What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 

Now, Strephon, good-bye; I cannot deny 

Your passion appears most absurd : 
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 

For it only consists in the word. 



TO ELIZA.^ 



Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence ! 

Could they see thee, Eliza, they 'd own their defect, 
And this doctrine would meet with a general 
resistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
He ne'er would have v/omen from paradise driven ; 

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence. 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 

Yet still, to increase your calamities more. 
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 

He allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — 
With souls you'd dispense; but this last who 
could bear it ?' 

His religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 't is hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 

''Though women are angels, yet wedlock 's the 
devil." 



LACHIN Y GAIR.f 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses I 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Kestore me tlse rocks, where tlie snow-flake reposes, 

Tliougli still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements war ; 
Though cataracts • foam 'stead of smooth-flowing 
fountains, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. * 

Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander \1 : 
My cap was tlse bonnet, my cloak was the plaid :t 

On chieftains long perish 'd my memory ponder'd. 
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade ; 



picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." Its appearance 
is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal 
snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of 
my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these 
stanzas. 

t This word is erroneously, pronounced plad : the proper 
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the or- 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
Gave place to tlie rays of the bright polar star ; 

For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 

" Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale V" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale. 
Kound Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 

"Winter presides in his cold icy car: 
Clouds there encircle tlie forms of my fathers ; 

They dwell in the tempests of dark Locli na Garr. 

'• Hl-starr'd.* though brave, did no visions fore- 
boding 

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ?" 
Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,! 

Victory crown 'd not your fall with applause : 
Still were you hai)py in death's earthy slumber, 

You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar:t 
The ]nbroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, 

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 

Years have roll'd on. Loch na Garr, since I left you, 

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you. 

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 

To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar : 
Oh for the crags tliat are wild and majestic ! 

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr ! 



TO ROMANCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 

Auspicious queen of childish joys, 
"Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth ; 
No more I tread thy mystic round. 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 

And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

AVhose eyes through rays inunortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue ; 
When virgins seem no longer vain. 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hall of clouds descend? 
Nor find a sylph in every dame, 

A Pylades ^ in every friend ? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
Confess that woman 's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for— themselves. 



* I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," 
manj' of Avhom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, 
better known hy the name of the Pretender. This branch 
was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the 
Stuarts. Georg-e, the second earl of Huntlej% married the 
princess Annabella Stuart, daug-hter of James the First of 
Scotland. By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William 
Gordon, I have the honor to claim as one of my prog'eni- 
tors. 

+ Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not 
certain ; but, as man 5^ fell in the insurrection, I have used the 
name of the principal action, '•''pars pro iotn." 

% A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle 
of Braemar. 

§ It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the com- 
panion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships 
which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Eu- 



AVith shame I own I 've felt thy sway. 

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye. 

And think that ej^e to truth was dear; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh. 

And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 

Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Wliere Affectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine ; 
Who turiis aside from real woe. 

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
And call thy sylvan female choir. 

To mourn a swain for ever gone. 
Who once could glow with equal fire. 

But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears 

On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
Whose bosoms heave wath fancied fears. 

With fancied flames and frenzy glow ; 
Say, Avill you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

Adieu ! fond race ! a long adieu ! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
E'en now^ the gulf appears in view. 

Where unlamented you must lie : 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen. 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



AN8WEB TO SOME ELEGANT VEESES 

SENT BY A FTIIEXD TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAIN- 
ING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS 
RATHER TOO W^ARMLY DRA^VVN. 

" But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician. 
Should condemn me for printing- a second edition ; 
If g-ood Madam Squintum my work should abuse. 
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse? " 

New Bath Guide. 

Candor compls me, Becher !il to commend 
The verse which blends the censor with tlie friend. 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 



ryalus, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to pos- 
terity as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all 
probability never existed beyond the imag-inatiou of the poet, 
or the page of an historian or modern novelist. 

II The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the 
well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the 
amelioration of the condition of the poor. In this gentle- 
man the youthful poet found not only an honest and ju- 
dicious critic, but a sincere friend. To his care the superin- 
tendence of the second edition of "Hours of Idleness," 
during its progress through a country press, was in^'usted, 
and at his suggestion several corrections and omissions were 
made. "I must return you," says Lord Bj'i-on, in a letter 
written in February, 1808, "my best acknowledgments for 
the interest you have taken in me and my poetical bantlings, 
and I shall ever be proud to show how much I esteem the 
advice and the adviser.'^ 

325 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



For this wild error wliich pervades my strain, 
I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart : 
Can youth then liush the dictates of the lieart '? 
Precepts of prudeuce curb, but can't control, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
When Love's delirium iiaunts the glowing mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstript and vanquished in the mental chase. 
The young, tlie old, have vrorn the chains of love ; 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
Let those whose souls contemn tlie pleasing power 
Their censures on the liapless victim shower. 
Oh I how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
Whose labor'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
To paint a pang tlie author ne'er can know ! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youtli ; — 
My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 
Far be 't from me the '' virgin's mind " to " taint :" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
Whose wishes dim])ie in a modest smile, 
AVliose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
Sh.e whom a conscious grace shall thus refine 
Will ne'er be '• tainted " by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment lier bosom with unholy fires, 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
For me, I lain would ])lease the cliosen few, 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true. 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
Tlie light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 
Their warmest ])laudits I would scarcely prize. 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

[November 26, 1806.] 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAB ABBEY. "^ 

" It is the voice of years that are gone ! they roll before me 
with all their deeds."— Ossian. 

Xewstead! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome! 

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's! pride! 
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 

AVliose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, 

Hail to thy pile ! more honor'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson % cross demand ; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Tlieir chief's retainers, an immortal band : 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
Ptetrace their progress through the lapse of time, 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain 'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief ; 
His feudal realm in other regions lay : 



* As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author 
had, originall}', no intention of inserting the foUovving. It 
is now added at the particular request of some friends. 

+ Henrj' II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of 
Thomas a Becket. 

+ The red cross vras the badge of the crusaders. 

§ As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far 
more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent 
326 



In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
Retiring from tlie garish blaze of day. 

j Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 

The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view^ 
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 
Wliere Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to 
prowl ; 
I And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes. 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew. 
The humid pall of life-extinguish 'd clay, 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend 
Soon as the gloaming § spreads her waning shade, 

Tlie clioir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
Or matin orisons to Mary || paid. 

Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed : 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls. 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 

Another Henry *[f the kind gift recalls, 
And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease. 

Yain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 
He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 

To roam a dreary world in deep despair- 
No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God. 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign. 
High-crested banners wave thy walls within. 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 

The braying trumpet, and the lioarser drum, 
Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress -* now. 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
War's dread "machines o'erhang thy threatening 
brow. 

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

Ah, vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave ; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er hiin wave. 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields , 
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 

Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields. 
And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self -sought grave ; 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew. 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 



literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to 
Burns. I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 

II The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 

H At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. be- 
stowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. 

** Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war be- 
tween Charles I. and his parliament. 



\ 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



Trembling, she snatch 'd him* from th' unequal 
strife, 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 
To lead the band where godlike Ealkla^^dI 
feU. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given. 
While dying groans their painful requiem sound. 

Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 
Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
JSToisome'^and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; 

O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds over- 
spread, 

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould : 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 

Kaked from repose in search of buried gold. 

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike Ijtc, 
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death : 

No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire. 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, 
Retire ; the clamor of the figlit is o'er ; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway. 
And sable Horror guards the massy door. 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court : 
What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, 
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his laboring breath; 
Eartli shudders as her caves receive his bones, 

Loathing % the oifering of so dark a death. 

The legal ruler I now resumes the helm. 
He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful 
realm, 
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate. 

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells, 
Howling, resign their violated nest \ 

Again the master on his tenure dwells. 
Enjoy 'd, from absence, with*enraptured zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale. 
Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 



* Lord Bjron, and his brother Sir William, held high com- 
mands in the royal army. The former was general-in-chief 
in Ii-eland, lieutenant of the Tower, and g-overnor to James, 
Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. ; the latter 
had a pi-incipal share in manj^ actions. 

+ Lucius Gary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accom- 
plished man of his ag-e, was killed at the battle of Newbury, 
charg-ing in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of ca\&lry. 

% This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occui'red 
immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Crom- 
well, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans 
and the cavaliers: both interpreted the circumstance into 
divine interposition; but whether as approbation or con- 
demnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to decide. I 
have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject 
of my poem. 



A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
! Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 
And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! 

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake ; || 
Exulting shouts announce the finish 'd race. 

Ah, happy days! too happy to endure ! 

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed. 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is thine ! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay! 
The last and youngest of a noble line 

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 

Deserted now, he scans thy gray w^orn towers; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 

Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget, 
But vrarm his bosom with impassion'd glow. 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great ; 

Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs. 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
Tliee to irradiate with meridian ray; 

Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
And bless thy future as thy former day. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS.'^ 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me. " 

When slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chijls the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing. 
And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
Not to the aching frame alone confined. 
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of Avoe, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife. 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life ! 
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour, 
liemembrance sheds around her genial power, 

§ Charles II. 

II During the lifetime of the fifth Lord Byron, there was 
found in this lake— where it is supposed to have been thrown 
for concealment bj' the monks— a large brass eagle, in the 
body of which, on its being sent to be cleaned, was discovered 
a secret aperture, concealing within it a number of ancient 
documents connected with the rights and privileges of the 
foundation. At the sale of the old lord's effects, in 1T76, this 
eagle was purchased by a watchmaker of Nottingham ; and 
it now forms, through the liberality of Sir Richard Kaye, an 
appropriate ornament of the fine old church of Southwell. 

1 These verses were composed while Lord Byron was suffer- 
ing under severe illness and depression of spirits. "I was 
laid," he says, "on my back, when that school-boy thing was 
written, or rather dictated— expecting to rise no more, my 
physician having taken his sixteenth fee." 
327 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Calls back the vanished days to rapture given, 
When love V\'as bliss, and Beauty form 'd our heaven ; 
Or, dear to 3^outh, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, Aviiere all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm 
Tiie orb of day unveils his distant form. 
Gilds with faint beams the crj^stal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, 
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze. 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
The past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought. 
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields. 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I 'long have bade a last adieu ! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep. 
Whose forms 1 now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge tlie same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fam.e tlie source ; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite. 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 
Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train 1 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire. 
Again I mingle with thy playful choir; 
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same ; 
Through winding paths along tlie glade, I trace 
The social smile of every welcome face : 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe. 
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past, — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 
Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast, 
To love a stranger, friendshi]) made me blest ; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth. 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
No varnish 'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
Ko dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
Hyp'ocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years. 
Matured by age, tlie garb of prudence wears. 
When now the boy is ripen'd into man. 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink, 
Smoothly to speak, and cautious^ly to think ; 
Still to assent, and never to deny— 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard. 
Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
Although against that. word his heart rebel. 
And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 



* Dr. Butler, then head-master of Harrow school. 

+ When Dr. Drury retired, in 1805, three candidates pre- 
sented themselves ior the vacant chair, Messrs. Drur3% Evans, 
and Butler. "On the first movement to which this contest 
gave rise in the school, joung Wildman," sajs Moore, "was 
at the head of the party for Mark Diurj', while Byron held 
himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as 
an ally, one of the Drury faction said to AVildman— ' Byron, I 
know, will not join, because he does not choose to act second 
to any one ; but, bj' giving- up the leadership to bim, you may 
at once secure him.' " This Wildman accoi'diugly did, and 
Byron took the command. 

328 



Away with themes like this ! not mine the task 
From tlattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow. 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame. 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save. 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave; 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
PoMPOSUs' * virtues are but known to few: 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And he who v>aelds must sometimes feel the rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trilled in a lighter strain, 
'T is past, and thus she will not sin again, 
Soon must her early song for ever cease. 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remeiPiber'd be the joj^ous band, 
AVho hail'd me chief, f obedient to command; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
Xor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
Or all the sable glories of his gown ; % 
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school- 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 
The dear preceptor of my early days ! 
PROBUS,|'the pride of science, and the boast. 
To Ida now, alas I for ever lost. 
With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage: 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, 
From learning's labor is the blest retreat. 
PoMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair; 
PoMPOSUS governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot ; 
No more his mention shall m.y verse degrade, — 
To him my tribute is already paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary branches 
crown 'd. 
Fair Ida's- bower adorns the landscape round; 
There Science, from her favor 'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise, 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train. 
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue, 
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new; 
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun. 
In rival bands, between the wdckets run. 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with niuible feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way, 
Where Brent's cool v/aves in limpid currents stray ; 
While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
And arbors shade them from the summer heat: 
Others again, a pert and lively crew. 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 

% Instead of this couplet, the private volume has the fol- 
lowing- four lines :— 

"Careless to soothe the pedant's furious fro-\vn. 
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown ; 
By Avhich, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace, 
Adding new tei-ror to his sneering face." 

§ Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired 
from his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirty- 
live years at Harrow ; the last twent}- as head-master, an ofSce 
he held with equal honor to hitnself and advantage to the 
very extensive school over which he presided. 



\ 



( 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
And tease the grumblinp: rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day; 
*'"rwas liere the gather'd swains for vengeance 

fought, 
And here we earnVl the conquest dearly bought ; 
Here have we fled before superior might, 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er. 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
Secures its owner's academic fame : 
Here mingling view the names of sire and son — 
The one long graved, the otlier just begun: 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire ; * 
Perhai^s their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone. 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place. 
Who young obey"d their lords in silent awe. 
Whose nod commanded, and wdiose voice was law; 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power. 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; 
Thougii sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 
They pass tiie dreary winter's eve away — 
''Aiid thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide. 
And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, 
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home ; " 
While thus they speak, tlie hour must soon arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive: 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no more, 
One last long look on what we were before — 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world. 
Where folly's glaring standard waves uniurl'd, 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face. 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy. 
My eyes, my heart, proclaim 'd me still a boy; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering grou])S around. 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
The smiles of beauty— (for, alas I I 've known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)— 
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were 

dear. 
Could hardly ch.arm me, when that friend was near : 
My thougths bewilder'd in the fond surprise. 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove. 
And friendship's feelings triumi)li'd over love. 



* During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet preventccl the 
school-room from being- burnt down, by pointing- out to the 
boys the names of their lathers and grandfathers on the walls. 



Yet why should I alone with such delight 
Eetrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause bej^ond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very nanie ? 
Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear, 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee— 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye y 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone. 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek ? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest. 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
I liear— I wake— and in the sound rejoice ; 
I hear again, — but, ah ! no brother's voice. 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way : 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
Wha-t then remains ? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 



Alonzo ! t best and dearest of my friends, 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends ; 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise ; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth. 
If hope anticipate the v^ords of truth. 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build liis own upon thy deathless fame. 
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest. 
Oft have we drain 'd the font of ancient lore; 
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. 
Yet, wiien confinement's lingering hour was done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls w^re one : 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's hall ; 
Together joinxl in cricket's manly toil. 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs tlie buoyant billows bore ; 
In every element, unclianged, the same. 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun. 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, wdth a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
Still I remember, in the factious strife. 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
High poised in air tlie massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; 

+ The Hon. John Wing-field, of the Coldstream Guards, 
brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died 
of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 14, 1811. 
329 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Your arm, brave boy, arrestpcl Ins career— 
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
Disarm'd and baftled by your conquering hand, 
The grovelling savage roird upon the sand : 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labors of a grateful lay ? 
Oh no ! wliene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
That instant, Dxvvus, it deserves to bleed. 

Lycus!* on me thy claims are justly great: 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
To thee alone, unrivalFd, would belong 
The feeble eiforts of my lengthened song. 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan tirmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, 
Lycus I thy father's fame v/ill soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
When time at length matures tliy growing years, 
How^ wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
I*rudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
With honor's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Euryalus t pass by unsung V 
From ancient lineage, not uiiworthy sprung: 
What though one sad dissension bade us part ? 
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends,— I '11 think we are so still. 
A form unmatch"d in nature's partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in tliee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thimder thou shalt wield, 
'Nov seek for glory in the tented field ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish'd courts migiit be thy seat,- 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The fiow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; — 
xVmbition's slave alone v.'ould toil for more. 



* John Fitzgibbon, second earl of Clare, born June 2, 1792. 
His father, whom he succeeded Jan. 28, 1802, was for nearly 
twelve years lord chancellor of Ireland. "I never," says 
Lord Byron, In 1821, " hear the v.'ord ' Clare,'' without a beating 
of the heart even noxo ; and I write it with feelings of 1803-4 
-5, ad infinitum." 

+ George-John, fifth Earl Delawarr, born Oct. 26, 1791; suc- 
ceeded his father, John-Richard, July 28, 1795. This ancient 
family have been barons by the male line from 1342; tboir 
ancestor. Sir Thomas West, having been summoned to par- 
liament as Lord West, the 16th Edw. II. We find the folloAv- 
ing notices in some hitherto unpublished letters of Loi'd 
Byron :—" Harrow, Oct. 25, 1804.— I am happy enough and 
comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but select. 
Among the principal I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very ami- 
able, and my particular friend." "Nov. 3, 1804.— Lord Dela- 
warr is considerably younger than me, but the most good- 
tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all 
which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) 
of being remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, 
in a manner, connected ; for one of my forefathers, in Charles 
the First's time, married into their family." 

To Americans, the family of Delawarr has a peculiar inter- 
est, Thomas West, third earl, and the Governor of Virginia, 
giving name to the State, and to the noble liver flowing by the 
city of Philadelphia, which washes in its course the soil of the 
States of New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Dela- 
■ ware. On January 17, 1883, the new portrait of Thomas West, 
third Lord Delawari-, was presented to the city of Philadel- 
phia by Hon. L. S. Sackviile West, the British Minister at 
330 



Now last, but nearest, of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Cleon J stand; 
AVith scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun. 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: 
As speakers each supi)orts an equal name. 
And crowds allow to both a partial fame: 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride. 
Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide. 
Yet candor's self compels me now to own 
Justice avv^ards it to my friend alone. 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear. 
Remembrance hails you witii her warmest tear I 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn. 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind. 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng; 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction tlie primeval cause. 
What gratitude to him ray soul possest, 
While hope of dawning hcmors fiil'd my breast! 
For all my humble fame, to him alone 
The praise is due, who made tha.t fame my own. 
Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
These young effusions of my early da3^s. 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
The song might perish, but the theme might live. 
Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
His honor'd name requires no vain display : 
By every son of grateful Ida blest, 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud. 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme. 
Nor closed the progress of my j^outhful dream. 
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 



Washington ; his brother, the present Earl Delawarr, and hia 
sisters, the Duchess of Bedford, and the Countess of Der- 
by, descendants of Thomas West. Minister Sack\dlle West, 
' while in Philadelphia in November, ISSl, noticed a picture of 
I Thomas West in Independence Hall, and, considering the 
1 portrait a very poor one, wrote to his family in reference to 
I obtaining a faithful picture of their illustrious ancestor. 
The Countess of Derby thereupon had a copy taken from an 
original painting. The new picture is life-size, handsomely 
framed, and bears in the upper corner the motto of the Deia- 
warrs, "Jour de ma vie." British Consul CUpperton made 
the presentation, which took place in the Mas'or's oifice in the 
j presence of a number of prominent citizens. A letter was 
I read from Mr. L. S. Sack^-ille West, in which he said the pres- 
ent was designed as a memento of the cordial and hospitiible 
reception gi^•en him upon his arrival as British Minister by 
the citizens of Philadelphia. A letter from Mary C. West, 
the Countess of Derby, Wits also read. The Countess says : " la 
making the presentation, may I be allowed to say that my 
brother. Lord DelawaiT, and my sister, the Duchess of Bed- 
ford, join in expressing the satisfaction felt by us ail that, 
after a lapse of two hundred years, a direct descendant of 
Thomas West should have landed once more on the banks of 
the great river to which he gave his name." Mayor King 
accepted the gift on behalf of the citj% and the portrait ha.s 
been placed i n Independence Hall, where it has since attracted • 
great interest and attention. 

t Edward Noel Long, Esq.— to whom a subsequent poem is 
addressed. See p. 335. 
1 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 

This parting song, the clearest and tlie last; 

And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 

To me a silent and a sv>'eet employ, 

While, future hope and fear alike unknown, 

I think with pleasure on tlie past alone ; 

Yes, to the past alone m.y heart confine. 

And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside. 
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
wStill may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear; — 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow, 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary fevv% who glkle along. 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests 

whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Kevolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
A'Vhile Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
Say, can ambition's fever 'd dream bestow 
Sosweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys). 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 
xis those wiiere Youtli her garland tv/ined for you ? 
Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
ITusuliied only where it marks your birth; 
Still lingering pause above eacli checker'd leaf. 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
liut bless the scroll which fairer words adorn. 
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn : 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of Truth, 
And Love, without his pinion,* smiled on Youth. 



ANSWEB TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, EN- 
TITLED ''THE COMJvION LOT.^'f 

.Montgomery ! true, the common lot 

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; 
Yet some si i all never be forgot — 

Some shall exist beyond tlie grave. 

" Unknown the region of his birth," 

The herof rolls the tide of war ; 
Yet not unknown his martial worth, 

Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or woe. 
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know ■ 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 

Must share the common tomb of all ; 
Their glory will not sleep the same : 
^ That will arise, though empires full. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 
Assumes the ghastly stare of death; 



* "L'Amitie est I'Araour sans ailes," 
Stjo a subsequent poem, under this title. 

t Written by James Montgomery, author of 
iivjrer of Switzerland," etc. 

i jN'o particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of 



is a French proverb. 
•The Wan- 



The fair, the brave, the good must die. 
And sink the j-awning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives. 
Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 

For Petrarca's Laura still survives: 
She died, but ne'er will die again. 

The rolling seasons pass away. 
And Time, untiring, v*^aves his wing; 

Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay. 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

All, all must sleep in grim repose. 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Fest'ring alike in shrouds, consume. 

Tlie mouldering marble lasts its day. 
Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 
The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. 

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd 
By those whose virtues cla,im reward. 

Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's Avave; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 



11806.1 



REMEMBRANCE. 



'T IS done 1 — T saw it in my dreams : 
Iso more with Hope the future beams; 

My days of happiness are few : 
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 
My dawn of life is overcast. 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! 

Would I could aid Remem.brance too ! 

11806. Forst published, 1832.1 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET 
BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES. 

This band, which bound thy yellow hair. 
Is mine, sweet girl 1 thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my warmest, dearest care, 
Like relics left of saints above. 

Oh ! T will wear it next my heart ; 

'T will bind my soul in bonds to thee : 
From me again 't will ne'er depart. 

But mingle in the grave with me. 

The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this ; 
T/iat I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss : 

This will recall each youthful scene. 
E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue. 
In gently waving ringlet curl'd. 



Baj'ard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more 
modern times the fame of Marlboroug-h, Frederick the Great, 
Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc., are familiar to every 
historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are 
known to a very small proportion of their admirers. 
331 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



B.y the dear head on whicli j'ou jxrew, 
1 would not lose yon for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adorn 
The polish 'd brow where once you shone, 

Like rays which p^ild a liloudless morn, 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

ilSuG. First published, 1832.'] 



LINES 



ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECIIER, OTs^ HIS 
ADVISING TPIE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH 
SOCIETY. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind ; 

I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
}>ut retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 

I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require. 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; 

When infancy's years of probation expire. 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 

The fire in tlie cavern of Etna concealed, 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; 

At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd. 
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.- 

Oh ! thus, tlie desire in my bosom for fame 
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. 

Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of fiamxe. 
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
What censure, what danger, what w^oe would I 
brave ! 
Their lives did not end wdien they yielded their 
breath ; 
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 

Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 

AVhy search for delight in the friendship of fools ? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
My passion the iP-atrons of prudence reprove; 

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive. 

To me what is w^ealth ?— it may pass in an hour, 
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should fro\vn : 

To me what is title ?— the phantom of pov\'er ; 
To me w^hat is fashion V — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul : 

I still am unpracticed to varnish the truth : 

Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 
Wiiy waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 

11S06.-] 



THE DEATH OF CALMAB AND OBLA. 

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.f 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their 
rememljrance through the mist of time. In tlie twi- 
light he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts 

* The true reason of the haughty distance at Avhich Byron, 
both at this period and afterwards, stood apart from his more 
opulent neig-hbors, is to be found (says Mr. Moore) " in his 
mortifying consciousness of the Inadequacy of his own 
means to his rank, and the proud dread of being- made to feel 
his ov/n inferiority by persons to whom, in everj'- other re- 
spect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently 
expostulated with him on thisunsociableness; aud one of his i 
332 



his spear with trembling hand. " Not thus feebly 
did I raise the steel before my fathers ! " Past is 
the race of heroes ! But their fame rises on the 
harp ; their souls ride on the wings of the wind ; 
they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, 
and rejoice in their liall of clouds ! Such is Calniar. 
The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks 
down from eddying tempests : he rolls his form in 
the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the moun- 
tain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to 
Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in 
blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry 
spear ; but mild w^as the eye of Calniar ; soft was 
the flow of his j^ellow locks : they streamed like the 
meteor of the night. No maid w^as the sigh of his 
soul: his thoughts w^ere given to friendship,— to 
dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal w^ere 
their swords in battle ; but fierce wt^s the pride 
of Orla : — gentle alone to Calmar. Together they 
dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue 
waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal 
roused his chiefs to combat. Their sliips cover the 
ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They 
come to the aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies : 
but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The 
sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. 
They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. 
Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post 
of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears 
were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they 
stood around. The king was in the midst. Gray 
were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. 
Age withered not his powers. " Sons of Morven," 
said the hero, " to-morrow we meet the foe. But 
where is Cutliullin, the shield of Erin ? He rests 
in the halls of Tura ; he knows not of our coming. 
Who will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and 
call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords 
of foes ; but iriany are my heroes. They are thun- 
derbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs ! Who will arise V " 

" Son of Trenmor ! mine be the deed," said dark- 
haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to 
me ? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the 
danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek 
car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of 
bards ; and lay me by the stream of Lnbar." "And 
Shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. 
" Wilt thou leave thy friend afar ? Chief of Oithona! 
not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, 
and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been 
the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; 
ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave 
of Oithona; ours be the narrow dw^eliing on the 
banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief of 
Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be darkened 

friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines, so remarka- 
bly prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's 
volcanic genius was erelong to open upon the world. 

+ It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though 
considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "■ Nieus 
and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already 
given in the present voluuie. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS, 



in the dust of Erin ? Let me fall alone. My father 
dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his boy ; 
but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son 
in Morven. She listens to the steps of the Imnter 
on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. 
Let her not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the steel of 
Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the 
,dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye 
of Mora ? Why should her voice curse Orla, the 
destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! Live to raise 
my stone of moss ; live to revenge me in the blood 
of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. 
Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the 
voice of Calmar. My gliost shall smile on the notes 
of praise." " Orla," said the son of Mora, " could 
I raise the song of death to my friend ? Could I 
give his fame to the winds? Ko, my heart would 
speak in sighs : faint and broken are the sounds of 
sorrow. Orla ! our souls sliall hear the song together. 
One cloud shall be ours on high : the bards will 
mingle the names of Orla and Calmar." 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps 
are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak 
dim twinkles through the night. The northern 
star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, 
rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : 
they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their 
heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. 
The fires are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. All 
is hushed ; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. 
Lightly wlieel the heroes through the slumbering 
band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, 
resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls 
in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear 
is raised on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, 
chief of Oithona ? " said fair-haired Calmar: "we 
are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay ? " 
" It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the 
gloomy brow. ''Mathon of Loclilin sleeps: seest 
thou his spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of 
my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on 
mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? 
No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not 
soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! 
The son of Conna calls ; thy life is his; rise to com- 
bat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise 
alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the 
plain. " Fly ! Calmar, fly ! " said dark-haired Orla. 
'• Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin 
crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." 
Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft : his shield 
falls from his arm : he shudders in his blood. He 
rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees 
him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon glitters on 
the head of Orla : but a spear pierced his eye. His 
brain gushes through the wound, and foams on the 
spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the Ocean 
on two niighty barks of the north, so pour the men 
of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking tlie surge 
in foam, proudly steer the barks of tlie north, so 

* I fear Laing's late edition has eorapletely overthrown 
every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the trans- 
lation of a series of poems complete in themselves ; but while 
the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains 
undisputed, though not without faults— particularly, in some 



rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of 
Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fin- 
gal. He strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; 
the people pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in 
joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the 
spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. 
Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the 
widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in its strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; 
but the sleepers are m.any ; grim they lie on Erin. 
The breeze of ocean lifts their locks ; yet they do 
not awake. The hawks scream above their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a 
chief? Briglit as tlie gold of the stranger, they 
mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis Cal- 
mar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one 
stream of blood. Fierce is t!ie look of tlie gloomy 
Orla. He breathes not ; but his eye is still a flame. 
It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in 
Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. 
"Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis 
mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet 
bound on the hills of Morven. " 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Mor- 
ven with Orla, "said the hero. " AVhat were the 
chase to me alone ? Who should share the spoils 
of battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough 
was thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of 
morn. It glared on others in lightning : to me a 
silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed 
Mora ; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure 
from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay me 
with my friend. Raise tlie song when I am dark ! " 

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray 
stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When 
Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. 
The winds gave our barks to Morven : — the bards 
raised the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? Whose 
dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests ? 
His voice rolls on the thunder. 'T is Orla, the brown 
chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. 
Peace to thy soul, Orla ! thy fame will not perish. 
Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue- 
eyed Mora ; but not harmless w^as thy sword. It hangs 
in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around 
its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar ! It dwells on 
the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the 
echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of 
Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; 
and smile through the tears of the storm."* 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine; 

Affection is not dead. 
l\\ tracing back the years of youth, 
One firmVecord, one lasting truth 



parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The present humble 
imitation will be pardoned by the admarers of the original 
ns an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attach- 
ment to their favorite author. 



333 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Celestial consolation brinji^s ; 
Bear it. ye breezes, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat,— 

"Friendsliip is Love without his wings! " 

Tlirou2:h fev,\ but deeply checkered j^ars, 

AVhat moments liave been mine ! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er niy future doom be cast, 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendsliip ! that thought is all thine own. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone— 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale. 
Unheeded lieaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale ; 
Round this unconscious school-bovs stray, 
Till the dull knell of chiklisli pla/ 

From yonder studious mansion rings. 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove. 

'' Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine. 

But these are now decay 'd; 
For thine are pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas ! thy jealous stings. 
Away, avv'ay ! delusive power. 
Thou Shalt not haunt my coming hour; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 

Seat of my youth 1 * thy distant spire 

Eecalls each scene of joy ; 
My bosom glows with former fire, — 

In mind again a boy. 
Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill. 
Thy every path delights me still. 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
Again, as once, in converse gay. 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

'' Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

My Lycus ! f wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 't will wake again. 
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet. 
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet ! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell. 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

'• Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

In one. and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No — from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left tlie wretch to scorn. 
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, 
AVith feelings warm, with bosoms true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings ; 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my breast shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprived of wings ! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life is yours, 

My memory and my hope ; 
Your v/orth a lasting love insures, 

Unfetter 'd in its scope ; 
From smooth deceit and terror sprung. 
With aspect fair and honey 'd tongue, 



* Harrow. 



+ The Earl of Clare. 



Let Adulation wait on kings; 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, 

''Friendship is Love without his wings! " 

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Wlio rolls the epic song ; 
Friendship and Truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, I dare not feign; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings ! " 

[Dec. 20, 1806. First puUvshed, 1SS2.'] 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven ! 

Hear'st thou the accents of despair ? 
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 

Can vice atone for crimes by prayer ? 

Father of Light, on thee I call! 

Thou seest my soul is dark v/ithin ; 
Tliou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh, point to me the path of truth ! 
They dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rites beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone ? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 
Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throiie. 

Sliall man condemn his race to hell. 
Unless they bend in pompous form ? 

Tell us that all, for one who fell. 
Must perish in the mingling storm ? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 

Yet doom his brother to expire. 
Whose soul a different hope supplies, 

Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Sliall these, by creeds they can't expound, 

Prepare a fancied bliss or woe ? 
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground. 

Their great Creator's purpose know V 

Shall those who live for self alone. 
Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone. 
And live beyond the bounds of Time '? 

Father ! no prophet's laws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Nature's works appear; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak. 
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear ! 

Tliou who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of aether's space; 

W^ho calm'st the elemental war. 
Whose hand from pole to pole I trace : 

Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
Who, when thou wilt, canst take rae hence. 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere. 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 



334 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To thee, my God, to thee I call! 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 
By thy command I rise or fall. 

In thy protection I confide. 

If, when this dust to dust 's restored, • 
My soul shall float on airy wing, 

How shall thy glorious name adored 
Inspire her feeble voice to sing ! 

Bat, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bed, 

Wliile life yet throbs, I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 

To thee I breathe my humble strain, 
Grateful for all thy mercies past, 

And hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring^ life may fly at last. 

[Dec. S9, 1806. First published, ISSO.] 



TO EDViARD NOEL LONG, ESQ* 
Nil eg-o contiilerim jocundo sanus araico.— Hob. 

Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene. 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
Thus if amidst the gathering storm.. 
While clouds the darken 'd noon deform, 
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace. 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught. 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace. 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; 
Nor through the groves of Ida chase 

Out' raptured visions as before, 
Tliough Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims liis stern dominion. 
Age will not every hope destroy. 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring: 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers. 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell. 
And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
If frowning Age, with cold control. 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye. 
Or checks the sj^mpathetic sigh. 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh ! may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 

* This young- g-entleman, who was with Lord Byron both 
at Harrow and Cambridge, afterwards entered the Guards, 
and served with distinction in the expedition to Copenhagen. 
He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way to join the 
army in the Peninsula ; the transport in which he sailed be- 
ing- run foul of in the night by another of the convoy. 
"Long's father," says Lord Byron, " wrote to me to write his 



Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays. 
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my soul is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er : 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose. 
We heed no more the wintry blast. 

When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 

Full often lias my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now without a theme to choose. 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown ; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another; 
And Cora's eye, which rolFd on me. 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Lo^^g, 'twas time to flee; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sun, with genial rays. 
His beams alike to all displays. 
And every lady's eye 's a sim, 
These last should be confined to one. 
The soul's meridian don't become her. 
Whose sun displays a general sumnier I 
Thus faint is every former flame. 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As, when the ebbing flames are low, 

Tlie aid which once in:iproved their light. 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

ISJ'ow quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been with passion's fires. 

As many a boy and girl remembers. 
While all the force of love expires. 

Extinguish 'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 't is midnight's noon. 
And clouds obscure the Avatery moon, 
AVhose beauties I shall not rehearse. 
Described in every stripling's verse; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before ? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perform 'd her stated round, 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend. 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain 'd our youth's retreat; f 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We '11 mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall Aving the laughing hours away. 
And all the floAv of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's Availing horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn. 



son's epitaph. I promised— but I had not the heart to com- 
plete it. He was such a good, amiable being as rarely re- 
mains long in this world ; with talent and accomplishments, 
too, to make him the more regretted." — Byron Diary, 1821. 

■f The tv/o friends were both passionately attached to Har- 
row; and sometimes made excursions thither together, to 
revive their school-boy recollections. 
3o5 



HOURS GF IDLENESS. 



TO A LADY.* 

Oh ! had my fate been join'd ^Yith thine, 
As once this pledge appear'd a token, 

These follies had not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. t 

To thee these early faults I owe, 
To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 
'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising fires could smother; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestovv'd by thee upon another. 

Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone. 
Attempts, alas! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

"T were vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
Xor Hope nor Memory yield their aid. 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 

These varied loves, these matron's tears. 
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures- 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd :— 
This cheek, now pale from early riot, 

With x^assion's hectic ne'er had flush 'd, 
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; | 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys : 

To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
In thoughtless tlirongs and empty noise, 

I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet even in these a thought will steal, 

In spite of every vain endeavor,— 
And fiends might pity what I feel, — 

To know thfit thou art lost forever. 



/ WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 

I WOULD I were a careless child. 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave. 
Or roaming through the dusky wild. 

Or bounding o'er the dark -blue wave; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon 'i pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul. 



* Mrs. Musters. See ante, p. 311. 

+ " Our union would have healed feuds in wliich blood had 
been shed by our fathers— it would have joined lands broad 
and rich— it would have joined at least one heart, and two 
persons not ill matched in j^ears (she is two years my elder), 
and— and— and— W/Tiat has been the result?"— Byron Diary, 
1821. 

i " Our meetini?s," says Lord Byron, in 1833, "were stolen 
ones, and a g-ate leading- from Mr. Chaworth's {rrounds to 
those of my mother was the place of our interviews. But the 
ardor was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile- 
she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed 
33() 



AVhich loves the mountain's craggy side, 
And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 

Fortune ! take back these cultured lands. 

Take back this name of splendid sound! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

1 hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks 1 love, 

Wliich sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this— again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design 'd for me : 
Ah ! why do darkening shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once I beheld a splendid dream, 

A visionary scene of bliss: 
Truth !— wherefore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
How cheerless feels the heart alone. 

When all its former hopes are dead! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Tiiougli pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes. 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few. 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boisterous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman! thou. 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe. 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men— 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; * 
My breast requires the sullen glen. 

Whose gloom may suit a darken 'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest! 
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest.jl 



WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH- 
LANDER. 

When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark 
heath 
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh, Morven of 
snow ! ^ 



at me as a boy ; she, however, g-ave me her picture, and that 
was something to make verses upon. Had I married her. 
perhaps the Avhole tenor of my life would have been dill'er- 
ent." 

§ Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying' either 
Lowland or Eng-lish. 

II "• And I said, Oh ! that I had wing's like a dove ; for then 
would I fly away, and be at rest."— Psalm Iv. 6. This verse 
also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our 
language. 

T ^lorven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal 
of snow," is an expression frequentlj' to be found in Ossian. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



To gaze on the torrent that tliunder'd beneath, 
Or the mist of the tempest thafgather'd below, 

Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew. 

No feeling, save one, to my bosom M^as dear ; 
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in 
you? 

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 

What passion can dwell in tlie heart of a child ? 
But still I perceive an emotion the same 

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleali regions, nor panted for new ; 
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless 'd ; 

And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was 
with you. 

I arose vvith the dawn ; with my dog as my guide. 

From mountain to mountain t bounded along ; 
I breasted the billows of Dee's* rushing tide. 

And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
At eve, on my lieath-cover'd couch of repose, 

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view : 
And warm to the skies my devotions arose, 

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 

The mountains are vanish'd, my youtli is no more ; 
^s the last of my race, I must wither alone, 

And delight but in days I have wituess'd before : 
All ! splendor has raised but embitter'd my lot ; 

More dear were the scenes wliicli my infancy 
knew : 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, y^t they are not 
forgot ; 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;t 
Wlien I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene ; 
W^lien, haply, some light-waving locks 1 behold, 

Th.at faintly resemble my Mary's in liue, 
I tliink on the long flowing ringlets of gold. 

The loclis that were sacred to beauty, and you. 

Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once 
more 
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : % 
But while these soar above me, unchanged as before. 

Will Mary be there to receive me ? — ah, no ! 
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was 
bred ! 
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 
Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with 
you ? 



TO GEOBGE, EABL DELAWABBA 

Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are 
true ; 
The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish 'd for you. 

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 

The attachment of years in a moment expires : 
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion , 

But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. 



* "Breasting- the lofty surge."— Shakspeare. The Dee is 
a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and fails into 
the sea at New Aberdeen. 

t Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, 
not far from the ruins of Dee Castle. 
22 



Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together. 
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : 

In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 

No more with affection shall memory blending, 
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 

When pride steels the bosom , the heart is unbending, 
And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you— 
The few whom I- love I can never u])braid — 

The chance which has lost may in future redeem you, 
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
With me no corroding resentment shall live : 

My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection. 
That both may be wrong, and that both should 
forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my exist- 
ence. 

If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 

Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew,— but away with the vain retrospection ! 

The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 

For the present, we part,— I will hope not for ever; 

For time and regret will restore you at last: 
To forget our dissension we both should endeavor, 

I ask no atonement, but days like the past. 



TO THE EABL OF CLABE. 



" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." 



-Val. Flag. 



Friend of my youth ! when young we roved 
Like striplings, mutually beloved, 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys I 've known, 

When distant far from you : 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain, 
To trace those days and hours again, 

And sigh again, adieu ! 

My pensive m.emory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever ; 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet— ah, never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 

Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source. 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow. 
Nor mingle as before: 



$ In the spring of 1807, on recovering from a severe illness. 
Lord Byron had projected a visit to Scotland. The plan was 
not put into execution. 

§ See p. 330. 

II See ante, portrait. Life of Byron. 
337 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



JiTow swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's uiifatbom'd gulf appear, 
And both shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

]!^ow flow in different channels : 
Disdaining liunibler rural sports, 
'T is 3'ours to mix in polish'd courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals ; 

'T is mine to waste on love my time. 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme. 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 

Xor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard! 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard 

That he, who sang before all, — 
He who the lore of love expanded, — 
By dire reviewers should be branded. 

As void of wit and moral. 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is tliine. 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Thy soothing lays may still be read. 
When Persecution's arm is dead. 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit. 
Who chasten, witli unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them; 
And though myself may be the next. 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

1 really will not fight them. 

Peril aps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner : 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden 'd sinner. 

I^ow, Clare, I must return to you ; 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession. 
In truth, dear Clare, infancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 't would be your fate 
To add one star to royal state ;— 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek liis smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

Prom snares may saints preserve you ; 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care. 

But those who best deserve you ! 



* On losing- his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1823, 
Lord Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, 
"where," he says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, "I once hoped 
to have laid ray own." "There is," he adds, "a spot in the 
church-yard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill look- 
ing towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing 
the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for 
hours and hours when a boy. This was my favorite spot ; but 
as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better 
be deposited in the church." See ante. Life of Byron. 

+ The " Lines written beneath an Elm at Harrovr " were the 
last in the little volume printed at Newark in 1807. The reader 
338 



Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move. 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love. 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow; 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you Ve been known to me,— 

Be still as you are now. 

And though some trifling share of praise. 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear. 
Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
I 'd waive at once apoei's fame. 

To prove a yroijliet here. 



LINES WRITTEN BENE A TH AN ELM IN 
THE CHURCH-YARD OF HARROWS 

Spot of my youth ! whose hoary branches sigh, 
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; 
Where now alone I muse, who oft liave trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod: 
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore. 
Like me, the happy scenes tliey knew before: 
Oh I as I trace again tliy winding liill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still. 
Thou drooping Elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay. 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away: 
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, 
But, ah ! without the thouglits which then vrere 

mine : 
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past. 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
" Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last fare- 
well!" 

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour, — 
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power, — 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell ; 
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere svv'eet to 

die — 
And liere it linger 'd, here my heart might lie ; 
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose. 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose : 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play 'd ; 
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps 

moved ; 
Blest by the tongues that charmed my youthful ear. 
Mourn 'd by the few my soul acknowledged here ; 
Deplored by those in early days allied. 
And unremember'd by the world beside.f 

ISeptemher 2, 1807.'] 



is referred to Mr. Moore's Notices, for various interesting par- 
ticulars respecting the impression produced on Lord Byron's 
mind by the celebrated critique of his juvenile performances 
put forth in the Edinburgh Review (see Appendix, Note 47), 
a journal which at that time possessed nearly undivided in- 
fluence and authority. The poet's diaries and letters afford 
evidence that, in his latter days, he considered this piece as 
the work of Mr. (afterwards Lord) Brougham ; but on what 
grounds he had come to that conclusion he nowhere men- 
tions. It forms, however, from whatever pen it ma^ have 
proceeded, an important link in Lord Byron's literary his- 
tory. 



EifGLiSH Baeds ais'd Scotch Reviewees. 

% Satire.* 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."— Shakspeare. 

" Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 't is true, 
There are as mad, abandoned critics too," — Pope. 



PBEFACE.f 



ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me 
not to publish this satire with my name. If I were to 
be "turned from the career of my humor by quibbles 
quick, and paper bullets of tlie brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified 
by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. 
I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, 
who did not commence on the offensive. An author's 
works are public property : he who purchases may judge, 
and publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I 
have endeavored to commemorate may do by me as I have 
done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in 
condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. 
But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, 
if possible, to make others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success than I expect- 
ed, I have endeavored in this edition to make some additions 
and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published anony- 
mously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope 
were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingen- 
ious friend of mine,t who has now in the press a volume 
of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and 
some of my own substituted in their stead; my only rea- 
son for this being that which I conceive would operate 
with any other person in the same manner, — a determi- 
nation not to publish with my name any production which 
was not entirely and exclusively my own composition. 

* The first edition of this satire, which then began with 
what is now the ninety-seventh line (" Time was, ere yet," 
etc.), appeared in March, 1809. A second, to which the author 
prefixed his name, followed in October of that year ; and a 
third and fourth were called for during- his first pilgrimage, 
in 1810 and 1811. On his return to England a fifth edition 
was prepared for the press by himself, with considerable ca re, 
but suppressed, and, except one copy, destroyed, when on the 
eve of publication. The text is now printed from the copy 
that escaped; on casually meeting with which, in 1816, he 
reperused the whole, and wrote on the margin some annota- 
tions, which also we shall t)reserve,— distinguishing them, by 
the insertion of their dates, from those affixed to the prior 
editions. The first of these MS. notes of 1816 appears on the 
fly-leaf, and runs thus :— " The binding of this volume Is con- 
siderably too valuable for the contents ; and nothing but the 
consideration of its being the property of another prevents 
me from consigning this miserable record of misplaced anger 
and indiscriminate acrimony to the flames." 



With regard to the real talents of many of the poeti- 
cal persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded 
to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author 
that there can be little difference of opinion in the pub- 
lic at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his 
separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities 
are overrated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical 
canons received without scruple and without considera- 
tion. But the unquestionable possession of considerable 
genius by several of the writers here censured renders 
their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility 
may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten: per- 
verted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No 
one can wish more than the author that some known, and 
able writer had undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gif- 
ford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence 
of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases 
of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum 
to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, 
provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the 
malady. A caustic is here offered ; as it is to be feared 
nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous 
patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distress- 
ing rabies for rhyming. — As to the Edinburgh Revievrers,^ 
it would indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra ; 
but if tlie author succeeds in merely " bruising one of the 
heads of the serpent," though his own hand should sufier 
in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied. || 

+ "This preface was written for the second edition, and 
printed with it. The noble author had left this country 
pre\'ious to the publication of that edition, and is not yet 
returned."— Jfote to the fourth edition, 1811.—" He is, and gone 
again:'— Lord B., 1816. 

t Mr. Hobhouse. 

§ " I well recollect," said Lord Byron, in 1831, " the effect 
which the critique of the Edinburgh Reviewers on my first 
poem had upon me— it was rage and resistance, and redress ; 
but not despondency nor despair. A savage review is hem- 
lock to a sucking author, and the one on me (which produced 
the EngUsh Bards, etc.) knocked me down— but I got up 
again." (See Appendix, Note 47, for the critique on " Hours 
of Idleness," which led to the writing of " English Bards and 
Scotch Re^aewers.") 

II "The severity of the criticism," as Sir Egerton Brydges 

has well observed, "touched Lord Byron in the point where 

his original strength lay : it wounded his pride, and roused 

his bitter indignation. He published 'English Bards and 

339 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



i, tLr^r^^^^JOx^ 






Still must Iliear?— shall hoarse Fitzgerald* bawl 
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,t 
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotcli reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I '11 publish, right or wrong : 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh ! nature's noblest gift— my gray goose-quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen! foredoom. 'd to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose. 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the autlior's pride. 
"Wliat wits, what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages v>diich 't Avas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen 1 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's % shall be free ; 
Though spurn'd by otliers, yet beloved by me: 
Then let us soar to-day ; no common theme, 
Xo eastern vision, no distemper'd dream I 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 

When Yice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, 
Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
Wiien Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
AVlien knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe. 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener Aveapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race : 
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame ; 
I printed— older children do the same. 
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; 
A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't. 



Scotch Reviewers,' and bowed down those who had hitherto 
held a despotic victory over the public mind. From that day 
he engaged the public notice as a writer of undoubted talent 
and energy both of intellect and temper." 

*'''• Hoarse Fitzgerald." — "Right enough; but why notice 
such a mountebank? "—Byro?r, 1816. 

+ Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the '' Small 
Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verse on the Liter- 
ary Fund : not content with writing, he spouts in person, 
after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of 
bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.— For the 
long period of thirtj'-two years, this harmless poetaster was 
an attendant at the anniversary dinners of the Literary 
Fund, and constantly honored the occasion with an ode, 
which he himself recited with most comical dignity of em- 
phasis. 

t Cid Hamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen, in the 
540 



Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician name 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame. || 
]N'o matter, George continues still to write, |[ 
Though now the name is veil'd from public sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review ; 
Xot seek great Jeffrey's, yet, like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must Serve his time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney 'd jokes fi-om Miller, got by rote, 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault ; 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt ; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet. 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet : 
Fear not to lie, 't will seem a sharper hit ; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress 'd. 

And shall we own such judgment ? no— as soon 
Seek roses in December— ice in June ; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; 
Believe a woman or an epitaph. 
Or any other thing that 's false, before 
You trust in critics, Avho themselves are sore ; 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe 's Boeotian head.-^- 
To tliese young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
To tliese, when authors bend in humble awe. 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law — 
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; 
W^hile such are critics, why should I forbear r 
But yet, so near ail modern worthies run, 
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
ISTor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 

Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er 
The path which Pope and Gilford trod before ; 
If not yet sicken 'd, you can still proceed : 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
''But hold!" exclaims a friend, — "here's some 

neglect : 
This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 
What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got. 
And careless Dryden— "Ay, but Pye has not : ''— 
Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith !— but what care I ? 
Better to err v.'ith Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days ff 
Ignoble themes obtain 'd mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
jSTo fabled graces, flourish 'd side by side ; 
From the same fount their inspiration drew. 
And, rear'd by taste, bloom 'd fairer as they grew. 



last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh ! that our voluminous 
gentry would foUov/ the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli. 

§ ''This must have been written in the spirit of prophecy." 
— B. 1816. 

II This ingenuous youth is mentioned more particularly, 
with his production, in another place. 

li In the Edinburgh Review.—" He 's a very good fellow ; 
and, except his mother and sister, the best of the set, to my 
mind."— B. 1816. 

** Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the alpha and omega, the 
first and the last, of the Edinburgh Review; the others are 
mentioned hei'ea iter.— ["This was not just. Neither the 
heart nor the head of these gentlemen are at all what they 
are here represented. At the time this was Avritten, I was 
personally unacquainted with either."— B. 1816.] 

++ The first edition of the satire opened with this line. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's* pure strain 
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
A polish 'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song. 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
Then Congreve's scenes could*^ cheer, or Otway's 

melt— 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place *? 
Yet to such times our lirigering looks are cast. 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Xow look around, and turn each trifling page, 
Survey the precious works that ])lease the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 
The loaded press beneath her labor groans. 
And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
While Soutliey's epics cram the creaking shelves. 
And Little's Ijaics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
Thus saith the preacher : '' Nought beneath the sun 
Is new ; " yet still from change to cliange we run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass I 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not. 
From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott.f 

Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew. 
For notice eager, pass in long review : 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace. 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song. 
To strange mysterious dullness still the friend, 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of MinstrelsJ — may they be the last ! — 
On half-strung harps whine niournful to the blast. 
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites. 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 



* When Lord Byron, in the autumn of 1808, was occupied 
uDon this satire, he devoted a considerable portion of his 
time to a deep study of the Avriting-s of Pope ; and from that 
period may be dated his enthusiastic admiration of this great 
poet. 

+ Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name 
of Hafiz. This personage is at present the most profound 
explorer of the bathos. 

t See the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," paasim. Never was 
any plan so incongruous and absurd as the groundwork of 
this production. 

§ " When Lord Byron wrote his famous satire, I had my 
share of flagellation among my betters. My crime was hav- 
ing written a poem for a thousand pounds ; which was no 
otherwise true, than that I sold the copyright for that sum, 
I was, however, so far from having any thing to do with the 
offensive criticism in the Edinburgh, that I remonstrated 
against it with the editor, because I thought the ' Hours of 
Idleness' treated. with undue severity. They were written 
like all juvenile poetry, rather from the recollection of what 
had pleased the author in others, than what had been sug- 
gested by his own imagination ; but, nevertheless, T thought 
they contained passages of noble promise."— Sir Walter 
Scott. 

H Lord Byron, as is well known, set out with the determi- 
nation never to receive money for his writings. For the lib- 
erty to republish this satire, he refused four hundred 
guineas ; and the money paid for the copyright of the first 



And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Decoy young border-nobles through the wood, 
And skip at every step. Lord knows how high. 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 
AVhile high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave. 
And fight with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan. 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And.think'st thou, Scott I ^ by vain conceit per- 
chance. 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy miise just half-a-crown per line ? 
No! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sere, their former laurels fade. 
Let such forego the poet's sacred uaine. 
Who rack their brains for lucre, l| not for fame : 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain ! 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain ! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
For this we spurn Apollo's veual son, 
And bid a long " good-night to Marmion." ^ 

These are the themes that claim our plaudits 
now ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must bow ; 
While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was young. 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung. 
An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
AVhile awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name : 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years.** 
Empires have moulder 'd from the face of earth, 
Tongues have expired with those who gave them 

birth , 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards, content, 
On one great work a life of labor spent : 

and second cantos of Childe Harold, and of the Corsair, he 
presented to Mr. Dallas. In 1816. to a letter enclosing a draft 
of 1000 guineas, offered by Mr. Murray for the Siege of 
Corinth and Parisina, the noble poet sent this answer:— 
"Your offer is liberal in the extreme, and much more than 
the two poems can possibly be worth— but I cannot accept it, 
nor will not. You are most welcome to them, as additions 
to the collected volumes, without any demand or expecta- 
tion on my part whatever. I have enclosed your draft torn, 
for fear of accidents by the way. I wish you would not 
throw temptation in mine ; it is not from a disdain of the 
universal idol— nor from a present superfluity of his treas- 
ures — I can assure you, that I refuse to worship him; but 
what is right, is right, and must not yield to circumstances." 
The poet was afterwards induced, at Mr. Murray's earnest 
persuasion, to accept the thousand guineas. See Appendix, 
Note 51, for sums paid Lord Bj^ron upon the copyrights of 
his works. 

H "Good-night to Marmion" — the pathetic and also pro- 
phetic exclamation of Henry Blount, Esquire, on the death. 
of honest Marmion. 

** As the Odyssey is so closelj^ connected with the story of 
the Iliad, they maj^ be almost classed as one grand historical 
poem. In alluding to Milton and Tasso, we consider the 
"Paradise Lost," and "Gerusalemme Liberata," as their- 
standard efforts; since neither the "Jerusalem Conquered" 
of the Italian, nor the "Paradise Regained" of the English 
bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former 
poems. Query : Which of Mr. Southey's will survive ? 
341 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
To him let Canioens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance. 
The scourge of England and the boast of France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statiie placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released fi'om prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Xext see tremendous Thalaba come on,* 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ;t 
DomdaniePs dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign— tlie rival of Tom Thumb ! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, 
Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
Xow, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
]S[ore old than Mandeville's, and not so true. 
Oh, Southey! Southey I % cease thy varied song ! 
A bard may chant too often and too long : 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas ! were more than vre could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say. 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil. 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, § 
The babe unborn thy dread intent maj^ rue : 
" God help thee," Southey, || and thy readers too. ^ 



* "Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is -wrrittenin open 
defiance of precedent and poetry. ;Mr. S. wished to produce 
something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. "Joan of 
Arc" was marvellous enough, but "Thalaba" was one of 
those poems "which," in the words of Porson, "will be read 
when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, hnt—not till then." 
+ "Of Thalaba, the wild and wondrous song."— J/adoc. 
$ We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains the de- 
grading title of epic." See his preface. Why is epic de- 
graded ? and by whom ? Certainly the late romaunts of Mas- 
ters Cottle, Laureate Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle Mistress 
Cowley, have not exalted the epic muse ; but as Mr. Southey's 
poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask— has he sub- 
stituted any thing better in its stead ? or must he be content 
to rival Sir Richard Blackmore in the quantity as well as 
quality of his verse? 

§ See "The Old Woman of Berkley," a ballad, by Mr.' 
Southey, wherein an aged gentlewoman is carried away by 
Beelzebub, on a "high-trotting horse." 

!l The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism 
from the Antijacobin to Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics.— 
Lord Byron here alludes to Mr. Gifford*s parody on Mr. 
Southey's Dactylics, which ends thus :— 
" Xe'er talk of ears again ! look at thy spelling-book ; 
Dil worth and Dyche are both mad at thy quantities- 
Dactylics, call'st thou 'em?— 'God help thee, silly one.' " 
^ Lord Byron, on being introduced to Mr. Southey in 1813, 
at Holland House, describes him " as the best-looking bard 
he had seen for a long time."— "To have that poet's head 
and shoulders, I would," he says, "almost havewiitten his 
Sapphics. He is certainly a prepossessing person to look on, 
and a man of talent, and all that, and there is his eulogy." 
In his Journal of the same year, he says— " Southey I have 
not seen much of. His appearance is epic, and he is the only 
existing entire man of letters. All the othei-s have some 
pursuit annexed to their authorship. His manners are mild, 
but not those of a man of the world, and his talents of the 
first order. His prose is perfect. Of his poetry there are 
various opinions : there is, perhaps, too much of it for the 
present generation— posterity will probably select. He has 
passages equal to any thing. At present, he has a party, but 
no public- except for his prose writings. His Life of Nelson 
is beautiful." Elsewhere, and later. Lord Byron pronounces 
Southey's Don Roderick " the fii'st poem of our time." 
** " Unjust."— B. 1816. 
++ Lyrical Ballads, p. 4.—" The Tables Turned." Stanza 1. 

342 



Xext comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
That mild apostate from poetic rule. 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favorite May, ** 
Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble. 
And quit his books, for fenr of growing double : " tt 
AVho, botli by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
The idiot mother of '• an idiot boy ; " 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
And, like his bard, confounded night with day ; tt 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells. 
And each adventure so sublimely tells. 
That all Avho view the '' idiot in his glory," 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here. 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
Thougii themes of innocence amuse him best, 
Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him who takes a pixy for a muse, §? 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegize an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind. 
He brays, ||ii the laureate of the long-ear 'd kind.*;^ 

Oh, wonder-working Lewis ! *** monk, or bard, 
Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church-yard ! 



" Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 
L^p, up, my friend, and quit j'our books, 
Or surelj' j'ou '11 grow double." 

it Mr. W. in his preface labors hard to prove, that prose 
and verse are much the same ; and certainly his precepts and 
practice are strictly conformable :— 

" And thus to Bettj-'s questions he 
Made answei', like a traveller bold. 
The cock did crow, to-whoo, to-whoo, 
And the sun did shine so cold," etc., etc., p. 129. 

§§ Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, Songs of the Pixies, i. e. Devon- 
shii-e fairies ; p. 43 we have, "Lines to a young Lady ;" and, 
p. 52, " Lines to a young Ass." 

nil [Thus altered by Lord Bj^ron, in his last re\ision of the 
satire. In all former editions the line stood,] 

" A fellow-feeling makes us wond'rous kind." 

Tf " Unjust."— B. 1816. In a letter to Mr. Coleridge, wiitten 
in 1815, Lord Byron says,— "You mention my 'Satire,' lam- 
poon, or whatever you or others please to call it. I can only 
say, that it was written when I was very young and very an- 
giT, and has been a thorn in my side ever since : more par- 
ticularly as almost all the persons animadverted upon became 
subsequently my acquaintances, and some of them my 
fx'iends; which is 'heaping fire upon an enemy's head,' and 
forgi%ing me too readily to permit me to forgive myself. 
The part applied to you is pert, and petulant, and shallow 
enough ; but, although I have long done every thing in my 
power to suppress the circulation of the whole thing, I shall 
always regret the wantonness or generality of many of its 
attempted attacks." 

*** Matthew Gregory Lewis, M. P. for Hindon, never distin- 
guished himself in Pai'liament, but, mainly in consequence 
of the clever use he made of his knowledge of the German 
language, then a rare accomplishment, attracted much no- 
tice in the literary world, at a very early period of his life. 
His Tales of Terror ; the drama of the Castle Spectre ; and the 
romance called the Bravo of Venice (which is, however, little 
more than a version from the Swiss Zschocke) ; but above all, 
the libidinous and impious novel of The Monk, invested the 
name of Lewis with an extraordinary degree of celebrity, 
during the poor period which intervened between the ob- 
scuration of Cowper, and the full display of Sir Walter 
Scott's talents in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel,"— a period 
which is suflBciently characterized by the fact, that Hayley 
then passed for a poet. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
By gibb'ring spectres haiPd, thy kindred band ; 
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page. 
To please the females of our modest age ; 
All hail, M. P. !* from whose infernal brain 
Tliin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train, 
At whose command "grim women" throng in 

crowds, 
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 
With " small gray men," " wild yagers," and what 

not, 
To crown with honor thee and Walter Scott ; 
Again all hail I if tales like thine may please, 
Saint Luke alone can vanquisli the disease : 
Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir 
Of virgins melting, not to Yesta's fire. 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush 'd, 
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are 

hush'd y 
'T is Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
Grieved to condemn, f the muse m.ust still be just, 
Xor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er. 
She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no more." X 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song. 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangf ord ! with thine eyes of blue, ^ 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
AVhose plaintive strain each love-sick miss ad- 
mires. 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires. 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think 'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens |! in a suit of lace ? 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; 
Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

Behold !— ye tarts ! one moment spare the text — 
liayley's last work, and worst— until his next : 
AVhether he spin poor couplets into plays. 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, 

* " For every one knows little Matt 's an M. P."— See a poem 
to Mr. Lewis, in " The Statesman," supposed to be written by 
Mr. Jekyll. 

+ In very early life, " Little's Poems " were Lord Byron's 
favorite study. "Heigho!" he exclaims, in 1820, in a letter 
to Moore, " I believe all the mischief I have ever done, or 
sung, has been owing to that confounded book of yours." 

% Originally, "mend thy life, and sin no more." 

§ The reader, who maj' wisltf or an explanation of this, may 
refer to " Strangford's Camoens," p. 127, note to p. 56, or to 
the last page of the Edinburgh Review of Strangford's 
Camoens. 

II It is also to be remarked, that the things given to the 
public as poems of Camoens are no more to be found in the 
original Portuguese, than in the Song of Solomon. 

1 Hayley's two most notorious verse productions are 
" Triumphs of Temper " and " The Triumph of Music." Re 
has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, etc., etc. 
As he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biographj^ let 
us recommend Pope's advice to Wycherley to Mr, H.'s con- 
sideration, ^^.z., "to convert his poetry into prose," which 
may be easily done by taking away the final syllable of each 
couplet. 

** Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, un- 
der the name of "Sabbath Walks" and "Biblical Pictures." 



His style in youth or age is still the same. 

For ever feeble and for ever tame. 

Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs " shine ! 

At least I 'm sure they triumph 'd over mine. 

Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may SAvear 

That luckless music never triumph'd there. f 

Moravians, rise ! bestow somic meet reward 
On dull devotion— Lo ! the Sabbath bard. 
Sepulchral Graham.e,-* pours his notes sublime 
In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme ; 
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 

Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea bringsff 
A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
And shows, still whimpering through threescore of 

years. 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles ! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls y^ 
Whether thou sing'st with equal ease, and grief, 
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf ; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,tt 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap. 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest, 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'T is thine, with gentle Little's moral song. 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. |g 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud. 
By more or less, are sung in every book. 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; i||| 
And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous miss! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy so"nnets, man I — at least they sell.^T[ 

++ "Mr. Pratt, once a Bath bookseller, now a London au- 
thor, has written as much, to as little purpose, as any of 
his scribbling contemporaries. Mi-. P.'s 'Sympathy' is in 
rhyme ; but his prose productions are the most voluminous." 
The more ]3opular of these last were entitled "Gleanings." 

%t See Bowles's " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on hear- 
ing the Bells of Ostend." 

g§ "Awake a lou.der," etc., is the first line in Bowles's 
"Spirit of Discovery;" a verj" spirited and pretty dwarf- 
epic. Among- other exquisite lines we have the following : — 
" A kiss 

Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 

Here heard; they trembled even as if the power," etc., etc. 
That is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss ; very much 
astonished, as well they might be, at such a phenomenon.— 
"Misquoted and misunderstood by me; but not intention- 
ally. It was not the 'woods,' but the people in them who 
trembled —why. Heaven only knows— unless they were over- 
heard making the prodigious smack."— B. 1816. 

III! The episode above alluded to is the story of "Robert a 
Machin " and " Anna d'Ai-fet," a pair of constant lovers, who 
perfoi-med the kiss above mentioned, that startled the 
woods of Madeira. 

til "Although," says Lord Byron, in 1821, "I regret having 

published 'English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,' the part 

343 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
Prompt tliy crude brain, and claim tbee for a scribe ; 
If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd, 
;Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
If Pope, wiiose fame and genius, from the first, 
Have foiPd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan ; 
The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
Pake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll ;* 
Let all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
Aifect a candor which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
Write, as if Saint John's soul could still inspire, 
And do from hate what Mallet f did for ]iire. 
Oh I hadst thou lived in that congenial time. 
To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ; J 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
Xot raised thy hoof against the lion dead ;^ 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains. 
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. |1 

Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
IMore books of blank upon tlie sons of men ? 
Bceotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast. 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon ! 1[ who '11 buy ? who 'ILbuy ? 
The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat ; 
If commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he sold. 
Oh, Amos Cottle !— Phoebus ! wdiat a name. 
To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
"Wliat meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
AVhen thus devoted to poetic dreams. 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 



which I regret the least is that which regards Mr. Bowles, 
with reference to Pope. Whilst I was writing that publi- 
cation, in 1807 and 1808, Mr. Hobhouse was desirous that I 
should express our mutual opinion of Pope, and of Mr. 
Bowles's edition of his works. As I had completed my out- 
line, and felt lazy, I requested that lie would do so. He did 
it. His fourteen lines on Bowles's Pope are in the first edi- 
tion of 'English Bards,' and are quite as severe, and much 
more poetical, than my own in the second. On reprinting 
the work, as I put my name to it, I omitted Mr. Hobhouse's 
lines, by which the work gained less than Mr. Bowles's." — 
The following were the opening lines written by ]VIr. Hob- 
house :— 

*■' Stick to thy sonnets, man !— at least they sell. 
Or take the only path that open lies." 

* Curll is one of the heroes of the Dunciad, and was a book- 
seller. Lord Fanny is the poetical name of Lord Hervey, au- 
thor oi " Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 

t Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his 
decease, because the poet had retained some copies of a work 
by Lord Bolingbroke,— " The Patriot King,"— which that 
splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be destroj^ed. 

% Dennis the critic, and Ralph the rhymester.— 

" Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
Making night hideous : answer him, ye owls !"— 

Dunciad. 

§ See Bowles's late edition of Pope's Works, for which he 
received three hundi^ed pounds. Thus Mr. B. has experi- 
enced how much easier it is to profit by the reputation of 
another than to elevate his own. 

II Lord Byron's MS. note of 1816 on this passage is,— "Too 
savage all this on Bowles." 

IT ''Fresh fish from Helicon •"—" Helicon " is a mountain, 
and not a fish-pond. It should have been " Hippocrene."— 
B. 1816. 

** Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, but one 
344 



Oh, pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle** still adorn'd the counter's side, 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
Been taught to make the paper which he soils, 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty limb. 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him.ff 

As Sisjqjhus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Dull Maurice J J all his granite weight of leaves: 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain. 
That, ere they reach the top, fall lumbering back 
again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcffius wanders down the vale ; 
Though fair they rose, and might have bloom 'd at 

last. 
His hopes have perish'd by the northern blast : 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales. 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
O'er his lost works let classic Shefiield weep ; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep! ^g 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favor from the sacred Nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
A coward brood, wiiich mangle as they prey. 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the blood -hounds back to Arthur 'r3 
Seat? nil 

Health to immortal Jeffrey ! HH once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resign'd his trust, 



or both, once sellers of books they did not write, and now 
writers of books they do not sell, have published a pair of 
epics. "Alfred,"— (poor Alfred ! Pye has been at him too !) 
— " Alfred," and the "Fall of Cambria." 

•H- Here Lord B. notes in 1816 :— " AU right. I saw some let- 
ters of this fellow (Joseph Cottle) to an unfortunate poetess, 
whose productions, which the poor woman by no means 
thought vainly of, he attacked so roughly and bitterly, that 
I could hardly resist assailing him, even were it unjust, 
which it is not— for verily he is an ass." — B. 1816. — The same 
person has had the honor to be recorded in the An ti jacobin, 
probably by Canning :— 

" And Cottle, not he who that Alfred made famous. 
But Joseph, of Bristol, the brother of Amos." 

tt Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of 
a ponderous quarto, upon the beauties of "Richmond Hill," 
and the like:— it also takes in a charming view of Turnham 
Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the 
parts adjacent.— The Rev. Thomas Maurice also wrote 
"Westminster Abbey," and other poems, the "History of 
Ancient and Modern Hindostan," etc., and his own "Memoirs ; 
comprehending Anecdotes of Literary Characters, during a 
period of thirty years;"— a very amusing piece of autobiog- 
raphy. He died in 1834, at his apartments in the British Mu- 
seum, where he had been for some years assistant keeper of 
MSS. 

§§ Poor Montgomery, though praised by every English Re- 
view, has been bitterly reviled by the Edinburgh. After all, 
the bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius. His 
"Wandex-er of Switzerland" is woi'th a thousand "Lyrical 
Ballads," and at least fifty " degraded epics." 

Ilil Arthur's Seat, the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 

l.'i Mr. Jeffrey, who, after the first number or two, suc- 
ceeded the Rev. Sydney Smith in the editorship of the Edin- 
burgh Review, retired from his critical post some little time 
before he was appointed lord advocate for Scotland. 



i 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



And given the spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters, as lie sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw; 
Since well instructed in the patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool. 
Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
Back to tlie sway they forfeited before, 
His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ? * 
Let Jeffreys' shade indulge the pious hope. 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope: 
'' Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
Skiird to condemn as to traduce mankind. 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars. 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars! 
Can none remember th.at eventful day,t 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met liis eye. 
And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by? J 
Oh, day disastrous"^! on her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock; 
Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
Low groan'd tlie startled whirlwinds of the north; 
Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
The other half pursued its calm career ; I 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base. 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place. 
The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
If Jeffrey died, except within her arms: || 
Xay last, not least, on tbat portentous morn. 
The sixteenth story, where himself Avas born, 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground. 
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound : 



* "Too ferocious — this is mere insanity."— B. 1816. 
+ "All this is bad, because personal."— B. 1816. 

* In 1806, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk-Farm. 
The duel was prevented by the interference of the magis- 
tracy; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols were 
found to have evaporated. This incident gave occasion to 
much wagg-ery in the daily prints.— The above note was struck I 
out of the fifth edition, and the following-, after being- sub- | 
mittedtoMr. Moore, substituted in its place: "I am informed j 
that Mr. Moore published at the time a disavowal of the state- 
ments in the newspapers, as far as regarded himself; and, in 
justice to him, I mention this circumstance. As I never 
heard of it before, I cannot state the particulars, and was 
only made acquainted with the fact very lately."— November 
4, 1811. 

§ The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would 
have been highly reprehensible in the English half of the 
river to have shown the smallest symptom of apprehension. 

II This display of sjTnpathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the 
principal prison in Edinburgh), which truly seems to have 
been most affected on this occasion, is much to be com- 
mended. It was to be apprehended, that the manj" unhappy 
criminals executed in the front might have rendered the 
edifice more callous. She is said to be of the softer sex, be- 
cause her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, 
though, like most feminine impulses, perhaps a little selfish. 

1 His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the 
Athenian Society and re\aewer of "Gell's Topography of 
Troy."— George Hamilton Gordon, fourth earl of Aberdeen, 
K.T., F.R.S., and P.S.A. In 1822, his lordship published an 
"Inquiry into the Principles of Beauty in Grecian Archi- 
tecture." 

** Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. 
One of the principal pieces is a " Song on the Recovery of 
Thor's Hammer: " the translation is a pleasant chant in the 
\-ulgar tongue, and endeth thus :— 



Strew 'd were the streets around with milk-white 

reams, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
This of his candor seem'd the sable dew, 
That of liis valor show'd the bloodless hue; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
But Caledonia's goddess hover'cl o'er 
The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore ; 
From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
And straight restored it to her favorite's head ; 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r. 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden show'r. 
And, though the thickening dross will scarce re- 
fine. 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
" My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore again, 
Resign the pistol and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country,"and Britannia's guide ! 
For long as xVlbion's heedless sons submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit. 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign, ■ 

Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. ' 

Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
xVnd own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat-fed phalanx shall be seen 
Tiie travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.^ 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer,** and some- 
times. 
In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes. 
Sinug Sydney ft too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Hallam.tt much renown'd for Greek ; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
And paltry Pillans^i shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary. Lambe,|l|| 
Damn'd like the devil, devil-like will damn. 
Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Tliy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
While grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
To Holland's liirelings and to learning's foes. 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 

" Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
The hammer's bruises were her lot. 
Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 

The Hon. "William Herbert, brother to the Earl of Carnarvon. 
He also published, in 1811, "Helga," a poem in seven cantos. 

4-+ The Rev. Sydney Smith, the reputed author of Peter 
Plj'mley's Letters. Sundrj- criticisms, and many other pieces 
published anonymously or pseudonymously, are generally 
ascribed to this eminentlj^ witty person, who has put forth 
nothing, it is believed, in his own name, except a volume of 
sermons. 

%t Mr. Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's "Taste," and was 
exceedingly severe on some Greek verses therein. It was not 
discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press rendered 
it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an ever- 
lasting monument of Hallam's ingenuity.— JVofe added to 
second edition. The said Hallam is incensed because he is 
falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth at Holland House. 
1 f this be true, I am sorry— not for having said so, but on 
his account, as I understand his lordship's feasts are prefer- 
able to his compositions. HaUam, thus attacked,was the great" 
author of "The Middle Ages," etc. 

§§ Pillans, a tutor at Eton.— Mr. Pillans became afterwards 
rector of the High School of Edinburgh, and finally Pro- 
fessor of Humanity in that University. There was not, it 
is believed, the slightest foundation for the charge in the 
text. 

III! The Hon. George Lambe reviewed " Beresford's Miser- 
ies," and is moreover author of a farce enacted -vNith much 
applause at the priory, Stanmore ; and damned with great 
expedition at the late Theatre, Covent Garden. It was en- 
titled " Whistle for it."— Mr. Lambe was, in 1818, the successful 
candidate for the representation of Westminster, in opposi- 
tion to Mr. Hobhouse; who, however, defeated him in the 
following year. He died in 1833. 
345 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the 

sale, 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauMowers to kale." 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd 
Her son, and vanished, in a Scottish mist.f 

Then prosper, Jeffrey ! pertest of tlie train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion swells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets. 
And showers their odors on thy candid sheets. 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear.t 
Lo ! blusliing Itch, coy nymph, enamor'd grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to tliee alone 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men. 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen! 
Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot. 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot ! § 
Holland, witli Henry Petty |1 at his back, 
Tlie whipper-in and huntsman of tlie pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House ,^ 
Where Scotchmen feed, and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his lordship's work. 
And, grateful for the dainties on his plate j 
Declare his landlord can at least translate ! ** 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight, 
They write for food — and feed because they wTite : 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape. 
Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 



* Mr, Bi'ougham, in No. XXV. of the Edinburgh Review, 
throughout the article concerning Don Pedro de Cevallos, 
has displayed more politics than policy ; many of the worthy 
burgesses of Edinburgh being so incensed at the infamous 
pi'inciples it evinces, as to have withdrawn their subscrip- 
tions.— Here followed in the first edition,— " The name of 
this personage is pronounced Broom in the south, but the 
truly northern and musical pronunciation is Brough-am, in 
two syllables ; " but for this Lord B. substituted in the second 
edition:— "It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I 
supposed, but a Borderer, and his name is pronounced Broom, 
from Trent to Tay :— so be it." [Lord Brougham died May 9, 
1868.] 

+ I ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing 
a new goddess with short petticoats to their notice : but, alas ! 
what was to be done? I could not say Caledonia's genius, it 
being well known there is no such genius to be found from 
Clackmanan to Caithness ; yet, without supernatural agency, 
how was Jeffrey to be saved? The national "kelpies" are 
too unpoetical, and the "brownies" and "gude neighbors" 
(spirits of a good disposition) refused to extricate him. A 
goddess, therefore, has been called for the purpose : and great 
ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only 
communication he ever held, or is likely to hold, with any 
thing heavenly. 

$ See the color of the back binding of the Edinburgh Re- 
view. 

§ " Bad enough, and on mistaken grounds too."— B. 1816. 

II Lord Henry Petty ;— afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne. 

% In 1813, Lord Byron dedicated the Bride of Abydos to 
Lord Holland ; and we find in his Journal (Nov. 17) tliis pas- 
sage :— " I have had a most kind letter from Lord Holland 
on the Bride of Abydos, which he likes, and so does Lady 
H. This is very good-natured in both, from whom I don't 
deserve any quarter. Yet I did think at the time, that my 
cause of enmity proceeded from Holland House, and am 
glad I was wrong, and wish I had not been in such a hurry 
with that confounded satire, of which I would suppress even 
the memory ; but people, now they can't get it, make a fuss, 
I verily believe out of contradiction." 

** Lord Holland has translated some specimens of Lope de 
Vega, inserted in his life of the author. Both are bepraised 
by his disinterested guests. 

++ Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed 
her matchless wit in the Edinburgh Review. However that 
may be, we know, from good authority, that the manu- 
346 



And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and retines the whole, ff 

Now to the Drama turn— Oh, motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite I 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,tt 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomania 's 

o'er, 
And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
Wiiile British critics suffer scenes like these ; 
While Reynolds vents his " damines! " " poohsl " 

and '^ zounds I "^^ 
And commonplace and common sense confounds ? 
While Kenney's "World" — ah! where is Ken- 

ney'sllll wit?- 
Tires the sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
And Beaumont's pilfer 'd Caratach affords 
A tragedy complete in all but words r* ^f 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
The degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shame and talent gone ? 
Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ! 
Awake,GeorgeColmanI**"" Cumberland,!!! awake ! 
Ring the alarum-bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools ; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give, as thy last memorial to the age. 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 



scripts are submitted to her perusal— no doubt, for correc- 
tion. 

$$ In the melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt 
into a barrel on the stage ; a new asylum for distressed he- 
roes. — In the original MS. the note stands thus: — "In the 
melodrama of Tekeli, that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel 
on the stage, and Count Evrard in the ' Fortress ' hides him- 
self in a green-house built expressly for the occasion. 'T is a 
pity that Theodore Hook, who is really a man of talent, 
should confine his genius to such paltry productions as the 
'Fortress,' 'Music Mad,' etc., etc." — This extraordinary hu- 
morist, who was a mere boy at the date of Lord Byron's 
satire, afterwards distinguished himself bj^ works more wor- 
thy of his abilities— nine volumes of highlj' popular novels, 
entitled " Sayings and Doings "— " Gilbert Gurney "—a world 
of political jeux d' esprit, etc., etc. 

§§ All these are favorite expressions of Mr. Reynolds, and 
prominent in his comedies, living and defunct. — The reader is 
i-el'erred to Mr. Reynolds's Autobiography, published in 1826, 
for a full account of his voluminous writings for the stage. 

III! Mr. Kenney has since written many successful dramas. 

in Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the new manager of Drurj' Lane 
theatre, stripped the tragedy of Bonduca of the dialogue, 
and exhibited the scfenes as the spectacle of Caractaeus. 
Was this worthy of his sire ? or of himself ? — Thomas Sher- 
idan, who united much of the con^-ivaal wit of his parent to 
many amiable qualities, received, after the termination of 
his theatrical management, the appointment of colonial pay- 
master at the Cape of Good Hope, where he died in Septem- 
ber, 1817, leaving a widow, whose novel of "Carwell" has 
obtained much approbation, and several children ; among 
others, the Honorable Mrs. Norton, the accomplished au- 
thoress of "Rosalie" and other poems, "Lost and Saved," 
etc. 

*** Lord Byron entertained a high opinion of George Col- 
man's convivial powers.— "If I had," he says, "to choose, 
and could not have both at a time, I should say, 'Let me be- 
gin the evening with Sheridan, and finish it with Colman.' 
Sheridan for dinner, and Colman for supper ; Sheridan for 
claret or port, but Colman for everj' thing. Sheridan was a 
grenadier company of life-guards, but Colman a whole regi- 
ment—of light infantry, to be sure, but still a regiment." 
Mr. Colman died in October, 1836. 

•Ht Richard Cumberland, the well-known author of the 
"West Indian," the "Observe!-," and one of the most inter- 
esting of autobiographies, died in 1811. 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Gods! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Where Garrick trod, and Siddons lives to tread V * 
On those shall Farce display BiilToon'r^^'s mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce . 
From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose, 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot. 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. f 
And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise. 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Kenown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; % 
Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five facetious acts comes thundering on,§ 
While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Kather than sleep, why John applauds it too. 

Such are we now. All ! wherefore should we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame. 
Or, kind to dullness, do you fear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles of our present race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons, 1| 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humor than grimace.^ 

Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
To soften manners, but corrupt the lieart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er tlie town. 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down : 
Let wedded strumpets languisli o'er Deshayes, 
And bless the promise which his form displays ; 
AVhile Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looks 
Of hoary marquesses and stripling dukes : 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless veil ; 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow. 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ; 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
Strain her fair neck, and charm tlie listening throng! 
Whet not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
Keforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
And beer undrawn, and beards unmovv'n, display 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 



* In all editions previous to the fifth, It was, " Kemble 
lives to tread." Lord Byron used to say, that, " of actors, 
Cooke was the most natui'al, Kemble the most supernatural, 
Kean the medium between the two ; but that Mrs. Siddons 
was worth them all put together." Such effect, however, 
had Kean's acting on his mind, that once, on seeing- him play 
Sir Giles Overreach, he was seized with a sort of convulsive 
fit. John Kemble died in 1823,— his illustrious sister in 1830. 

+ Dibdin's pantomime of Mother Goose had a run of nearly 
a hundred nights, and brought more than twenty thousand 
pounds to the treasury of Covent Garden theatre. 

% Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury 
Lane theatre— as such, Mr. SkeflBngton is much indebted to 
him. 

§ Mr. (afterwards Sir Lumley) Skelfington is the illustrious 
author of the " Sleeping Beauty; " and some comedies, par- 
ticularly "Maids and Bachelors :" Baccalaurii baculo magis 
quam lauro digni. 

li Naldi and Catalan! require little notice ; for the visage 
of the one and the salary of the other will enable us long 
to recollect these amusing vagabonds. Besides, Ave are still 
black and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the 
lady's appearance in trousers. 

IThe following twenty lines were struck ofE one night 



Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle ! ** 
Where yon proud palace. Fashion's hallow'd fane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
Behold the new Petroniusff of the day, 
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir. 
The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre. 
The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance. 
The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine. 
For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords com- 
bine: 
Each to his humor— Comus all allows ; 
Champagne, dice, music, or your neighbor's spouse. 
Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
Of piteous ruin, Avhich ourselves have made ; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
]S'or think of poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggiar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
The audience take their turn upon the floor; 
Now round the floor the circling dow'gers sweep, 
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap ; 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter 'd limb ! 
Those for Hibernians lusty sons repair 
With art the charms which nature could not 

spare ; 
These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Kor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
AVhere, all forgotten but the power to please, 
Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : 
There the blithe youngster, just return'd from 

Spain, 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster's set, and seven 's the nick, 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire. 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here 's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife ; XX 
Fit consummation of an earthly race. 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials, o'er the bed of death, 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wav'ring 

breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all. 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl. 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall. ^§ 



after Lord Byron's return from the opera, and sent the next 
morning to the printer, with a request to have them placed 
where they now appear. 

** To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a 
man, I beg leave to state, that it is the Institution, and not the 
duke of that name, which is here alluded to. A gentleman, 
Avith whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle 
Rooms several thousand pounds at backgammon.* 

•H* Petronius " arbiter elegantiarum " to Nero, "and a very 
pretty fellow in his day," as Mr. Congreve's "Old Bachelor " 
saith of Hannibal. 

t% The original reading was, " a Paget for your wife." 

§§ I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On "Sunday night 
I beheld him presiding at his own table, in all the honest 
pride of hospitality, on Wednesday morning, at three o'clock, 
I saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feel- 
ing, and a host of passions. He was a gallant and successful 
oflBcer ; his faults were the faults of a sailor [those of dissipa- 
tion]— as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a 
brave man in a better cause : for had he fallen in like manner 



* " True. It was Billy Way -who lost the money. I knew him. and 
was a subscriber to the Argyle at the time of the event." — B. 181S. 

347 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his 

hand 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and clioose the wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To fight my course through passion's countless 

host,* 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray— 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
iSuch scenes, such men, destroy the public weal : 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
'' What art thou better, meddling fool,t than they?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle— a moralist in me. 
No matter— when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gifford perchance, shall raise the chastening song, 
Then sleep my pen for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, t 
Why should we call tliem from their dark abode. 
In broad Saint Giles's or in Tottenham road ? 
Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond Street or the Square ? 
If things of ton their harmless laj^s indite. 
Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
What harm ? In spite of every critic elf. 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
Miles Andrews § still his strength in couplets try, 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times. 
Ah ! wlio would take their titles with their rhymes ? 
Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits tied, 
No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
No muse will cheer, with renovating smile. 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. || 
The puny school-boy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away ; 



on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, 
his last moments would have been held up \)y his country- 
men as an example to succeeding heroes.— Lord Falkland 
was killed in a duel by Mr. Powell, in ]809. It was not bj' 
words only that Lord Bj'ron gave proof of sj^mpathy on the 
melancholy occasion. Though his own difficulties pressed 
on him at the time, he contrived to administer relief to the 
widow and children of his friend. 

* " Yes ; and a precious chase they led me."— B. 1816. 

+ '"''Fool enough, certainly, then, and no wiser since." — B. 1816. 

$ What would be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, 
Haflz, could he rise from his splendid sepulchre at Sheeraz 
(where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the Oriental 
Homer and Catullus), and behold his name assumed by one 
Stott of Dromore, the most impudent and execrable of liter- 
ary poachers for the daily prints ? 

§ Miles Peter Andrews, many years M.P. for Bewdle5% 
colonel of the Prince of Wales's Volunteers, proprietor of a 
gunpowder manufactory at Dartford, author of numerous 
prologues, epilogues, and farces, and one of the heroes of the 
Baviad. He died in 1814. 

II On being told that it was believed he alluded to Lord 
Carlisle's nervous disorder in this line. Lord Bj'ron exclaimed, 
—"I thank heaven I did not knovr it; and would not, could 
not, if I had. I must naturally be the last person to be 
pointed on defects or maladies." 

T The Earl of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen- 
penny pamphlet on the state of the stage, and offers his plan 
for building a new theatre. It is to be hoped his lordship will 
be permitted to bring forward any thing for the stage — except 
his own tragedies. 

♦* " Doff that lion's hide, 

And hang a calf-skin on those recreant limbs." 

Shak. : King John. 
348 



But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse. 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow worse ? 
What heterogeneous honors deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, and pamphleteer;^ 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age. 
His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage; 
But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough ! " 
Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh. 
And case his volumes in congenial calf : 
Yes ! doff that covering, wdiere morocco shines, 
xlnd hang a calf -skin** on those recreant lines. ff 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not : Gilford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your numerous band. 
On '' all the talents " vent your venal spleen ; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew. 
And Melville's Mantle XX prove a blanket too ! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard. 
And, peace be wdth you ! 't is your best reward. 
Such damning fame^as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live ; 
But now at once j^our lleeting labors close. 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lovely Rosa's prose in masquerade. 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of lier mind, 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. §§ 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals till. 
Some stragglers skirmish round the columns still ; 
Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Hafiz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain'd to the signature of O. P. Q.|l|| 

AYhen some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall,1i^ 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl. 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
Saint Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse. 
Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds 

applaud I 
How ladies read, and literati laud!*** 



Lord Carlisle's works, most resplendently bound, form a 
conspicuous ornament to his book-shelves: — 

" The rest is all but leather and prunella." 

++ "Wrong also— the provocation was not sufficient to jus- 
tify the acei'bitj'."— B. 1816.— Lord Byron greatly regretted the 
sarcasms he had published against his noble relation, under 
the mistaken impression that Lord Carlisle had intentionallj^ 
slighted him. In a letter to Mr. Rogers, written in 1814, he 
asks,— "Is there any chance or possibility of making it up 
with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do any thing reason- 
able or unreasonable to effect it." And in stanza xxix,, 
third canto of Childe Harold, he feelingly adverts to the fate 
of the Hon. Frederick Howard, Lord Carlisle's youngest son, 
one of those who fell gloriously at Waterloo. 

tt " Melville's Mantle," a parodj'- on "Elijah's Mantle," a 
poem. 

§§ This lovely little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew 
King, seems to be a follower of the Delia Crusca school, and 
has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities in 
rhj-m.e, as times go ; besides sundi-y novels iu the style of the 
first edition of the Monk.—" She since married the Morning 
Post— an exceeding good match; and is now dead— which is 
better."— B. 1816. 

nil These are the signatures of various worthies who figure 
in the poetical departments of the newspapers. 

T^ Joseph Blackett, the shoemaker. He died at Seahara, in 
1810. His poems were afterwards collected by Pratt: and, 
oddly enough, his principal patroness was Miss Milbanke, then 
a perfect stranger to Lord Byron. 

*** L" This was meant for poor Blackett, who was then pa- 
tronized by A. J. B." (Lady Byron) ; " but that T did not know, 
or this would not have beea written, at least I think not."— 
B. 1816.] 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 

'T is sheer ill-nature — don't the world know Lest ? 

Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 

And Capel Lofft* declares 'tis quite sublime. 

Hear, then, ye hai)])y sons of needless trade ! 

Swains ! quit the ])lough, resign the useless spade ! 

Lo ! Burns t and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 

Gifford was born beneath an adverse star. 

Forsook the labors of a servile state, 

Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over fate : 

Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, 

Bloomfield ? why not on brother Nathan too V % 

Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized ; 

Xot inspiration, but a mind diseased: 

And now no boor can seek his last abode, 

No common be enclosed without an ode. 

Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 

On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle. 

Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole. 

Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 

Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 

Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 

So shall the fair your handy work peruse. 

Your sonnets sure shall please— perhaps your shoes. 

May Moorland weavers § boast Pindaric skill. 

And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 

While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes. 

And pay for poems— when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
Xeglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
Come forth, oh, Campbell! || give thy talents scope ; 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! ^ rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
And — strike to wonted tones thy hallowed lyre ; 
Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honor and thine own.'*'^ 
What ! must deserted Poesy still weep 
Wliere her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns, 

* Capel Lofft, Esq., the Mn?cenas of shoemakers, and 
preface- writer-general to distressed versemen ; a kind of 
gratis accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of 
rhyme, but do not know how to bring forth.— The poet 
Bloomfield owed his first celebritj' to the notice of Capel 
Lofft and Thomas Hill, Esquires, who read his "Fai-mer's 
Boj'," in manuscript, recommended it to a publisher, and by 
their influence in society and literature, soon drew g-eneral 
attention to its merits. It is distressing- to remember that, 
after all that had been done by the zeal of a few friends, the 
public sympathy did not rest permanentlj' on the amiable 
Bloomfield, who died in extreme poverty in 1823. 

+ " Read Burns to-day. What would he have been if a 
patrician? W^e should have had more polish— less force — 
just as much verse, biat no immortalitj^- a diAorce and a duel 
or two, the which had he surxived, as his potations must have 
been less spirituous, he might have lived as long- as Sheridan, 
and outlived as much as poor Brinsley."— Bi/)^OH JouniaU 
1813. 

t See Nathaniel Bloomfield's ode, eleg-y, or whatever he or 
any one else chooses to call it, on the enclosures of " Honing-- 
ton Green." 

§ Vide "Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of 
Staffordshire."" 

II It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader 
the authors of "■ The Pleasures of Memory " and " The Pleas- 
ures of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poems in our 
language, if we except Pope's "Essay on Man;" but so 
many poetasters have started up, that even the names of 
Campbell and Rogers are become strange.— Beneath this note 
Lord Byron scribbled, in 1816— 

"Pretty Miss Jacqueline 
Had a nose aquiline. 
And would assert rude 
Things of Miss Gertrude ; 
While Mr. Marmion 
Led a g-reat army on, 



To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns| 
Xo ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious 

brood. 
The race who rhyme from Polly, or for food, 
Yet still some genuine sons 't is hers to boast, 
AVho, least affecting, still affect the most : 
Peel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
Bear witness Gifford,tt Sotheby,tt Macneil.|§ 

" Why slumbers Gifford ? " once was asked in 

vain: II !| 
Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to inirge ?^^ 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the 

scourge V 
Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
Shall peers or princes tread i)olhition's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
Xor blaze with guilty glare through future time. 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim'd. 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White I *** wdiile life was in its spring. 
And thy 3'oung muse just Avaved her joyous wing. 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away. 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone. 
When Science' self destroy 'd her favorite son ! 
Yes, she too much indulged tliy fond pursuit, 
She sow\l the seeds, but death has reap'd the 

fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 

low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch 'd upon the plain, 
Xo more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
ViewVl his own feather on the fatal dart. 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 

Making- Kehama look 
Like a fierce Mameluke." 

H "I have been reading-," saj's Lord Byron, in 1813, "Mem- 
ory again, and Hope together, and retain all my ])reference 
of the former. His elegance is really AS'onderful— there is no 
such thing as a A'ulgar line in his book." 

** " Rogers has not fulfilled the promise of his first poems, 
but has still very great merit."— B. 1816. 

++ Gifford, author of the Baviad and M8e^^ad, the first satires 
of the day, and translator of Juvenal.— The opinion of Mr. 
Gifford had always great weight Avith Lord Byron. 

tt Sotheby, translator of Wieland's Oberon and Virgil's 
Georgics, and author of "Saul," an epic poem. — Mr. Sotheby 
afterwards essentially i-aised his reputation by various orig- 
inal poems and a translation of the Iliad. He died in 1834. 

§§ Maeneil, whose poems are deservedly popular, particu- 
larly " Scotland's Scaith " and the " Waes of War," of which 
ten thousand copies Avere sold in one mouth.— Hector Mac- 
neii died in 1818. 

III! Lord Bj'ron here alludes to the masterly poem of "New 
Morality" (the joint production of Mr. Canning and Mr. 
Frere), in the Antijacobin, in which Gifford is apostro- 
phized. 

T1^ Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the Baviad and 'Mx- 
■\iad should not be his last original works ; let him remember, 
"Mox in reluctantes dracones."— [Mr. Gifford became the 
editor of the Quarterly Review— which thenceforth occupied 
most of his time— a few months after the first appearance of 
this satire, in 1809.] See ante, portrait, Life of Byron. 

*** Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, 
in consequence of too much exertion In the pursuit of studies 
that would have matured a mind which disease and povei-ty 
could not impair, and Avhich death itself destroyed rather 
than subdued. His poems abound in such beauties as must 
impress the reader with the liveliest regret that so short a 
period was allotted to talents which would have dignified 
even the sacred functions he was destined to assume. 
349 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



While the same plumage that had warm'd liis nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. "■^' 

There be, who say, in these enlighten 'd days, 
That splendid lies are all the poet's prjiise ; 
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
'Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe t attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best.J 

And here let Shee \ and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace ; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid tlie canvas giovf, 
Or pou]' the easy rliyme's harmonious flow ; 
While honors, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the bower 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has mark'd 

afar, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which Glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
AVith hallow'd feelings for those classic lauds; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye! 
Wright ! II 't was thyjiappy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too ; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards !1[ who snatch 'd to 
light 
Those gems too long withheld from modern sight ; 
Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odors breatiie, 
And all their renovated fragrance flung 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue ; 

* Mr. Southey's delightful Life of Kirke White is in every 
one's hands, 

+ " I consider Crabbe and Coleridge as the first of these 
times, in point of power and genius." — B. 1816. 

% This eminent poet and excellent man died at his rectory 
of Ti-owbridge, in February, 1832, aged seventy-eight. With 
the exception of the late Lord Stowell, he was the last sur- 
vi\*ing celebrated man mentioned by Boswell in connection 
tvith Johnson, who re^ased his poem of the " Village." 

§ Mr. Shee, author of "Rhymes on Art" and "Elements 
of Art."— Afterwards Sir Martin Shee, and president of the 
Royal Academy. 

11 Walter Rodwell Wright, late consul-general for the Seven 
Islands, is author of a very beautiful poem, just published : 
it is entitled "Horse lonicae," and is descriptive of the isles 
and the adjacent coast of Greece.— To the third edition, which 
came out in 1816, was added an excellent translation of the 
"Oreste," of Alfleri. After his return to England, Mr. 
Wright was chosen recorder of Bury St. Edmunds. 

T The translators of the Anthology, Bland and Merivale, 
have since published separate poems, which evince genius 
that only requires opportunity to attain eminence.— The late 
Kev. Robert Bland published, in conjunction with Mr. Mer- 
ivale, "Collections from the Greek Anthology." He also 
wrote "Edwy and Elgiva," the "Four Slaves of Cythera," 
etc. In 1814, Mr. Merivale published "Orlando in Ronoes- 
valles ; " and in the following year, "An Ode on the Delivery 
of Europe." He became a commissioner of the Bankruptcy 
Court. 

** The neglect of the "Botanic Garden " is some proof of 
returning taste. The scenery is its sole recommendation. 

t-t" Messrs. Lamb and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of 
Southey and Co.— In 1798, Charles Lamb and Charles Lloyd 
350 



Xow let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse. 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
Jkit not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
Tiiat mighty master of unmeaning rhyme. 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass. 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass; 
While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound: 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.** 

Yet let them not to vulgar Words vv^orth stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void. 
Seems blessed harmony to Lamb and Lloyd : ft 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their being given 
^^"ill point the path , and peal their notes to heaven. 

And thou, too, Scott! %% resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin their meagre Ihies for hire ; 
Enough for genius, if itself inspire ! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
Let simple Wordsworth |^ chime his childish verse, 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at motit, 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from 

Moore, 
And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yoxQ ; 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave. 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine. 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; 
Let Stott, Carlisle, II II Matilda, and the rest 
Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best. 



published in conjunction a volume entitled "Poems in 
Blank Verse." Mr. Lamb was also the author of " John 
Woodville," "Tales from Shakspeare," the "Essays of Ella," 
etc. He died in 1835. Mr. Lloyd has since published " Ed- 
ward Oliver," a novel, "Nugas Canorae," and a translation of 
Altieri's tragedies. 

X% By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem his hero 
or heroine will be less addicted to " gramarj^e," and more to 
grammar, than the Lady of the Lay and her bravo, William 
of Deloraine. 

§§" Unjust."— B. 1816. 

ill! It may be asked Avhy I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, 
my guardian and relative, to whom I dedicated a volume of 
puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship was nomi- 
nal, at least as far as I have been able to discover ; the rela- 
tionship I cannot help, and am very sorry for it ; but, as his 
lordship seemed to forget it On a very essential occasion to 
me, I shall not burden my memory with the recollection. I 
do not think that personal differences sanction the unjust 
condemnation of a brother scribbler; but I see no reason 
why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble 
or ignoble, has, for a series of years, beguiled a " discerning 
public " (as the advertisements have it) with divers reams of 
most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step 
aside to Aituperate the earl : no— his works come fairly in re- 
view v.ath those of other patrician literati. If, before I es- 
caped from my teens, I said any thing in favor of his lord- 
ship's paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, 
and more from the advice of others than my own judgment, 
and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere 
recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to 
be under obligations to Lord Carlisle ; if so, I shall be most 
particularly happy to learn what they are, and when con- 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain, 
Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
Bat thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
Tliy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp— that harp is thine. 
Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler held, 
Than the wild foray of a plundering clan. 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
Tor Sherwood's outlaw tales of Eobin Hood ? 
Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live. 
But own the vast renown a world can give : 
Be known, percliance, when Albion is no more, 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
To future times her faded fame recall, 
And save her glory, though his country fall. 

Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
New eras spread their v>angs, new nations rise, 
And other victors fill the applauding skies ; 
A few brief generations fleet along. 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song : [claim 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest 

blast. 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
And glory, like the phoenix * 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odors, blazes, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons. 
Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies. 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhyme by Hoare,t and epic blank by Hoyle rj 
iS'ot him whose page, if still upheld by whist, ' 
Kequires no sacred theme to bid us list.§ 
Ye I who in Granta's honors would surpass. 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
A foal well v\^orthy of her ancient dam. 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
Forgetting dogg'rel leads not to degrees. 



f erred, that they may be duly appreciated and publicly ac- 
knowledged. What I have humbly advanced as an opinion 
on his printed things, 1 am prepared to support, if necessary, 
by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and cer- 
tain facetious and dainty tragedies bearing his name and 
mark :— 

" What can ennoble knaves, or fools, or cowards ? 
Alas ! not all the blood of all the Howards." 
So says Pope. Amen 1— [" Much too savage, whatever the 
foundation might be." — B. 1816.] 

* "The devil take that phoenix! How came it there?"— 
B. 1816. 

+ The Rev. Charles James Hoare published, in 1808, the 
"Shipwreck of St. Paul," a Seatonian prize poem. 

% The Rev. Charles Hoyle, author of " Exodus, " an epic in 
thirteen books, and several other Seatonian prize poems. 

§ The "Games of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of 
whist, chess, etc., are not to be superseded by the vagaiies of 
his poetical namesake, whose poems comprised, as expressly 
stated in the advertisement, all the "plagues of EgjiJt." 

II " Right enough ; this Avas well deserved, and well laid 
on."— B. 1816. 

T This person, who has lately betrayed the most rabid 
symptoms of confirmed aiithorship, is writer of a poem de- 
nominated the "Art of Pleasing, " a.slucusanon lucendo, con- 
taining little pleasantry and less poetry. He also acts as 
monthly stipendiary and collector of calumnies for the " Sat- 
irist." If this unfortunate young man would exchange the 



A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon. |1 
Condemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; 
Himself a living libel on mankind.^ 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! ^* 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's ft verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's XX worse. ?§ 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave. 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove. 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove ; 
AYliere Bichards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. 1||1 

For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to tell 
My country Avhat her sons should know too well, 
Zeal for her honor bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
1^0 just applause her honor'd name shall lose, 
As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame. 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power. 
What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
'T is thiiie at once, fair Albion ! to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's lovely queen : 
But Rome decay 'd, and Athens strew'd the plain, 
And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in the main ; 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin huii'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate, 
With warning ever scoff 'd at, till too late ; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine. 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine.^^ 

Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest, 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest ! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
M hile Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit. 
And old dame Portland ^*^ fills the place of Pitt. 

Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale; 
And Afric's Coast and Calpe's adverse height. 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight : 



magazines for the mathematics, and endeavor to take a de- 
cent degree in his university, it might eventually prove more 
serviceable than his present salary.— [Mr. Hewson Clarke was 
also the author of " The Saunterer " and a "History of the 
Campaign in Russia."] 

** "Into Cambridgeshire the emperor Probus transported a 
considerable body of Vandals."— Gibbon's Decline and Fall, 
vol. ii., p. 83. There is no reason to doubt the truth of this 
assertion : the breed is still in high perfection. 

++ This gentleman's name requires no praise : the man who 
in translation displays unquestionable genius maj' be well 
expected to excel in original composition, of which it is to 
be hoped we shall soon see a splendid soecimen.— Besides a 
translation of Juvenal, Mr. Hodgson published " Lady Jane 
Grey^" "Sir Edgar," and "The Friends," a poem in four 
boolis. He also translated, in conjunction with Dr. Butler, 
Lucien Bonaparte's unreadable epic of "Charlemagne." 

t-i Hews6n Clarke, esq., as it is written. 

§§ Originally — 
" So sunk in dullness, and so lost in shame, 
That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy name." 

III! The "Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Rich- 
ards. — The Rev. George Richards, D.D., who also sent from 
the press "Songs of the Aboriginal Bards of Britain," "Mod- 
ern France," two volumes of Miscellaneous Poems, and 
Bampton lectures " On the Di^-ine Origin of Prophecy." 

TIT With this verse the satire originally ended. 

*** A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of Portland 
351 



ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS 



Thence sliall I stray through beauty's native clime,* 
Where Kafff is clad in rocks, and crown'd with 

snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting press t 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's recess : 
Let coxcombs, printing as they come from far, 
Snatch his own wreath of ridicule from Carr ; I 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin ii still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu; 
Waste nseless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
^Misshapen monuments and maim'd anticpies ; 
And make their grand saloons a general mart 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topogray)hy to rapid t Gell ;** 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the public ear— at least with prose. 

Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career. 
Prepared for rancor, steel'd 'gainst selfisli fear : 
This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own— 
Tliough not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown : 
!^^y voice was heard again, though not so loud. 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay. 



was likened to an old woman, replied, "he supposed it was 
because he was past hearing-." His grace is now gathered to 
his grandmothers, where he sleeps as sound as ever; hut 
even his sleep was better than his colleagues' waking. 1811. 
* Georgia. 
+ Mount Caucasus. 
$ These four lines originally stood,— 

" But should I back return, no letter'd sage 
Shall drag my commonplace book on the stage ; 
Lot vain Valentia rival luckless Carr, 
And equal him whose work he sought to mar." 
§ In a letter written from Gibx-altar to his friend Hodgson, 
Lord Byron says,—" I have seen Sir John Carr at Seville and 
Cadiz, and, like Swift's barber, have been down on my knees 
to beg he would not put me into black and white." 

H Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, 
with and without noses, in his stone-shop, are the work of 
Phidias! "Credat JudiBus!" 



Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house. 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too are " penetrable stulf : " 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; 
X or fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes : 
But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
I 've learn 'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
Learn 'd to deride the critic's starch decree. 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss, 
Xor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss : 
Xay more, though all my rival rhymesters frown, 
I too can hunt a poetaster do\\^i ; 
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared ; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say: 
This, let the world, which knows not how to spare. 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.ft 



tThe original epithet was "classic." Lord Byron altered 
it in the fifth edition, and added this note :— " ' Rapid,' in- 
deed! He topographized and tjT)ographized King Priam's 
dominions in three days ! I called him ' classic ' before I saw 
the Troad, but since have learned better than to tack to his 
name what don't belong to it." 

** Mr. Cell's Topography of Troy and Ithaca cannot fail to 
ensure the approbation of every man possessed of classical 
taste, as well for the information Mr. Gell conveys to the 
mind of the reader, as for the ability and research the re- 
spective works display.—" Since seeing the plain of Troy, my 
opinions are somewhat changed as to the above note. Geil's 
survey was hasty and superficial,"— B. 1816. 

•f-l- " The greater part of this satire I most sincerely wish had 
never been written— not only on account of the injustice of 
much of the critical, and some of the personal part of it— but 
the tone and temper are such as I cannot approve."— Byron. 
July 14, 1816. Diodati, Geneva. 



POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 

I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to 
the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edin- 
burgh Re^•iewers, are preparing a most vehement critique 
on my poor, gentle, unref^isting Muse, whom they have al- 
ready so bedevilled with their ungodly ribaldry : 

" Tantaene animis coelestibus Iree !" 

I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek 
saith, "An I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had 
seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is 
that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next num- 
ber has passed the Tweed ! But I yet hope to light my pipe 
with it in Persia. 

My northern friends have accused me, with justice, of per- 
sonality towards their great literary anthropophagus, Jef- 
frey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty 
puck, who feed by "lying and slandering," and slake their 
thirst by "evil speaking"? I have adduced facts already 
well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated ray free 
opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury;— what 
scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It 
may be said that I quit England because I have censured 
there "persons of honor and wit about town:" but I am 
coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till 
my return. Those who know me can testify that my mo- 
tives for leaving England are very different from fears, lit- 
erary or personal : those who do not, may one day be con- 
vinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has 
not been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to 
352 



answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of 
sundry cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is over," or, 
in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit nowadays. 

There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi esquire), 
a sizer of Emanuel College, and, I believe, a denizen of Ber- 
wick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages 
to much betted nompany than he has been accustomed to 
meet ; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no rea- 
son that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a 
bear, kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and 
whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented 
from success, has been abusing me, and, what is worse, the 
defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the " Satirist," for 
one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of 
ha^ing given him any provocation ; indeed, I am guiltless of 
ha\ing heard his name till coupled with the " Satirist." He 
has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, 
like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. 
I have now mentioned aU who have done me the honor to 
notice me and mine, that is, my bear and my book, except 
the editor of the " Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman- 
God wot ! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to 
his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is 
about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, Lord Carlisle. 
I hope not : he was one of the few, who, in the very short 
Intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when 
a boy; and whatever he may say or do, "pour on, I will en- 
dure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of 
thanksgiATing to readers, purchasers, and publishers; and, in 
the words of Scott, I wish 

" To all and each a fair good-night. 
And rosy dreams and slumbers light." 



HINTS FROM HOEACE: 

BEING AN ALIiUSION IN ENGI.ISH VEESE TO THE EPISTLE " AD PISONES, DE ARTE TOETICA," AND INTENDED 
AS A SEQUEL TO "ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS."* 



" Ergo fungar vice cotis, acutum 

Reddere quae ferrum valet, exsors ipsa secandi." 

HoR. De Arte Poet. 
"Rhymes are difacult things— they are stubborn things, sir." 

Fieldixg's Amelia. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, March 12, 1811. 
'Wno would not laugh, if Lawrence, hired to grace 
His costly canvas with each flatter'd face, 
Abused his art, till Xature, with a blush. 
Saw cits grow centaurs underneath his brush ? 
Or, should some limner join, for show or sale, 
A maid of honor to a mermaid's tail ? 
Or low Dubost — as once the world has seen — 
Degrade God's creatures in his graphic spleen ? 
Kot all that forced politeness, which defends 
Fools in their faults, could gag his grinning friends. f 
Believe me, Moschus,t like that picture seems 
Tlie book which, sillier than a sick man's dreams, 
Displays a crowd of figures incomplete. 
Poetic nightmares, without head or feet. 2 

Poets and painters, as all artists || know, 
May shoot a little with a lengthen'd bow; 
We claim this mutual mercy for our task. 
And grant in turn the pardon which we ask; 
But make not monsters spring from gentle dams- 
Birds breed not vipers, tigers nurse not lambs. 

A labor'd, long exordium, sometimes tends 
(Like patriot speeches) but to paltry ends ; 
And nonsense in a lofty note goes down 
As pertness passes with a legal gown: 
Thus many a bard describes in pompous strain 
The clear brook babbling through the goodly plain : 
The groves of Granta, and her Gothic halls^ 
King's Coll., Cam's stream, stain'd windows, and 
old walls : 



* "Hints from Horace" was first published in 1831, seven 
years after the poet's death, he feeling during life that its 
publication would be a mere continuation of his bitterness 
as manifested in "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 
Authors are apt, it is said, to estimate their performances 
more according to the trouble they have cost themselves, 
than the pleasure they afford to the public ; and it is only in 
this way that we can pretend to account for the extraordinary 
value which Lord Byron attached, even many long years after 
they were written, to these " Hint? from Horace." The busi- 
ness of translating Horace has hitherto been a hopeless one ; 
and notwithstanding the brilliant cleverness of some pas- 
sages, in both Pope's and Swift's Imitations of him, there 
had been, on the whole, very little to encourge any one to 
meddle seriously even with that less difficult department. 

t In an English newspaper, which finds its way abroad 
wherever there are Englishmen, I read an account of this 

dirty dauber's caricature of Mr. H as a "beast," and the 

consequent action, etc. The circumstance is, probably, too 
well known to require further comment.— The gentleman 
here alluded to was Thomas Hope, Esq., the author of " Ana- 
stasius," and one of the most munificent patrons of art this 
23 



Or, in advent 'reus numbers, neatly aims 
To paint a rainbow, or — the river Thames.^ 

You sketch a tree, and so perhaps may shine — 
But daub a shipwreck like an alehouse sign ; 
You plan a vase — it dwindles to a pot ; 
Tlien glide down Grub Street— fasting and forgot ; 
Laugh'd into Lethe by some quaint Keview, 
Whose wit is never troublesome till — true.** 

In fine, to wdiatsoever you aspire, 
Let it at least be simi)le and entire. 

The greater portion of the rhyming tribe 
(Give ear, my friend, for thou hast been a scribe) 
Are led astray by some peculiar lure. 
I labor to be brief — become obscure ; 
One falls while following elegance too fast ; 
Another soars, inflated with bombast ; 
Too low a third crawls on, afraid to fly, 
He spins his subject to satiety; 
Absurdly varying, he at last engraves 
Fish in the woods, and boars beneath the waves ! 

Unless your care 's exact, your judgment nice. 
The flight from folly leads but into vice ; 
Xone are complete, all wanting in some part, 
Like certain tailors, limited in art. 
For gallygaskins Slowshears is your man ; 
But coats must claim another artisan. ff 



country ever possessed. Having,. somehow, offended an un- 
principled French painter, by name Dubost, that adventurer 
revenged himself by a picture called " Beauty and the Beast," 
in which Mr. Hope and his lady were represented according 
to the well-known fairy story. The picture had too much 
malice not to succeed ; and to the disgrace of John Bull, the 
exhibition of it is said to have fetched thirty pounds in a day. 
A brother of Mrs. Hope thrust his sword through the canvas ; 
and M. Dubost had the consolation to get five pounds dam- 
ages. The affair inade much noise at the time; though Mr. 
Hope had not then placed himself on that seat of literary 
eminence, which he afterwards attained. Probably, indeed, 
no man's reputation in the world was ever so suddenly and 
completelj' altered, as his was by the appearance of his mag- 
nificent romance. He died in 1833. 
% "Moschus." — In the original MS., "Hobhouse." 
§ [" The opening of the poem is, with reference to the orig- 
inal, ingenious."— Moore.] 

II " all artists." — Originally, "we scribblers." 

T " Where pure description held the place of sense." — Pope. 

** "This is pointed, and felicitously expressed." — Moore. 

++ Mere common mortals were commonl}' content with one 

353 



HINTS FRO II HORACE. 



Let squabbling critics by themselves dispute 
This point, as puzzling as a Chancery suit. 

Satiric rhyme first sprang from selfish spleen. 
You doubt — see Dryden, Pope, Saint Patrick's 
dean. % 

Blank verse is now, with one consent, allied 
To Tragedy, and rarely quits iier side. 
Though mad Almanzor rhymed in Pryden's days, 
No sing-song hero rants in modern i)lays ; 
While modest Comedy her verse foregoes 
For jest and mm § in very middling prose. 
Not that our Bens or Beaumonts show the worse, 
Or lose one point, because they wrote in verse. 
But so Thalia pleases to appear, 
Poor virgin ! damn'd some twenty tim^es a year ! 

Whatever the scene, let this advice have weight : — 
Adapt your language to your hero's state. 
At times Melpomene forgets to groan, 
And brisk Thalia takes a serious tone ; 
Nor unregarded will the act pass by 
Wliere angry Townly || lifts his voice on high. 
Again, our Shakspeare limits verse to kings, 
Wlien common prose will serve for common things ; 
And lively Hal resigns heroic ire. 
To " hollowing Hotspur " ^ and the sceptred sire. 

'Tis not enough, ye bards, with all your art, 
To polish poems ; — they must touch the heart : 
Where'er the scene be laid, wiiate'er the song. 
Still let it bear the hearer's soul along ; 
Command your audience or to smile or weep. 
Whichever may please you — anything but sleep. 
The poet claims our tears ; but, by his leave, 
Before I shed them, let me see him grieve. 

If banish 'd Romeo feign 'd nor sigh nor tear, 
Lull'd by his languor, I should sleep or sneer. 
Sad w^ords, no doubt, become a serious face, 
And men look angry in the proper place. 
At double meanings folks seem wondrous sly, 
And sentiment prescribes a pensive eye : 
For nature form'd at first the inward man, 
And actors copy nature — when they can. 
She bids the beating heart with rapture bound. 
Raised to the stars, or levell'd with the ground ; 
And for expression's aid, 't is said, or sung. 
She gave our mind's interpreter — the tongue. 
Who, worn wdth use, of late would fain dispense 
(At least in theatres) with common sense ; 
Overwhelm with sound the boxes, gallery, pit, 
And raise a laugh with anything — but wit. 

To skillful writers it will m.uch import. 
Whence spring their scenes, from common life or 

court ; 
W^hether they seek applause by smile or tear, 
To draw a " Lying Valet," or a " Lear," 
A sage, or rakish youngster wild from school, 
A w^andering " Peregrine," or plain " John Bull ; " 
All persons please when nature's voice prevails, 
Scottish or Irish, born in Wilts or Wales. 

amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott, between the two other 
names.] 

$ "Mac Flecknoe," the "Dunciad," and all Swift's lain- 
pooning- hallads. Whatever their other works may be, these 
originated in personal feelings, and ang-ry retort on unwor- 
thy rivals ; and though the ability of these satires elevates 
the poetical, their poignancy detracts from the personal 
character of the writers. 

§ With all the ^allgar applause and critical abhorrence of 
puns, they have Aristotle on their side ; who permits them to 
orators, and gives them consequence by a g'rave disquisition. 

II Fn Vanbrugh's comedy of the "Pi-ovoked Husband." 

% " And in his ear I '11 hollo Mcrlimer !"— 1 Henry IV. 



Now this to me, I own, seems much the same 
As Vulcan's feet to bear Apollo's frame ; 
Or, with a fair complexion, to expose 
Black eyes, black ringlets, but — a bottle nose! 

Dear authors ! suit j^our topics to your strength. 
And ponder well your subject, and its length ; 
Nor lift your load, before you 're quite a^vare 
What w^eight your shoulders will, or will not, bear. 
15ut lucid Order, and Wit's siren voice, 
Await the pott, skillful in his choice; 
With native eloquence he soars along, 
Grace in his thoughts, and music in his song. 

Let judgment teach him wisely to combine 
With future parts the now omitted line: 
This shall the autlior choose, or that reject. 
Precise in style, and cautious to select ; 
Nor slight applause will candid pens afford 
To him who furnishes a wanting word. 
Then fear not, if 'tis needful, to produce 
Some term unknown, or obsolete in use 
(As Pitt * h.as furnish 'd us a word or two. 
Which lexicographers declined to do) ; 
So you indeed, with care — (but be content 
To take this license rarely) — may invent. 
New words find credit in tliese latter days 
If neatly grafted on a Gallic phrase. 
What Chaucer, Spenser did, we scarce refuse 
To Dryden 's or to Pope's maturer muse. 
If you can add a little, say whv not. 
As well as William Pitt, and Walter Scott ? 
Since they, by force of rhyme and force of lungs. 
Enrich 'd our island's ill-miited tongues ; 
'Tis then — and shall be— lawful to present 
Reform in writing, as in parliament. 

As forests shed their foliage by degrees, 
So fade expressions which in season please ; 
And we and ours, alas! are due to fate. 
And works and w^ords but dwindle to a date. 
Though as a monarch nods, and commerce calls. 
Impetuous rivers stagnate in canals ; 
Though swamps subdued, and marshes drain'd, 

sustain 
The heavy ploughshare and the yellow grain. 
And rising ports along the busy shore 
Protect the vessel from old Ocean's roar. 
All, all must perish : but, surviving last. 
The love of letters half preserves the past. 
True, some decay, yet not a few revive ;! 
Though those shall sink, Avhich now appear to thrive, 
As custom arbitrates, wiiose shifting sw^ay 
Our life and language must alike obey. 

The immortal wars wiiich gods and angels wage. 
Are they not shown in Milton's sacred page ? 
His strain will teach what numbers best belong 
To themes celestial told in epic song. 

The slow, sad stanza will correctly paint 
The lover's anguish, or the friend's complaint. 
But which deserves the laurel — rhyme or blank ? 
Which holds on Helicon the higher rank? 

tailor and with one bill, but the more particular gentlemen 
found it impossible to confide their lower g'arments to the 
makers of ttieir body clothes. I speak of the beginning' of 
1809: what reform may have since taken place, I neither 
know, nor desire to know. 

* Mr. Pitt was liberal in his additions to our parliamentary 
tongue; as may be seen in many publications, particularly 
the Edinburgh Review. 

+ Old ballads, old plaj's, and old women's stories are at 
present in as much request as old wine or new speeches. 
In fact, this is the millennium of black letter: thanks to 
our Hebers, Webers, and Scotts !— [There was considerable 
malice in thus putting Weber, a poor German hack, a mere j 
354 



HINTS FROM HORACE, 



Or follow common fame, or forge a plot ; 
Who cares if mimic heroes lived or not ? 
One precept serves to regulate the scene : — 
Make it appear as if it might have heen. 

If some Drawcansir * you aspire to draw, 
Present him raving, and above all law : 
If female furies in your scheme are plann'd, 
Macbeth 's fierce dame is ready to your liand; 
For tears and treacliery, for good and evil, 
Constance, King Richard, Hamlet, and the Devil ! 
But if a new design you dare essay, 
And freely wander from the beaten way, 
True to your characters, till all be past!| 
Preserve consistency from first to last. 

'T is hard to venture where our betters fail, 
Or lend fresh interest to a twice-told tale ; 
And yet, perchance, 't is wiser to prefer 
A hackney 'd plot, than choose a new, and err; 
Yet copy not too closely, but record, 
More justly, thought for thought than word for 

word, 
]^or trace your prototype through narrow ways. 
But only follow where he merits praise. 

For you, young bard ! whom luckless fate may 
lead 
To tremble on the nod of all who read, 
Ere your first score of cantos time unrolls, 
Beware— for God's sake, don't begin like Bowles If 
"Awake a louder and a loftier strain," — 
And pray, what follow^s from his boiling brain ? — 
He sinks to Southey's leA^el in a trice, 
AYhose epic mountains never fail in mice ! 
Not so of yore awoke your mighty sire 
The temper'd warblings of his master-lyre ; 
Soft as the gentler breathing of the lute, 
" Of man's first disobedience and the fruit " 
He speaks, but, as his subject sv/ells along. 
Earth, heaven, and hades echo with the song.t 
Still to the midst of things he hastens on, 
As if we witness'd all already done ; 
Leaves on his path whatever seems too mean 
To raise the subject, or adorn the scene ; 



* "tfohnson. Pray, Mr. Bayes, who is that Drawcansir? 
Bayes. Why, sir, a great hero, that frights his mistress, 
snubs up Isings, baifles armies, and does what he will, with- 
out i-eg-ard to numbers, good sense, or i^stice."— Rehearsal. 

+ About two j^ears ago a young- man, named Towusend, 
was announced by Mr. Cumberland (in a review since de- 
ceased) as being engaged on an epic poem to be entitled 
" Armageddon." The plan and specimen promise much ; but 
I hope neither to offend Mr. Townsend, nor his friends, by 
recommending to his attention the lines of Horace to which 
these rhymes allude. If Mr. Townsend succeeds in his un- 
dertaking, as there is reason to hope, how much will the 
world be indebted to Mr. Cumberland for bringing him be- 
fore the public ! But, till that eventful day arrives, it may 
be doubted whether the premature display of his plan (sub- 
lime as the ideas confessedly are) has not,— by raising ex- 
pectation too high, or diminishing curiosity, b.v developing 
his argument,— rather incurred the hazard of injuring Mr. 
Townseud's future prospects. Mr. Cumberland (whose 
talents I shall not depreciate by the humble tribute of my 
praise) and Mr. Townsend must not suppose me actuated by 
unworthy motives in this suggestion. I wish the author all 
the success he can wish himself, and shall be truly happy to 
see epic poetry M^eighed up from the bathos where it lies 
sunken with Southey, Cottle, Cowley (Mrs. or Abraham), 
Ogilvy, Wilkie, Pye, and all the " dull of past and present 
days." Even if he is not a Milton, he may be better than 
Blackmore; if not a Homer, aa Antimachus. I should deem 
myself presumptuous, as a young man, in offering ad\ice 
were it not addressed to one still younger. Mr. ToAvnsend 
has the greatest difficulties to encounter : but in conquering 
them he will find emploj-ment; in having conquered them, 
his reward. I know too vi^eil "the scribbler's scoff, the 



Gives, as each page improves upon tlie sight, 
Not smoke from brightness, but from darkness- 
light; 
And truth and fiction with such art compounds, 
We know not wdiere to fix their several bounds. 
If you would please the public, deign to hear 
Wiiat soothes the manj^-headed monster's ear; 
If your heart triumph when tlie hands of all 
Applaud in thunder at the curtain's fall. 
Deserve those plaudits— study nature's page, 
And sketch the striking traits of every age ; 
Wlrile varying man and varying years unfold 
Life's little tale, so oft, so vainly told : 
Observe his simple childhood's davvning days, 
His pranks, his prate, his playmates, and his plays; 
Till time at length the mannish tyro weans. 
Ami prurient vice outstrips his tardy teens ! 

Behold him Freshman ! forced no more to groan 
O'er Virgil's^ devilish verses and his own ; 
Pravers are too tedious, lectures too abstruse, 
He files from Tavell's frown to " Fordham's Mews ;" 
(Unlucky Tavell !|| doom'd to daily cares 
By pugilistic pupils, and by bears,) ^ 
Fines, tutors, tasks, conventions threat in vain, • 
Before hounds, jjunters, and Newmarket plain. 
Rough with his elders, with his equals rash, 
Civil to sharpers, prodigal of cash ; 
Constant to nought— save hazard and a whore. 
Yet cursing both— for both have made him sore ; 
Unread (unless, since books beguile disease, 
The p — X becomes his passage to degrees) ; 
Fool'd, pillaged, dunii'd, he wastes his term away, 
And, unexpeird, perhaps, retires M. A. ; 
Master of arts ! as /cells and duhs *- proclaim, 
Where scarce a blackleg bears a brighter name I 

Launch 'd into life, extinct his early fire, 
He apes the selfish prudence of his sire ; 
Marries for money, chooses friends for rank. 
Buys land, and shrewdly trusts not to the Bank; 
Sits in the Senate ; gets a son and heir; 
Sends him to Harrow, for himself was there. 
Mute, though he votes, unless when call'd to cheer. 
His son 's so sharp — he '11 see the dog a peer ! 



critic's contumely;" and I am afraid time will teach Mr. 
Townsend to know them better. Those v/ho succeed, and 
those Avho do not, must bear this ^ilike, and it is hard to say 
which have the most of it. I trust that Mr. Townsend's 
share will be from envy ;— he Avill soon know mankind well 
enough not to attribute this expression to malice.— This was 
penned at Athens. 

$ "There is more of poetry in these verses upon Milton 
than in anj"^ other passage throughout the paraphrase."— 

MOOHE. 

§ Harvey, the circnlator of the circulation of the blood 
used to fling away Virgil in his ecstasy of admiration, and 
say, " the book had a devil." Now, such a character as I am 
copying would probably fling it away also, but rather wish 
that the devil had the book ; not from dislike to the poet, but 
a well-founded horror of hexameters. Indeed, the public- 
school penance of "Long and Short" is enough to beget an 
antipathy to poetry for the residue of a man's life, and, per- 
haps, so far may be an advantage. 

li " Inf andum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem." I dare say 
Mr. Tavell (to whom I mean no affront) will understand me: 
and it is no matter whether any one else does or no.— To 
tlie above events, "quseque ipse miserrima vidi, et quorum 
pars magna fui," "all times and terms bear testimon5%" 

f The Rev. G. F. Tavell was a fellow and tutor of Trinity 
College, Cambridge, during Lord Byron's residence, and owed 
this notice to the zeal Avith which he had protested against 
some juvenile vagaries, sufficiently explained in Mr. Moore's 
Notices. 

** "Hell," a gaming-house so called, where you risk little, 
and are cheated a good deal. "Club," a pleasant purgatory, 
where you lose more, and are not supposed to be cheated at 
all. 

355 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



Manhood declines— age palsies every limb ; 
lie quits the scene — or else the scene quits him ; 
Scrapes wealth, o'er each departing penny grieves, 
And avarice seizes all ambition leaves ; 
Counts cent, per cent., and smiles, or vainly frets, 
O'er hoards diminisli'd by young Hopeful's debts ; 
Weighs well and wisely what to sell or buy, 
Complete in all life's lessons— but to die ; 
Peevish and spiteful, doting, hard to please, 
Commending every time, save times like these ; 
Crazed, querulous, forsaken, half forgot. 
Expires unwept — is buried — let him rot ! 

But from the Drama let me not digress, 
Nor spare my precepts, though they please you less. 
Though woman weep, and hardest hearts are 

stirr'd. 
When what is done is rather seen than heard, 
Yet many deeds preserved in history's page 
Are better told than acted on the sta^e ; 
The ear sustains what shocks the timid eye, 
And horror thus subsides to sympathy. 
True Briton all "beside, I here am French — 
Bloodshed 't is surely better to retrench ; 
The gladiatorial gore we teach to flow 
In tragic scene disgusts, though but in show : 
We hate the carnag-e wliile we see the trick. 
And find small sympath}^ in being sick. 
JSTot on the stage the regicide Macbeth 
Appalls an audience with a monarch's death ; 
To gaze when sable Hubert threats to sear 
Young Arthur's eyes, can ours or nature bear ? 
A halter'd heroine* Johnson sought to slay— 
We saved Irene, but half damn'd the play. 
And (Heaven be praised !) our tolerating times 
Stint metamorphoses to pantomimes ; 
And Lewis' self, with all his sprites, w^ould quake 
To change Earl Osmond's negro to a snake ! 
Because, in scenes exciting joy or grief. 
We loathe the action which exceeds belief : 
And yet, God knows ! wiiat may not authors do, 
Whose postscripts prate of dyeing ' ' heroines blue ' ' ?t 

Above all things, Dan Poet, if you can. 
Eke out your acts, I pray, with mortal man. 
Nor call a ghost, unless some cursed scrape 
Must open ten trap-doors for your escape. 
Of all the monstrous things I 'd fain forbid, 
I loathe an opera worse than Dennis did ; 
Where good and evil persons, right or wrong. 
Rage, love, and aught but moralize, in song. 
Hail, last memorial of our foreign friends. 
Which Gaul allows, and still Hesperia lends ! 
Napoleon's edicts no embargo lay 
On whores, spies, singers, wisely shipp'd away. 
Our giant capital, whose squares are spread 
Where rustics earn'd, and now may beg, their 

bread, 
In all iniquity is grown so nice. 
It scorns amusements which are not of price. 
Hence the pert shopkeeper, whose throbbing ear 
Aches with orchestras which he pays to hear, 
Whom shame, not sympathy, forbids to snore. 
His anguish doubling by his own " encore ; " 



* "Irene had to speak two lines with the bowstring- round 
her neck ; but the audience cried out ' Murder ! ' and she was 
obliged to go off the stage alive." — BosweWs Johnson. 

f In the postscript to the " Castle Spectre," Mr. Lewis tells 
us, that though blacks were unknown in England at the 
period of his action, yet he has made the anachronism to set 
off the scene; and if be could have produced the effect "by 
making his heroine blue,"— I quote him,— "blue he would 
have made her!" 

t "The first theatrical representations, entitled 'Mj'steries 

and Moralities,' were generally enacted at Christmas, by 

monks (as the only persons who could read), and latterij- by 

the clergy and students of the universities. The dramatis 

356 



Squeezed in '' Pop's Alley," jostled by the beaux, 
Teased with his hat, and trembling for his toes ; 
Scarce wrestles through the night, nor tastes of ease, 
Till the dropp'd curtain gives a glad release : 
Why this, and more, he suffers — can ye guess ? — 
Because it costs him dear, and makes him dress I 

So prosper eunuchs from Etruscan schools ; 
Give us but fiddlers, and they 're sure of fools ! 
Ere scenes were played by many a reverend clerk % 
(What harm, if David danced before the ark V), 
In Christmas revels, simple country folks 
Were pleased with morrice-mumm'ry, and coarse 

jokes. 
Improving years, with things no longer known. 
Produced blithe Punch and merry Madame Joan, 
Who still frisk on with feats so lewdly low, 
'T is strange Benvolio § suffers such a show ; 
Suppressing peer ! to whom each vice gives place, 
Oaths, boxing, begging,— all, save rout and ra^e. 

Parce follow'd Comedy, and reach 'd her prime, 
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time : 
Mad w^ag ! wlio pardon 'd none, nor spared the best. 
And turn'd some very serious things to jest. 
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers. 
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers : 
"Alas, poor Yorick ! " now for ever mute I 
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Poote. 

We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes 
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens, 
When " Chrononhotonthologos must die," 
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty. 

Moschus ! with whom once more I hope to sit, 
And smile at folly, if we can't at wit ; 
Yes, friend ! for thee I '11 quit my cynic cell, 
And bear Swift's motto, " Vive la bagatelle ! " 
Which charm'd our days in each ^gean clime, 
As oft at home, with revelry and rhyme. 
Then may Euphrosyne-, wiio sped the past. 
Soothe thy life's scenes, nor leave thee in the last; 
But find in thine, like pagan Plato's bed,|{ 
Some merry manuscript of mimes, when dead. 

Now to the Drama let us bend our eyes, 
Where fetter'd by whig Walpole low she lies ; 
Corruption foil'd her, for she fear'd her glance ; 
Decorum left her for an opera dance ! 
Yet Chesterfield, whose polislied pen inveighs 
'Gainst laughter, fought for freedom to our plays; 
Uncheck'd by megrims of patrician brains, 
And damning dullness of lord chamberlains. 
Repeal that act ! again let Humor roam 
Wild o'er the stage — we 've time for tears at home. 
Let " Archer " plant the horns on " Sullen 's " brows. 
And "Estifania " gull her •■ Copper "^ spouse ; 
The moral 's scant— but that may be excused, 
Men go not to be lectured, but amused. 
He whom our plays dispose to good or ill 
Must wear a head in want of Willis' skill ; 
Ay, but Macheath's example — psha! — no more 
It form'd no thieves— the thief was form'd before ; 



persoriae were usually Adam, Pater Coelestls, Faith, Vice," 
etc. 

§ Benvolio does not bet; but every man who maintains 
race-horses is a promoter of all the concomitant evils of the 
turf. Avoiding to bet is a little Pharisaical. Is it an excul- 
pation? I think not. 

II Under Plato's pillow a volume of the Mimes of Sophrou 
was found the day he died.— Fi4c Barthelemi, De Pauw, or 
Diogenes Laertius, if agreeable. De Pauw calls it a jest- 
book. Cumbei-land, in his Observer, tei-ms it moral, like the 
sayings of Publius Syrus. 

% Michael Perez, the "Copper Captain," in "Rule a Wife 
and have a Wife." 



HINTS FRO 31 HORACE. 



And, spite of puritans and Collier's curse,* 

Plays make mankind no better, and uo worse. 

Then spare our stage, ye metliodistic men ! 

Nor burn damn'd i)rury if it rise again. 

But why to brain-scorch 'd- bigots thus appeal? 

Can heavenly mercy dwell witii earthly zeal y 

For times of fire and fagot let them hope ! 

Times dear alike to puritan or pope. 

As pious Calvin saw Servetus blaze, 

So would new sects on newer victims gaze. 

E'en now the songs of Solyma begin ; 

Faith cants, perplex 'd apologist of sin ! 

While the l^ord's servant chastens whom he loves, 

And Simeon t kicks, wliere Baxter only '^ shoves. "i 

Whom nature guides, so writes that every dunce, 
Enraptured, thinks to do the same at once ; . 
But after inky thumbs and bitten nails, 
And twenty scatter'd quires, the coxcomb fails. 

Let Pastoral be dumb; for who can hope 
To matcii the youthful eclogues of our Pope ? 
Yet his and Phillips' faults, of different kind, 
For art too rude, for nature too refined. 
Instruct how hard the mediun 't is to hit 
'Twixt too much polish and too coarse a wit. 

A vulgar scribbler, certes, stands disgraced 
In this nice age, wlien all aspire to taste ; 
Tlie dirty language, and the noisome jest, 
W^hich pleased in Swift of yore, we now detest; 
Proscribed not only in the world polite. 
But even too nasty for a city knight ! 

Peace to Swift's faults ' his wit hath made them 
pass, 
Unmatch'd by all, save matchless Hudibras ! 
Whose author is perhaps the first we meet. 
Who from our couplet lopp'd two final feet; 
Nor less in merit than tiie longer line. 
This measure moves a favorite of the Nine. 
Though at first view eight feet may seem in vain 
Form'd, save in ode, to bear a serious strain, 
Yet Scott has shown our wondering isle of late 
This measure shrinks not from a theme of v.^eight, 
And, varied skillfully, surpasses far 
Heroic rhyme, but most in love and w^ar, 
Whose fluctuations, tender or sublime. 
Are curb'd too much by long-recurring rhyme. 

But many a skillful judge abhors to see. 
What few admire— irregularity. 
This some vouchsafe to pardon ; but 't is hard 
When such a word contents a British bard. 

And must the bard his glowing thoughts confi^ne. 
Lest censure hover o'er some faulty line ? 
Remove whate'er a critic may suspect. 
To gain the paltry suffrage of " correct " ? 

* Jerry Collier's controversj- with Congreve, etc., on the 
subject of the drama, is too well known to require further 
comment. 

+ Mr, Simeon is 'the very bully of beliefs, and castig-ator of 
"g-ood works." He is ably supported by John Stickles, a 
laborer in the same vineyard :— but I say no more, for, accord- 
ing- to Johnny in full congregation, '"no hopes for them as 
laughs."— The Rev. Charles Simeon, fellow of King's College, 
Cambridge,— a zealous Calvinist, who, in consequence of his 
zeal, had been engaged in sundry warm disputations with 
other divines of the university. Besides many single ser- 
mons, he also published '* Helps to Composition, or five hun- 
dred Skeleton Sermons," in five volumes ; and " Hone Homi- 
letieae, or Discourses (in the form of skeletons) upon the 
whole Scripture," in eleven volumes, 

* Richard Baxter is described by Granger as "a m_an 
famous for weakness of body and strength of mind ; for 



Or prune the spirit of each daring phrase, 
To fly from error, not to merit praise ? 

Ye, who seek finish 'd models, never cease. 
By day and night, to read the works of Greece. 
But our good fathers never bent their brains 
To heathen Greek; content with native strains. 
The few who read a page, or used a pen. 
Were satisfied with Chaucer and old Ben ; 
The jokes and numbers suited to their taste 
Were quaint and careless, anything but chaste ; 
Yet whether right or WTong the ancient rules. 
It will not do to call our fathers fools ! 
Though you and I, wdio eruditely know 
To separate the elegant and low. 
Can also, wdien a hobbling line appears, 
Detect with fingers, in default of ears. 

In sooth, I do not know, or greatly care 
To learn, who our first English strollers w^ere ; 
Or if, till roofs received the vagrant art, 
Our Muse, like that of Thespis, kept a cart; 
But this is certain, since our Shakspeare's days, 
There 's pomp enough, if little else, in plays; 
Nor will Melpomene ascend her throne 
Without high heels, wdiite plume, and Bristol stone. 

Old comedies still meet with much applause, 
Ti;ough too licentious for dramatic laws : 
At least, we moderns, wisely, 'tis confest, 
Curtail, or silence, the lascivious jest. 

Whate'er tlieir follies, and their faults beside, 
Our enterprising bards pass nought untried ; 
Nor do they merit slight applause who choose 
I An English subject for an English muse. 
And leave to minds which never dare invent 
French flippancy and German sentiment. 
Where is that living language which could claim 
Poetic more, as philosophic, fame. 
If all our bards, more patient of delay, . 
W^ould stop, like Pope,^ to polish by thaw-ay ? 

Lords of the quill, wiiose critical assaults 
O'erthrow whole quartos with their quires of faults, 
Who soon detect, and mark wdiere'er we fail, 
And prove our marble with too nice a nail ! 
Democritus himself was not so bad ; 
He only thought, but you would make, us mad ! 

But truth to say, most rhymers rarely guard 
Against that ridicule they deem so hard ; 
In person negligent, they wear, from sloth. 
Beards of a w^eek, and nails of annual growth ; 
Reside in garrets, fly from those they meet. 
And walk in alleys, "rather than the street. 

With little rhyme, less reason, if you please, 
The name of poet may be got with ease, 

ha'.-ing the strongest sense of religion himself, and exciting a 
sense of it in the thoughtless and profligate; for preaching 
more sermons, engaging in more controversies, and writing 
more books, than any other non-conformist of his age," I3r, 
Barrows says, that " his pi-actical writings were never mended, 
his controversial seldom confuted." On Boswell's asking 
Johnson which of them he should read, the doctor replied, 
"Any of them ; they are all good," 

§ "■ Neither time, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can ever 
diminish my veneration for him who is the great moral poet 
of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of all stages of 
existence. The delight of my boyhood, the study of my 
manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me to attain it) he may be 
the consolation of my age. His poetry is the book of life. 
AVithout canting, and yet without neglecting religion, he has 
assembled all that a good and great man can gather together 
of moral wisdom clothed in consummate beauty."— i3i/r&n. 
Leiters, 1821. 

357 



HINTS FRO 31 HORACE. 



So that not tuns of helleboric juice 

Shall ever turn your head to any use ; 

Write but like Wordsworth, live beside a Lake, 

And keep your bushy locks a year from Blake ;* 

Then print your book, once more return to town, 

Awl boys shall hunt your bardship up and down. 

' Am I not wise, if such some poets' plight, 
To purge in spring — like Bayes t — before I write ? 
If this precaution soften 'd not my bile, 
I know no scribbler with a madder style : 
But since (perhaps my feelings are too nice) 
I cannot purchase fame at such a price, 
I '11 labor gratis as a grinder's wlieel. 
And, blunt myself, give edge to others' steel, 
Xor write at all, unless to teach the art 
To tliose rehearsing for the poet's part ; 
Erom Horace shov/ the pleasing paths of song. 
And from my own example — what is wrong. 

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 
'T is just as well to think before you write ; 
Let every book that suits your theme be read, 
So shall you trace it to the fountain-head. 

He who has learn'd the duty which he owes 
To friends and country, and to pardon foes ; 
Who models his deportment as may best 
xVccord with brother, sire, or stranger guest; 
Who takes our laws and worship as they are, 
^or roars reform for senate, church, and bar; 
In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, 
Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize: 
Such is the man the poet should rehearse, 
As joint exemplar of his life and verse. 

Sometimes a sprightly wdt, and tale well told. 
Without much grace, or weight, or art, wall hold 
A longer empire o'er the public mind 
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined. 

Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days 
The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 
Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts 
With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. 
Our boys (save those whom public schools compel 
To " long and short " before they 're taught to spell) 
From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, 
" A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." 
Babe of a city birth ! from sixpence take 
The third, how much will the remainder make ?— 
" A groat." — "Ah, bravo ! Dick hath done the sum ! 
He '11 swell my fifty thousand to a plum." 



* As famous a tonsor as Licinus himself, and better paid, 
and may, like him, be one day a senator, having- a better 
qualification than one-half of the heads he crops, viz. — inde- 
pendence. 

t " Bayes. Pray, sir, how do you do when you write ? Smith. 
Faith, sir, for the most part I 'm in pretty g'ood health . Bayes. 
I mean, what do j^ou do when you write ? Smith. I take pen, 
ink, and paper, and sit down. Bojjes. Now I write standing — 
that 's one thing- ; and then another thing- is, with what do 
you prepare yourself? Smith. Prepare myself! what the 
devil does the fool mean? Bayes. Why, I'll tell you what I 
do. If I am to write familiar things, as sonnets to Armida, 
and the like, I make use of stewed prunes only : but when I 
have a grand design in hand, I ever take physic and let blood : 
for when you would have a pure swiftness of thought, and 
fiery flights of fancy, you must have a care of the pensive 
part. In fine, you must purge."— Rehearsal. 

X I have not the original by me, but the Italian translation 
runs as follows:— "E una cosa a mio credere molto straA-a- 
gante, cbe un padre desideri, o permetta, che suo figliuolo 
coltivi e porfezioni questo talento." A little further on : "Si 
trovano di rado nel Parnaso le miniere d' oro e d' argento." 

§ " Iro pauperior : " this is the same beggar who boxed with 
Ulj^sses for a pound of kid's fry, which he lost, and half a 
dozen teeth besides. See Odyssey, b. 18. 
358 



They whose young souls receive this rust be- 
times, 
'T is clear, are fit for anything but rhymes ; 
And Locke will tell you, that the father 's right 
Who hides all verses from his childreii's sight; 
For poets (says this sage.t and many more) 
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore ; 
And Delphi now, however rich of old. 
Discovers little silver, and less gold, 
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine, 
Is poor as Irus,^ or an Irish mine.|| 

Two objects always should the poet move, 
Or one or both,— to please or to improve. 
Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design 
For our remembrance your didactic line ; 
Redundance places memory on tlie rack, 
For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. 

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth, 
And fairy fables bubble none but youth : 
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales. 
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales ! 

Young men with aught but elegance dispense ; 
Maturer years require a little sense. 
To end at once : — that bard for all is fit 
Who mmgles well instruction with his wit ; 
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow 
The patronage of Paternoster row ; 
His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass 
(Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass) ; 
Through three long weeks the taste of London 

lead,- 
And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 

But everything has faults, nor is 't unknown 
That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, 
And wayward voices, at their o-s^Tier's call. 
With all his best endeavors, only squall ; 
Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, 
And double-barrels (damn them !) miss their mark.1[ 

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, 
We must not quarrel for a blot or two ; 
But pardon equally to books or men. 
The slips of human nature, and the pen. 

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend. 
Despises all advice too much to mend, 
But ever twangs the same discordant string, 
Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. 
Let Havard's** fate o'ertake him, who, for once. 
Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : 



n The Irish gold mine of Wicklow, which jields just ore 
enough to swear by, or gild a bad guinea. 

t As Mr. Pope took the liberty of damning Homer, to 
whom he was under great obligations— "-^Jid Homer {damn 
him!) calls" — it maybe presumed that any body or any 
thing may be damned in verse by poetical license ; and, iu 
case of accident, I beg leave to plead so illustrious a pre- 
cedent. 

** For the story of Billy Havard's tragedy, see " Davles's 
Life of Garrick." I believe it is "Regulus," or " Charles the 
First." The moment it was known to be his the theatre 
thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the customary 
sum for the copyright.— '' Ilavard," saj^s Davies, "was re- 
duced to great sti-aits, and in order to retrieve his affairs, the 
story of Charles the First was proposed to him as a proper 
subject to engage the public attention. Havard's desire of 
ease was known to be superior to his thirst for fame or 
money; and Giffard, the manager, insisted upon the power 
of locking him up till the Avork Avas finished. To this he 
consented ; and Giffard actually turned the key upon him, 
and let him out at his pleasure, till the play was completed. 
It was acted with great emolument to the manager, and some 
degree of reputation, as well as gain, to the author. It drew 
large crowds to the theatre : cui'iosity Avas excited with re- 
spect to the author: that was a secret to be kept from the 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



At first none deem'd it his ; but when his name 
Announced the fact — what then ? — it lost its fame. 
Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, 
In a long work 't is fair to steal repose. 

As pictures, so shall poems be ; some stand 
The critic eye, and please when near at hand ; 
But others at a distance strike the sight ; 
This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, 
ISTor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view. 
But, ten times scrutinized, is ten times new. 

Parnassian pilgrims ! ye whom chance or choice 
Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, 
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise ; 
Few reach the summit which before jovl lies. 
Our church and state, our courts and camps, concede 
Reward to very moderate heads indeed ! 
In these plain common sense will travel far ; 
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar : 
But poesy between the best and worst 
No medium knows ; you must be last or first ; 
For middling poets' miseriiExble volumes 
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and columns. 

Again, my Jeffrey !— as that sound inspires, 
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires ! 
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel 
When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, 
Or mild Eclectics,* when some, worse than Turks, 
Would rob poor Faith to decorate "good works." 
Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim — 
My falcon flies not at ignoble game. 
Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase ! 
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace. 
Arise, my Jeffrey ! or my inkless pen 
Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ; 
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, 
Alas ! "I cannot strike at wretched kernes. "f 
Inhuman Saxon ! wilt thou then resign 
A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine ? 
Dear,d — d contemner of my school-boy songs, 
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's wrongs ? 
If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, 
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed ? 
What ! not a word !— and am I then so low ? 
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe ? 
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent ? 
jSTo wit for nobles, dunces by descent ? 
No jest on " minors," quibbles on a name, J 
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame '? 



people; but Havard's love of fame would not suffer it to be 
concealed longer than the tenth or twelfth night of acting 
the play. The moment Havard put on the sword and tie- 
wig, the genteel dress of the times, and professed himself to 
be the wi-iter of 'Charles the First,' the audiences were 
thinned, and the bookseller refused to give the usual sum of 
a hundred pounds for the copyright." 

* The folloAving is the charitable passage in the Eclectic 
Review to which Lord Byron alludes:— "If the noble lord 
and the learned advocate have the courage requisite to sus- 
tain their mutual insults, we shall probably soon hear the 
explosions of another kind of paper-war, after the fashion 
of the ever-memorable duel which the latter is said to have 
fought, or seemed to fight, with ' Little Moore.' We confess 
there is sufficient provocation, if not in the critique, at least 
in the satire, to urge a ' man of honor ' to defy his assailant 
to mortal combat. Of this we shall no doubt hear more in 
due time." 

+ "I cannot strike at wretched kernes."— MacbetJi, act v., 
sc. T. 

% See the memorable critique of the Edinburgh Re\iew on 
" Hours of Idleness," Appendix, Note 47. 

§ Invenies alium, si te hie fastidit Alexin. 

II Lord Byron's taste for boxing brought him acquainted, 
at an early period, with this distinguished, and, it is not too 
much to say, respected, professor of the art; for whom, 
tiiroughout life, he continued to entertain a sincere regard. 



Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, 

And thought of Homer less than Holyrood ? 

On shore of Euxine or ^gean sea 

My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee. 

Ah ! let me cease ; in vain my bosom burns, 

From Corydoii unkind Alexis turns :^ 

Thy rhymes are vain ; thy Jeffrey then forego, 

Nor woo that anger which he will not show. 

What then V — Eclina starves some lanker son. 

To write an article thou canst not shun ; 

Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, 

As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown 'd. 

As if at table some discordant dish 
Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish ; 
As oil in lieu of butter men decry, 
And poppies please not in a modern pie ; 
If all such mixtures then be half a crime, 
We must have excellence to relish rhyme. 
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ; 
Thus poetry disgusts, or else deliglits. 

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun : 
Will he who swims not to the river run ? 
And men unpracticed in exchanging knocks 
Must go to Jackson || ere they dare to box. 
Whatever the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil. 
None reach expertness without years of toil ; 
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease. 
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please. 
Wliy not ? — shall I, thus qualified to sit 
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit ? 
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate. 
And lived in freedom on a fair estate ; 
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, 
To all their income, and to tiDice its tax ; 
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, 
Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic salt ? 

Thus think " the mob of gentlemen ;" but you, 
Besides all this, must have some genius too. 
Be this 3'our sober judgment, and a rule, 
And print not piping hot from Southey's school, 
Who (ere another Thalaba appears), 
I trust, will spare us for at least nine years. 
And hark ye, Southey If pray— but don't be vex'd— 
Burn all your last three works— and half the next. 
But why this vain advice ? once published, books 
Can never be recall 'd — from pastry-cooks ! 
Though ''Madoc," with "Pucelle,"** instead of 

punk. 
May travel back to Quito— on a trunk ! ft 



t Mr. Southey has lately tied another canister to his tail 
in the " Curse of Kehama," maugre the neglect of Madoc, 
etc., and has in one instance had a wonderful effect. A lit- 
erary friend of mine, walking out one lovely evening last 
summer, on the eleventh bridge of the Paddington canal, 
was alarmed by the cry of "one in jeopardy;" he rushed 
along, collected a body of Irish haymakers (supping on but- 
termilk in an adjacent paddock), pi-ocured three rakes, one 
eel-spear, and a landing-net, and at last (horresco referens) 
pulled out— his own publisher. The unfortunate man was 
gone for ever, and so was a large quarto wherewith he had 
taken the leap, which proved, on inquiry, to have been Mr. 
Southey's last work. Its " alacrity of sinking " was so great, 
that it has never since been heard of; though some maintain 
that it is at this moment concealed at Alderman Birch's pas- 
try premises, Cornhill. 

** Voltaire's "Pucelle" is not quite so immaculate as Mr. 
Southey's "Joan of Arc," and yet I am afraid the French- 
man has both more truth and poetry too on his side (they 
rarely go together) than our patriotic minstrel, whose first 
essay was in praise of a fanatical French strumpet, whose 
title of witch would be correct with the change of the fii-st 
letter. 

t+ Like Sir Bland Burgess's "Richard;" the tenth book of 
which I read at Malta, on a trunk of Eyre's, 19, Coekspur- 
street. If this be doubted, I shall buy a portmanteau to 
quota from. 

359 



HINTS FRO 31 HORACE. 



Orplieus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, 
Led all wild beasts but women by the ear ; 
And had he fiddled at the present hour, 
We 'd seen the lions waltzing in the Tower ; 
And old Amphion, such were minstrels then. 
Had built Saint Paul's without the aid of Wren. 
Verse too was justice, and the bards of Greece 
Did more than constables to keep the peace ; 
Abolish'd cuckoldom with much applause, 
Call'd count.y meetings, and enforced the laws, 
Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes. 
And served the churcli— without demanding tithes ; 
And hence, tlirougliout all Hellas and the East, 
Each poet was a prophet and a priest, 
W^hose old-establish 'd board of joint controls 
Included kingdoms in the cure of souls. 

Next rose tlie martial Homer, Epic's prince. 
And fighting 's been in fashion ever since. 
And old Tyrtseus, wlien the Spartans warr'd 
(A limping leader, but a lofty bard). 
Though wall'd Ithome had resisted long, 
Reduced the fortress by the force of song. 

When oracles prevail 'd. In times of old. 
In song alone Apollo's will was told : 
Then if your verse is what all verse should be. 
And gods were not ashamed on 't, why should we ? 

The Muse, like mortal females, may be woo'd ; 
In turns she '11 seem a Paphian, or a prude ; 
Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, 
Mild as the same upon the second night ; 
Wild as the wife of alderman or peer, 
]Srow for his grace, and now a grenadier ! 
Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone. 
Ice in a crowd, and lava when alone. 

If verse be studied with some show of art, 
Kind Nature always will perform her part ; 
Though without genius, and a native vein 
Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain- 
Yet art and nature join'd will win the prize, 
Unless they act like us and our allies. 

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race. 
Must bear privations with unruffled face. 
Be caird to labor when he thinks to dine. 
And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine. 
Ladies who sin^-, at least who sing at sight. 
Have follow'd Music through her farthest flight ; 



* The red hand of Ulster, introduced grenerally in a canton, 
marks the shield of a baronet of the United Kingdom. 

t "PoZKo."— In the original MS. '•Rogers.'" 

il beg" Nathaniel's pardon: he is not a cobbler; it is a 
tailor, but begged Capel Lofft to sink the profession in bis 

preface to two pair of panta psha !— of cantos, Avhich he 

wished the public to try on : but the sieve of a patron let it 
out, and so far saved the expense of an advertisement to 
his country customers.— Merry's "Moorfields Avhine" was 
nothing to all this. The "Delia Cruscans" were people of 
some education, and no profession; but these Arcadians 
("Arcades ambo "—bumpkins both) send out their native 
nonsense without the smallest alloy, and leave all the shoes 
and small-clothes in the parish unrepaired, to patch up Ele- 
gies on Enclosures and Pteans to Gunpowder. 

§ This well-meaning gentleman has spoiled some excellent 
shoemakers, and been accessory to the poetical undoing of 
many of the industrious poor. Nathaniel Bloomfield and his 
brother Bobby have set all Somersetshire singing, nor has 
the malady confined itself to one county. Pratt too (who 
once was wiser) has caught the contagion of patronage, and 
decoyed a poor fellow named Blackett into poetry ; but he 
died during the operation, leaving one child and two volumes 
of "Piemains" utterly destitute. The girl, if she don't take 
a poetical twist, and come forth as a shoemaking Sappho, 
may do well; but the "tragedies" are as rickety as if they 
had been the offspring of an earl or a Seatonian prize poet. 
360 



But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, 

'' I 've got a pretty poem for the press ; " 

And that 's enough ; then write and print so fast ; — 

if Satan take the hindmost, who 'd be last ? 

They storm the types, tliey publish, one and all, 

They leap the counter, and they leave the stall. 

Provincial maidens, men of high command, 

Yea, baronets have ink'd the bloody hand ! * 

Cash cannot quell them ; Pollio f play'd this prank, 

(Then Phcebus first found credit in a bank I) 

iSTot all the living only, but the dead, 

Fool on, as fluent as an Orpheus' head ; 

Daran'd all their days, they posthumously thrive— 

Dug up from dust, though" buried when alive ! 

Reviews record this epidemic crime, 

Those Books of Martyrs to the rage for rhyme. 

Alas ! woe worth the scribbler ! often seen 

In Morning Post, or Monthly Magazine. 

There lurk his earlier lays ; but soon, hot-press'd, 

Behold a quarto ! — Tarts must tell the rest. 

Then leave, ye wise, the lyre's precarious chords 

To muse-mad baronets, or madder lords, 

Or country Crispins, now^TOwn somewhat stale, 

Twin Doric minstrels, drunk with Doric ale! 

Hark to those notes, narcotically soft. 

The cobbler-laureates t sing to Capel Lofft ! § 

Till, lo ! that modern Midas, as he hears. 

Adds an ell growth to his egregious ears ! 



There lives one druid, who prepares in time, 
'Gainst future feuds, his poor revenge of rhyme ; 
Racks his dull memory, and his duller muse, 
To publish faults which friendship should excuse. 
If friendship 's nothing, self-regard miglit teach 
More polish'd usage of his parts of speech. 
But what is shame, or what is aught to him? 
He vents his spleen, or gratifies his whim. 
Some fancied slight has roused his lurking hate, 
Some folly cross'd, some jest, or some debate; 
Up to his den Sir Scribbler hies, and soon 
The gather'd gall is voided in lampoon. 
Perhaps at some pert speech you 've dared to frown, 
Perhaps your poem may have pleased the town : 
If so, alas ! 't is nature in the man — 
May Heaven forgive you, for li€ never can ! 
Then be it so ; and may his withering bays 
Bloom fresh in satire, though they fade in praise ! 
While his lost songs no more shall steep and stink, 
The dullest, fattest weeds on Lethe's brink. 



The patrons of this poor lad are certainly answerable for his 
end ; and it ought to be an indictable offence. But this is the 
least they have done : for by a refinement of barbarity, they 
have made the (late) man posthumously i-idiculous, by print- 
ing what he would have had sense enough never to print 
himself, Certes these rakers of " Remains " come under the 
statute against " resurrection men." What does it signify 
whether a poor dear dead dunce is to be stuck up in Surgeons' 
or in Stationers' Hall? Is it so bad to unearth his bones as 
his blunders? Is it not better to gibbet his body on a heath, 
than his soul in an octavo ? " We know what we are, but we 
know not what we may be : " and it is to be hoped we never 
shall know, if a man who has passed through life -with a sort 
of eclat, is to find himself a mountebank on the other side of 
Styx, and made, like poor Joe Blackett, the laughing-stock 
of purgatory. The plea of publication is to provide for the 
child : now, might not some of this " Sutor ultra Crepidam's " 
friends and seducers have done a decent action without in- 
veigling Pratt into biography? And then his inscription 
split into so many modicums ! — " To the Duchess of Somuch, 
the Right Hon. So-and-So, and Mrs. and Miss Somebody, 
these volumes are, etc., etc."— why, this is doling out the 
" soft milk of dedication " in gills,— there is but a quai't, and 
he divides it among a dozen. Why, Pratt, hadst thou not a 
puff left? Dost thou think six families of distinction can 
share this in quiet ? There is a child, a book, and a dedication : 
send the girl to her grace, the volumes to the grocer, and the 
dedication to the devil. 



HINTS FROM HORACE. 



But springing upwards from the sluggish mould, 
Be (what they never were before)— be sold ! 
Should some rich bard (but such a monster now, 
In modern physics, we can scarce allowO, 
Should some pretending scribbler of the court. 
Some rhyming peer "=^— there 's plenty of the sort f— 
All but one poor dependent priest withdraw^n 
(Ah ! too regardless of his chaplain's yawn !), 
Condemn the unlucky curate to recite 
Their last dramatic work by candlelight, 
How would the preacher turn each rueful leaf. 
Dull as his sermons, but not half so brief! 
Yet, since 'tis promised at the rector's death, 
He '11 risk no living for a little breath. 
Then spouts and foams, and cries at every line 
(The Lord forgive him !)," Bravo! grand! divine !" 
Hoarse with those praises (which, by llatt'ry fed. 
Dependence barters for her bitter bread). 
He strides and stamps along with creaking boot. 
Till the floor echoes his emphatic foot ; 
Then sits again, then rolls his pious eye, 
As wiien the dying vicar will not die ! 
Nor feels, forsooth, emotion at his heart ; — 
But all dissemblers overact their part. 
» 
Ye, who aspire to " build the lofty rhyme," % 
Believe not all who laud your false " sublime ; " 
But if some friend shall hear your work, and say, 
" Expunge that stanza, lop that line away," 
And, after fruitless efforts, you return 
Without amendment, and he answ^ers, " Burn ! " 
That instant throw your paper in the fire. 
Ask not his tlioughts, or follow his desire ; 
But if (true bard !) you scorn to condescend, 
And will not alter what you can't defend. 
If you will breed this bastard of your brains, | — 
We 11 have no w^ords— I 've only lost my pains. 

Yet, if you only prize your favorite thought. 
As critics kindly do, and authors ought ; 
If your cool friend annoy you now and then , 
And cross whole pages with his plaguy pen ; 
No matter, throw your ornaments aside, — 
Better let him than all the world deride. 
Give light to passages too much in shade, 
Nor let a doubt obscure one verse you 've made ; 



* In the orig-inal MS. — 

" Some rhyming- peer— Carlisle or Carysfort." 

To which is subjoined this note :— " Of ' John Joshua, Earl of 
Carysfort,' I know nothinj? at present, but from an adver- 
tisement in an old newspaper of certain Poems and Trage- 
dies bj' his lordship, which I saw by accident in the Morea. 
Being a rhymer himself, he Avill forgive the liberty I take 
with his name, seeing, as he must, how very commodious it 
is at the close of that couplet ; and as for what follows and 
Koes before, let him place it to the account of the other 
Thane ; since I cannot, under these circumstances, augur 
pro or con the contents of his 'foolscap crown octavos.'" — 
John Joshua Proby, first earl of Cai-ysfort, was joint post- 
master-general in 1805, envoj' to Berlin in 1806, and ambassa- 
dor to Petersburg in 1807, Besides his poems, he published 
two pauaphlets, to show the necessity of universai suffrage 
and short parliaments. He died in 1828. 

+ Here will Mr. Gifford allow me to introduce once more to 
his notice the sole survivor, the " ultimus Romanorum," the 
last of the Cruscanti !—" Edwin " the "profound," bj^ our 
Lady of Punishment! here he is, as lively as in the days of 
"well said Baviad the Correct." I thought Fitzgerald had 
been the tail of poesy ; but, alas ! he is only the penultimate. 

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING 
CHRONICLE. 

*' What reams of paper, floods of ink," 
Do some men spoil, who never think! 
And so perhaps you '11 say of me, 
In which your readers may agree. 



Your friend 's " a Johnson," not to leave one word, 
However trifling, which may seem absurd ; 
Such erring trifles lead to serious ills. 
And furnish food for critics, |1 or their quills. 

As the Scotch fiddle, with its touching tune, 
Or the sad influence of the angry moon. 
All men avoid bad waiters' ready tongues. 
As yawning waiters fly Fitzscribble's lungs ; 
Yet on he mouths — ten minutes— tedious each 
As prelate's homily, or yjlaceman's speech ; 
Long as the last years of a lingering lease, 
When riot pauses until rents increase. 
While such a minstrel, muttering fustian, strays 
O'er hedge and ditch, through unfrequented ways. 
If by some chance lie walks into a well. 
And shouts for succor with stentorian yell, 
"A rope ! help. Christians, as ye hope for grace ! " 
Nor woman, man, nor child will stir a pace : 
For there his carcass he might freely fling, 
From frenzy, or the humor of the thing. 
Though this has happen 'd to more bards than one ; 
I '11 tell you Budgell's story,— and have done. 

Budgell, a rogue and rhjanester, for no good 
(Unless his case be much misunderstood). 
When teased with creditors' continual claims, 
" To die like Cato," leapt into the Thames ! 
And therefore be it lawful through the town 
For any bard to poison, hang, or drown.^ 
Who saves the intended suicide receives 
Small thanks from him wiio loathes the life he leaves ; 
And, sooth to say, mad poets must not lose 
The glory of that death they freely choose. 

Nor is it certain that some sorts of verse 
Prick not the poet's conscience as a curse; 
Dosed with vile drams on Sunday he was found, 
Or got a child on consecrated ground ! 
And hence is haunted with -a rhyming rage- 
Fear 'd like a bear just bursting from his cage. 
If free, all fly his versifying 'fit. 
Fatal at once to simpleton or wit : 
But him^ unhappy ! whom he seizes, — him 
He flays with recitation limb by limb ; 
Profees to the quick wdiere'er he makes his breach. 
And gorges like a lawyer— or a leech. 



still I wx-ite on, and tell you why; 
Nothing- 's so bad, jou can't deny. 
But may instruct or entertain 
Without the risk of giving pain, etc., etc. 

ON SOME MODERN QUACKS AND REFORMISTS. 

In tracing of the human mind 

Through all its various courses, 
Though strange, 'tis true, we often find 

It knows not its resources : 

And men through life assume a part 
For which no talents they possess, 

Yet wonder that, with ail their art, 
Thej' meet no better with success, etc., etc. 

$ See Milton's Lycidas. 

% '■'' Baatard of your ?)rai?7S."— Minerva being the first by 
Jupiter's headpiece, and a varietj^ of equall}^ unaccountable 
parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, etc., etc., etc. 

II " A crust for the critics."— Baye.s, in the " Rehearsal." 

IT " We talked (saj^s Boswell) of a man's drowning himself. 
—JOHNSON. 'I should never think it time to make away 
with myself.' I put the case of Eustace Budgell, Avho was 
accused of forging a will, and sunk himself in the Thames, 
before the trial of its authenticity came on. ' Suppose, sir,' 
said I, ' that a man is absolutely sure that, if he lives a few 
days longer, he shall be detected in a fraud, the consequence 
of which will be utter disgrace, and expulsion from society.' 
Johnson. 'Then, sir, let him g-o abroad to a distant coun- 
try ; let him g-o to some place where he is not known. Don't 
let him go to the devil, where he is known.' " Sec Boswell, 
vol. iv., p. 50, ed. 1335. 

3G1 



THE CURSE OF MINEEVA; 



" Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 

Immolat, et poenam scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 

JEneid, lib. 



xii. 



Athens. Capuchin Convent, Mai-ch 17, 1811. 
Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the settii^.g sun ; 
Xot, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
»Biit one unclouded blaze of living light ; -^^ 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws. 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
On old ^gina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness slieds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
How watch 'd thy better sons his farewell ray. 
That closed their murder'd sage's f latest day ! 
Not yet— not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonizing eyes. 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour. 
The laud where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cith^ron's head. 
The cup of woe was quaff' d— the spirit fled ; 
The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
IVho lived and died as none can live or die. 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign; J 



* This fierce philippic on Lord Elgin, whose collection of 
Athenian marbles was ultimately purchased for the nation, in 
1816, was written at Athens, in March, 1811, and prepared for 
publication along- with the "Hints from Horace;" but, like 
that satire, suppressed by Lord Byron, from motives which 
the reader will easily understand. It was first given to the 
world in 1828. Few can wonder that Lord Bj'ron's feelings 
should have been powerfully excited by the spectacle of the 
despoiled Parthenon ; but it is only due to Lord Elgin to keep 
in mind, that, had those precious marbles remained, they 
must, in all likelihood, have perished for ever amidst the 
miserable scenes of violence which Athens afterwards wit- 
nessed; and that their presence in England has alreadj-, by 
universal admission, been of the most essential advantage to 
the fine arts. 

+ Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset 
(the hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of 
his disciples to wait till the sun went down. 

t The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own 
country; the daj'S in winter are longer, but in summer of 
ie.ss duration. 

g The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is with- 
362 



ISTo murky vapor, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form. 
With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play, 
There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide. 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque. 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, § 
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. || 

Again the ^gean, heard no more afar. 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war : 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle. 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smil3. 

As thus, wdtliin the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan. 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man. 
The past return 'd, the present seem'd to cease, 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on high 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish 'd god : 
But chiefly, Pallas ! thine : when Hecate's glare, 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 

out the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of 
Tliesus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes. 
Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream 
at all. 

II " During our residence of ten weeks at Athens, there was 
not, I believe, a day of which we did not devote a part to tiie 
contemplation of the noble monuments of Grecian genius, 
that have outlived the ravages of time, and the outrage of 
barbarous and antiquarian despoilers. The Temple of The- 
seus, Avhich was within five minutes' walk of our lodgings, is 
the most perfect ancient edifice in the world. In this fabric, 
the most enduring stability, and a simplicity of design pecu- 
liarly striking, are united with the highest elegance and accu- 
racy of workmanship; the characteristic of the Doric st3de. 
whose chaste beauty is not, in the opinion of the first artists, 
to be equalled by the graces of any of the other orders. A 
gentleman of Athens, of great taste and skill, assured us that, 
after a continued contemplation of this temple, and the 
remains of the Parthenon, he could never again look with 
his accustomed satisfaction upon the Ionic and Corinthian 
ruins of Athens, much less upon the specimens of the more 
modern species of architecture to be seen in Italy." 



THE CURSE OF 3IINERVA. 



O'er the chill marble, where the startling tread 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! • 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self ; but, ah ! how changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ! 
^N'ot such as erst, by her divine command. 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand. 
G-one were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle segis bore no Gorgon nov/ ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
The olive branch, which still she deign 'd to clasp, 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither 'd in her grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye : 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And mo urn 'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ! 



"Mortal! "—'twas thus she spake— ''that blush 
of shame - 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honor'd less by all, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing V — look around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and w^asting tire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both.* 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain : 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn 'd, 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : f 
Por Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! t 
Be ever haiPd witli equal honor here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So wdien the lion quits his fell repast, 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
Elesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own. 
The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
Another name with his pollutes my shrine: 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine ! 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim. 
When Yenus half avenged Minerva's shame." I 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply. 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on England ; England owns him not : 
Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 



* In the original MS.— 

"Ah, Athens! scarce escaped from Turk and Goth: 
Hell sends a paltry Scotchman worse than both." 
t On the original MS. is written— 

"Aspice quos Pallas Scoto concedit honores, 
Infra stat nomen— facta supraque vide." 

* For Lord Byron's detailed remarks on Lord Elgin's deal- 
ing with the Parthenon, see Appendix, Note 2. 

§ His lordship's came, and that of one who no longer beai's 
it, are cai-A'ed conspicuously on the Parthenon; above, in a 



Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phyle's 

towers 
Survey Boeotia ;— Caledonia 's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land || 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command; 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays tlie niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 
Some east, some west, some everywhere but north, 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year !— 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth. 
As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a landj 
x\nd shine like children of a happier strand; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place. 
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 

"Mortal!" the blue-eyed maid resumed, "once 
more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas! this vengeance yet is mine. 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 

" First on the head of him who did this deed 
My curse shall light,— on him and all his seed: 
Without one spark of intellectual fire. 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire: 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace. 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
Still with his hireling artists let him prate. 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell. 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell: 
To sell, and make— may Shame record the day I — 
The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey.^ 
Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard. West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britam's best, 
AVitli palsied hand shall turn each model o'er. 
And own himself an infant of fourscore.** 
Be all the bruisers cull'd from all Saint Giles', 
That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
AVhile brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare. 
And marvel at his lordship's ' stone-shop 'ft there. 
Round the throng 'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs 

creep, 
To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to skim, 
Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 



part not far distant, are the torn remnants of the basso-re- 
lievos, destroyed in a vain attempt to remove them. 

II " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan. 

tin 1816, thirty-five thousand pounds were voted by Par- 
liament for the purchase of the Elgin marbles. 

** Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection " (I suppose we 
shall hear of the " Abei-shaw" and ''Jack Shephard" collec- 
tion), declares himself "a mere tyro " in art. 

•HPoor Cribb was sadly puzzled when the marbles were 
first exhibited at Elgin House: he asked if it was not "a 
, stone-shop." — He was right ; it is a shop. 
363 



THE CURSE OF 3IINERVA. 



Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; 

Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men !' 

Draws sly comparisons of them with those^ 

And envies Lais all her Attic beaux. 

When sliall a modern maid have swains like these ! 

Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 

And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 

Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 

In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 

Admires tlie plunder, but abhors the thief. 

Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon 'd in the dust. 

May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 

Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 

Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 

And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 

In many a branding page and burning line ; 

Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed. 

Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
Fix'd statue on tlie pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
]^ut fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deerls that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic— blazing from afar. 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war.* 
Not to such "deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made ; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled— but left behind her Gorgon shield: 
A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends to stone, 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

"Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base : 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the I^emesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood. 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So may ye perish ! Pallas, wdien she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

" Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she 
hates. 
But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh, glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won. 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Hetrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home— ye love not to look there ; 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls. 
Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left. 
' Blest paper credit ! ' f who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear. 
Who gods and men alike disdain 'd to hear ; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Pallas calls,— but calls, alas ! too late : 



* The affair of Copenhagen. 
+ " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply. 
That leads Corruption lighter wings to fly ! "—Pope. 
364 



Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends. 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog- 
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign 'log.' 
Thus haird your rulers their patrician clod, 
As Egypt cliose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare jq well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish 'd power; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
Your strength a name, your bloated wealth a dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind. 
And pirates barter all that 's left behind. J 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 
The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal on liis own encumber'd shores : 
The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom. 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 
Vain is each voice where tones could once com- 
mand ; 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle. 
And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 

" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas Vv^arns in vain; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling 

brands. 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of w^ar, the glittering files. 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 
The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call. 
The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With depttli alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won. 
Though drench 'd with gore, his woes are but be- 
gun: 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame. 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say, with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames ? 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thine 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 

$ The Deal and Dover traflackers in specie. 



i 



THE WALTZ: 



' Qualis in Eurotse ripis, aut per juga Cynthi, 
Exercet Diana chores." Virgil. 

' Such on Eurotas' banks, or Cynthia's height, 
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads." 

Drydsn's Virgil. 



TO THE PUBLISHER. 
Sir, 

I AM a country gentleman of a midland county. I 
might have been a parliament-man for a certain bor- 
ough ; having had the offer of as many votes as General 
T. at the general election in 1812.f But I was all for 
domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to 
London, I married a middle-aged maid of honor. We 
lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season, when my 
wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway 
(a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in 
town. Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a 
marriageable (or, as they call it, marketable) age, and hav- 
ing besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the 
family estate, we came up in our old chariot, — of which, 
by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a 
week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, 
of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could 
drive, but never see the inside — that place being reserved 
for the Honorable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general 
and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the 
latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a 
ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, 
or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the 
newest tunes. But, judge of my surprise, on arriving, to 
see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the 
loins of a huge hiissar-looking gentleman I never set eyes 
on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more than half 
round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, 
to a d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that re- 



* This trifle was written at Cheltenham in the autumn of 
1813, and published anonymously in the spring of the follow- 
mg year. It was not very well received at the time by the 
public ; and the author was by no means anxious that it 
should be considered as his handiwork. "I hear," he says, 
m a letter to a friend, " that a certain malicious publication 
on waltzing is attributed to me. This report, I suppose, you 
will take care to contradict ; as the author, I am sure, will not 
like that I should wear his cap and bells." 



minded me of the " Black joke," only more " affettuoso" 
till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were 
not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought 
they would sit or fali down ; — but no ; with Mrs. H.'s 
hand on his shoulder, "quam familiar iter'' | (as Terence 
said, when I was at school), they walked about a minute, 
and then at it again, like two cock-chafers spitted on the 
same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a 
loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name 
I never heard but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her 
mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach ), 
said, " Lord ! Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtz- 
ing ?" or waltzing (I forget Avhich) ; and then up she got, 
and her mother and sister, and away they went, and 
round-abouted it till supper time. Now, that I know 
what it is, I like it of all things, and so does Mrs. H. 
(though I have broken my shins, and four times over- 
turned Mrs. Hornem's maid, in practicing the prelimi- 
nary steps in a morning). Indeed, so much do I like it, 
that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in some 
election ballads, and songs in honor of all the victories 
(but till lately I have had little practice in that way), I 
sat down, and with the aid of William Fitzgerald, Esq., 
and a few hints from Dr. Busby ^ (whose recitations I at- 
tend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner 
of delivering his father's late successful " Drury Lane 
Address"), I composed the following hymn, wherewithal 
to make my sentiments known to the public ; whom, nev- 
ertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critics. 
I am, sir, yours, etc., etc., 

HOEACE HOKNEM. 



+ State of the poll Gast day), 5. 

t My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have 
forgotten what he never remembered ; but I bought my title- 
page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank 
token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged 
the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval 
and " No popery," and quite regretting the downfall of the 
pope, because we can't bu^n him any more. 

§ See "Rejected Addresses." 

mo 



THE WALTZ. 



aihij W&Mz. 



Muse of the inanj^-twinkliiig feet !* whose charms 

Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 

Terpsichore I — too long misdeem 'd a maid — 

Ueproachful term — bestow 'd but to upbraid — 

Henceforth in all the br(mze of brightness shine, 

The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 

I'ar be from thee and thine tlie name of prude ; 

Mock'd, j'et triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; 

Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 

If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 

Thy breast — if bare enough— requires no shield ; 

Dance forth — sans armor thou shalt take the held, 

And own — impregnable to most assaults, 

Thy not too lawfully begotten '' AValtz." 

Hail, nimble nj^mph ! to whom the young hussar, 
The whiskered votary of waltz and war, 
His night devotes, despite of spur and boots; 
A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz !— beneath whose banners 
A modern hero fought for modish manners; 
On Hounslow's heath to rival AVellesley's f fame, 
Cock'd — fired— and miss'd his man— but gaiii'd his 

aim; 
Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fair one's breast 
Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
Tlie latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
To " energize the object I pursue,"! 
And give both Belial and his dance their due ! 

Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Eliine 
(Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 
Long be thine import from all duty free. 
And hock itself be less esteem 'd than thee : 
In some few qualities alike — for hock 
Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 

Oh, Germany ! how much to thee wt owe, 
As heaven-born Pitt can testify below. 



* " Glance their many-twinkling- feet." — Gray. 

t To rival Lord Weilesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader 
pleases :— the one gained a pretty woman, whom he deserved 
by fighting- for ; and the other has been fighting in the Penin- 
sula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," v/ithout gain- 
ing anything in that country but the title of " the Great Lord," 
and "the Lord;" which savors of profanation, having been 
hitherto applied only to that Being to whom " Te Deums" 
for carnage are the rankest blasphemy.— It is to be presumed 
the general will one day return to his Sabine farm ; there 
" To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
Almost as quicMy as he conquer'd Spain ! " 
The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; 
we do more — we contrive both to conquer and lose them in a 
shorter season. If the " Great Lord's " Cincinnati an progress 
in agriculture be no speedier than the proportional aveiage 
of time in Pope's couplet, it will, according to the farmers' 
proverb, be "ploughing with the dogs." 

By the bye—one of this illustrious person's new titles is 
forgotten— it is, however, Avorth remembering— "SaZradordeZ 
mundo!" credite posteri! If this be the appellation annexed 
by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a man 
who has not yet saved them— querj-- are they worth saving, 
even in this world ? for, according to the mildest modifica- 
tions of any Christian creed, those three words make the 
odds much against them in the next.— " Saviour of the 
world," quotha!— it were to be wished that he, or anyone 
else, could save a corner of it— his country. Yet this stupid 
misnomer, although it shows the near connection between 
superstition and impiety, so far has its use, that it proves 
366 



Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 

And only left us thy d d debts and dances ! 

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft. 

We bless thee still— for George the Third is left ! 

Of kings the best —and last, not least in worth. 

For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 

To Germany, and highnesses serene, 

Who owe us millions — don't we owe the queen ? 

To Germany, vdiat owe we not besides ? 

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides; 

Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 

Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud : 

Who sent us — so be pardoned all her faults — 

A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen— and Waltz. 

But peace to her— her emperor and diet, 
Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's "fiat ! " 
Back to my tlieme— Oh, Muse of motion ! say. 
How first to Albion found tiiy Waltz her way i* 

Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales. 
From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had 

mails), 
Ere yet unlucky Fame — compell'd to creep 
To snowy Gottenburg — was cliiil'd to sleep; 
Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
Heligoland"! to stock thy mart with lies ; 
While unburnt Moscow! yet had nev;s to send, 
Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend. 
She came— Waltz came— and with her certain sets 
Of true despatches, and as true gazettes: 
Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch. 
Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can m.atch ; 
And — almost crushed beneath the glorious news- 
Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
One envoy's letters, six composers"' airs, 
And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
Meiner's four volumes upon womankind. 
Like Lapland witches to insure a wind ; 
Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it. 
Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 

Fraught with this cargo —and her fairest freight, 
Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
The welcome vessel reach 'd the genial strand, 
And round her flock'd the daugliters of the land. 
IsTot decent David, when, before the ark. 
His grand ptCs-seul excited some remark; 



there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisito- 
rial Catholics too) who can confer such an appellation on a 
Protestant. 1 suppose next year he will be entitled the 
"Virgin Mary ;" if so, Lord George Gordon himself would 
have nothing to object to such liberal bastards of our Lady 
of Babylon. 

t [Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Com- 
mittee was one by Dr. Busby, which began by asking— 
" W^hen energizing objects men pursue, 
What are the prodigies they cannot do? "] 

§ The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be suffi- 
ciently commended— nor subscribed for. Amongst other 
details omitted in the various despatches of our eloquent 
ambassador, he did not state (being too much occupied with 

the exploits of Colonel C , in swimming rivers frozen, and 

galloping over roads impassable) that one entire province 
perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as fol- 
lows :— In General Rostopchin's consummate conflagration, 
the consumption of tallow and train oil was so great, that tlie 
market was inadequate to the demand : and thus one hundred 
and thirty-three thousand persons were starved to death, by 
being reduced to wholesome diet! The lamplighters of 
London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) apiece, and 
the tallow-chandlers have unanimously voted a quantity of 
best moulds (four to the pound), to the i-elief of the survi^■ing 
Scythians— the scarcity will soon by such exertions, and a 
proper attention to the quality rather than the quantity of 
provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in return, that the 
untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for 
a day's meal to our suffering manufacturers. 



THE WALTZ, 



Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
The knight's fandango friskier than it ought : 
Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, 
Her nimble feet danced off another's head; 
Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
Displayed so much of leg, or more of neck,- 
Tiian thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 

To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
Ache with^the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
To you of nine years less, wlio only bear 
The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
With added' ornaments around them roll'd 
Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ; 
To you, ye children of — whom chance accords — 
Always the ladies, and sometimes their lords ; 
To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
As Love or Hymen your endeavors guide, 
To gain j'our own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
To one and all the lovely stranger came. 
And every ball-room echoes with her name. 

Endearing Waltz !— to thy more melting tune 
Bow Irish jig, and ancient rigadoon. 
Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
Your future claims to each fantastic toe I 
Waltz— VV^altz alone— both legs and arms demands, 
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
Hands which may freely range in public sight 
Where ne'er before— but— pray " put out the light." 
Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier 
Shines much too far— or I am much too near ; 
And true, though strange— Waltz whispers this re- 
mark, 
" My slippery steps are safest in the dark ! " 
But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 

Observant travellers of every time ! 
Ye quartos publisli'd upon every clime ! 
Oh say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
Can Egypt's Almas "^—tantalizing group — 
Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
With Waltz compare, or after Waltz be borne V 
Ah, no! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
Each tourist pens a paragraph for '' Waltz." 



* Dancing- girls— who do for hire what Waltz doth gratis. 

+ It cannot be complained now, as in the Lady Baussiere's 
time, of the " Sieur de la Croix," that there be " no v/hiskers ; " 
but how far these are indications of valor in the field, or 
elsewhere, maj' stiU be questionable. Much may be, and 
hath been, avouched on both sides. In the olden time 
philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers none— Scipio him- 
self was shaven— Hannibal thought his one eye handsome 
enough without a beard; but Adrian, the emperor, wore a 
beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the empress 
Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide)— Turenne had 
whiskers, Marlborough none— Buonaparte is unAvhiskered, 
the regent whiskered: '"'' argal,'" greatness of mind and 
whiskers may or may not go together : but certainly the dif- 
ferent occurrences, since the g-rowth of the last mentioned, 
go further in behalf of v/hiskers than the anathema of 
Anselm did against long hair in the reign of Henry I.— For- 
merly, red was a favorite color. See Lodowick Barrey's com- 
edy of Ram Alley, 1661 ; act i., scene 1— 

" Taffeta. Now for a wag-er — What colored beard comes 
next by the window ? 

''''Adriaua. A black man's, I think. 

" Taffeta. I think not so : I think a red, for that is most in 
fashion." 

There is " nothing- new under the sun ; " but red, then a 
favorite, has now subsided into a favorite's color. 



Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
WMth George the Third's— and ended long before !— 
Though in your daughters' daughters yet you 

thrive. 
Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
Back to the ball-room speed your spectred host, 
Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
No stiff -starch 'd stays make meddling fingers aclie 
(Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
Goats in their visage,! women in their shape) ; 
No damsel faints when rather closely press'd. 
But more caressing seems wlien most caress 'd; 
Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial " Waltz." 

Seductive Waltz ! though on thy native shore 
Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee lialf a whore; 
Werter— to decent vice though much inclined. 
Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind- 
Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
Would even proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
The fashion hails,— from countesses to queens, 
And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes; 
Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads. 
And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads ; 
With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
And cockneys practice what they can't pronounce. 
Gods ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
And rhvme finds partner rhyme in praise of 
"Waltz I" 

Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut; 
The court, the Regent, like herself were new; J 
New face for friends, for foes some new rewards; 
New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
New coins (most new) I to follow those that fled; 
New victories — nor can we prize them less. 
Though Jenky wonders at his own success; 
New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
New mistresses — no, old — and yet 't is true, 
Though they be old, the thing is something new; 
Each new, quite new— (except some ancient tricks) ,|1 
New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new 

sticks ! 
With vests or ribbons— deck 'd alike in hue, 
New^ troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue : 

So saith the muse : my ,^ what say you ? 

Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 



$ An anachronism— Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are 
before said to have opened the ball together : the bard means 
(if he means anything), Vv'altz was not so much in vogue till 
the regent attained the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the 
comet, whiskers, and the new government, illuminated heav- 
en and earth, in all their glory, much about the same time : 
of these the comet only has disappeared; the other three 
continue to astonish us still. — Printer's Devil. 

§ Amongst others a new ninepence— a creditable coin now 
forthcoming, worth a pound, in paper, at the fairest calcula- 
tion. 

II " Oh that right should thus overcome might ! " Who does 
not remember the "delicate investigation" in the "Merry 
Wives of W' indsor " ?— 

'■''Ford. Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause, 
why then malce sport at me : then let me be your jest; I de- 
serve it. How now? whither bear you this? " 

'"Mrs. Ford. What have you to do whither they bear it?— 
you were best meddle with buck-washing'." 

t The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as 
he pleases — there are several dissyllabic names at his service 
(being already in the regent's) : it would not be fair to back 
any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month 
will add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes :— a dis- 
tinguished consonant is said to be the favorite, much against 
the wishes of the Knowing ones. 
367 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 

IIoops are no more, and petticoats not much; 

Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays. 

And tell-tale powder— all have had their days. 

The ball be<>-ins — the honors of the house 

First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 

Some potentate — or royal or serene — 

With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, 

Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 

Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 

From where tlie garb just leaves the bosom free. 

That spot where hearts* were once supposed to be ; 

Bound all the confines of the yielded waist, 

The strangest hand may wander undisplaced; 

The lady's in return may grasp as much 

As princely paunches offer to her touch. 

Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 

One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 

The other to the shoulder no less royal 

Ascending with affection truly loyal I 

Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 

The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 

And all in turn may follow in their rank. 

The Earl of— Asterisk— and Lady — Blank ; 

Sir— Such-a-one— with those of fashion's host. 

For Avhose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post " 

(Or if for that impartial print too late, 

Search Doctors' Commons six months from my 

date)— 
Thus all and each, in movement swift or slow, 
The genial contact gently undergo ; 
Till some m.ight marvel, with the modest Turk, 
If •' nothing follows all this palming work Vf 
True, honest Mirza !— you may trust my rhyme — 
Something does follow at a fitter time : 
The breast thus publicly resign'd to man, 
In private may resist him — if it can. 

Oh ye Vv^ho loved our grandmothers of yore, 
Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
And thou, my prince ! whose sovereign taste and 
It is to love tiie lovely beldames still ! [wiU 



Thou ghost of Queensberry I wliose judging sprite 
Satan may spare to peep a single night. 
Pronounce— if ever in your days of bliss 
Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ? 
To teach the young ideas how to rise. 
Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
Rush to the heart, and lighten tlirough the frame, 
With half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
For prurient nature still will storm the breast— 
Wio^ tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 

But ye — who never felt a single thought 
For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
Who wisely wisli the charms you view to reap. 
Say — would you make those beauties quite so 

cheap ? 
Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing 

side. 
Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
From this lewd grasp and lav/less contact warm ? 
At once love's most endearing thought resign. 
To press the hand so press 'd by none but thine ; 
To gaze upon that eye which never met 
Another's ardent look without regret ; 
Approach the lip which all, witliout restraint, 
Come near enough — if not to touch— to taint ; 
If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
Or give— like her— caresses to a score ; 
Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
The little left behind it to bestow. 

Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blaspheme ? 
Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
Terpsichore, forgive !— at every ball 
My wife now waltzes — and my daughters shall ; 
My son— (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
These little accidents should ne'er transpire; 
Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
Will wear as green a bough for him as me)— 
Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
Grandsons for me— in heirs to all his friends. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.^ 



" Expende Annibalem :— quot libras in duce summo 
Invenies?" Juvenal, Sat. x. 

"The emperor Nepos Avas acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and 
military talents, were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic 
strains the restoration of public felicity. 



By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and an exile, 
till ."—Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi., p. 220. 



'T IS done— but yesterday a King ! 

And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
And now thou art a nameless thing : 

So abject— yet alive ! 
Is this the man of thousand thrones, 

*"We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor— 
'tis all gone — Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no 
great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they 
have nature's priA-ilege to distribute them as absurdly as 
possible. But there are also some men with hearts so thor- 
oughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often men- 
tioned in natural history ; viz., a mass of solid stone — only to 
be opened by force — and Avhen di>ided, you discover a toad in 
the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous. 
368 



Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 

And can he thus survive ? 
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 



+ In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and super- 
fluous, question— literally put, as in the text, by a Persian to 
Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera. Vide Morier's Travels. 

$ Lord Byron, when publishing "The Corsair," in January, 
1814, announced an apparently quite serious resolution to 
withdraw, for some yeai'S at least, from poetry. His lettei-s 
of the February and March following abound in repetitions 
of the same determination. On the morning of the ninth of 
April, he writes,— "No more rhyme for— or rather /7-om— me. 



ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 



Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 

Who bowVl so low the knee ? 
By gazing on thyself grown blind, 

Thou taught 'st the rest to see. 
With might unquestion'd, — power to save, 
Thine only gift hath been the gravs, 

To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
ISTor till thy fall could mortals guess 
Ambition 's less than littleness ! 

Tiianks for that lesson— it will teach 

To after-warriors more, 
Than high Philosophy can preach, 

And vainly preacli'd before. 
That spell upon the minds of men 
Breaks never to unite again. 

That led them to adore 
Those pagod things of sabre sway, 
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 

The triumph, and the vanity, \ 
The rapture of the strife * — ^ 

The earthquake voice of Victory, 
To thee the breath of life ; " 

The sword, the sceptre, and tliat sway 

Which man seem'd made but to obey, 
Wherewith renown was rife — 

All quelPd I— Dark spirit ! what must be 

The madness of thy memory ! 

The Desolator desolate ! 

The Victor overthrown ! 
The Arbiter of others' fate 

A Suppliant for his own ! 
Is it some yet imperial hope. 
That with such change can calmly cope ? 

Or dread of death alone ? 
To die a prince — or live a slave — 
Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 

He who of old would rend the oak,t 

Dream'd not of the rebound : 
Chain'd by the trunk lie vainly broke — 

x\lone— how look'd he round ? 
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
An equal deed hast done at length. 

And darker fate hast found : 
He fell, the forest prowler's prey ; 
But thou must eat thy heart away ! 

The Roman, % when his burning heart 

■AVas slaked with blood of Rome, 
Threw down the dagger— dared depart, 

In savage grandeur, home — 
He dared depart in utter scorn 
Of men that such a yoke had borne, 

Yet left him such a doom ! 
His only glory was that hour 
Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 



I have taken my leave of that stag^e, and henceforth will 
mountebank it no longer." In the evening-, a Gazette Extra- 
ordinary announced the abdication of Fontainebleau, and 
the poet violated his vows next morning', by composing- this 
ode, which he immediately published, though without his 
name. His Diary says, "April 10. To-day I have boxed one 
hour— written an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte— copied it- 
eaten six biscuits — drunk four bottles of soda water, and 
redde away the rest of my time." 

*"Certaminis gawdia"— the expression of Attila in his 
harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, 
given in Cassiodorus. 

•I* "■ Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor little 
pagod. Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal. It is his own fault. 
Like Milo, he would rend the oak ; but it closed again, wedged 
his hands, and now the beasts— lion, bear, down to the dirtiest 
jackal— may all tear him. That Muscovite winter wedged his 
arms:— ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. 
24 



The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 

Had lost its quickening spell, 
Cast crowns for rosaries av/ay. 

An empire for a cell ; 
A strict accountant of his beads, 
A subtle disputant on creeds. 

His dotage trifled well : 
Yet better had he neither known 
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 

But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And-Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank'dhim for a throne ! 
Fair Ereedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind I. 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore^ 

Nor written tluis in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,. 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honor dies. 
Some new Kapoleon might arise,. 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh 'd- in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought tlie living great 
Some higher sparks should animate. 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deeni'd Contempt could thuv=^ make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower. 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair. 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
'T is worth thy vanish'd diadem ! I 



The last may still leave their marks ; and ' I guess now ' (a* 
the Yankees say), that he will yet play them a pass."— iJyro?t 
Diary, April 8. 

X Sylla.— We find the germ of this stanza in the Diary of 
the evening before it was written :—" Methinks Sylla did 
better; for he revenged, and resigned in the height of his^ 
sway, red with the slaughter of his foes— the finest instance 
of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocletian 
did well too — Amurath not amiss, had he become aught ex- 
cept a dervise — Charles the Fifth but so so: but Napoleon 
worst of all."— J3j/ro?i Diary, April 9. 

§ It is well known that Count Neipperg, a gentleman in the 
suite of the empei'or of Austria, who was first presented to 
Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon's abdication, 
became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, and then her hus- 
band. He is said to have been a man of remarkably plain 
appearance. The count deid in 1831. 
369 



HEBREW MELODIES. 


Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 


There was a day — tliere was an hour, 


And gaze upon the sea ; 


While earth was Gaul's— Gaul thine— 


That element may meet thy smile- 


When that immeasurable power 


It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 


Unsated to resign 


Or trace with thine all idle hand, 


Had been an act of purer fame, 


In loitering mood upon the sand, 


Than gathers round Marengo's name. 


That Earth is now as free ! 


And gilded thy decline. 


That Corinth's pedagogue ^ hath now 


Through the long twilight of all time, 


Transferr'd his byword to thy brow. 


Despite some passing clouds of crime. 


Thon Timour! in his captive's cagef 


But thou forsooth must be a king, 


What thouglits will there be thine, 


And don the purple vest, 


While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 


As if that foolish robe could wring 


But one — '' The world was mine ! " 


Remembrance from thy breast. 


Unless, like he of Babylon, 


Where is that faded garment ? where 


All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 


The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 


Life will not long confine 


The star— the string— the crest ? 


That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 


Yain fro ward child of empire ! say. 


So long obey 'd— so little -worth 1 


Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 


Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,t 


Where may the wearied eye repose, 


Wilt thou withstand the shock '? 


AVhen gazing on the Great ; 


And share with him, the unforgiven, 


Where neither guilty glory glows. 


His vulture and his rock ! 


]^or despicable state ? 


Foredoom 'd by God— by man accurst, 


Yes— one— the first— the last— the best — 


And that last act, though not thy worst, 


The Cincinnatus of the West, 


The very Fiend's arch mock ; I ' 


Whom envy dared not hate, 


He in his fall preserved his pride. 


Bequeath the name of AVashington, 


And, if a mortal, had as proudly died I 


To make man blush there was but one I 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



AD VEBTISEMENT. 



THE subsequent poems were written at the request of 
my friend, the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selec- 
tion of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published 



with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. ^v"; 
than. 

January, 1815. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.\\ 

She ^-alks in l^eauty., like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 

And all that 's best of daTk and bright 
Meet in her aspect and ber eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Wliich heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the ..more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

Anflon that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
So>«oft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

* Dioeaj^sius the Young-er, esteemed a greater tyrant than 
his fatbsr, on being- for the second time banished from Syra- 
cuse, retired to Corinth, where he was obliged to turn school- 
master for a subsistence. 

+ The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. 

* Prometheus. 

§ '" The very fiend's arch mock- 
To lip a wanton, and suppose her chaste." 

Seakspeare. 
370 



The smiles that win, the tints that glow. 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 

A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent ! 



THE HARP THE MONABCH MINSTREL 
SWEPT, 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which Music hallow'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 

It soften 'd men of iron mould, 
It gave them virtues not their own ; 

^0 ear so dull, no soul so cold. 
That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne ! 

—We believe there is no doubt of the truth of the anecdote 
here alluded to— of Napoleon's having found leisure for an 
unworthy amour, the very evening of his arrival at Fon- 
tainebleau- 

II These stanzas were written by Lord Byron, on returning 
from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (afterwards Lady) 
Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation. On this occasion 
Mrs. Wilmot Horton had appeared in mourning, with nu- 
merous spangles on her dress. 



^ 




SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 

Had half impaif'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o'er her face; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place, 

HEBREW MELODIES.— Page 370. 



^ 



tS 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd vallej^s ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from above, 

In dreams that day's broad light cannot remove. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
If there the cherish 'd heart be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears— 
How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 

How sweet this very hour to die I 
To soar from earth, and find all fears 

Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 

It must be so : 't is not for self 

That we so tremble on the brink ; 
And striving to o'erleap the gulf. 

Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that shares : 
With tliem the immortal waters drink. 

And soul in soul grow deathless theirs ! 



THE WILD GAZELLE. ' 

The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground : 
Its airy step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by : — 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 

Hath Judah witness'd there f 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone! 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter 'd race ; 
Por, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth. 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In otlier lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be. 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OHl WEEP FOB THOSE. 

Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream. 
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell; 
Mourn — ^where their God hath dwelt, the godless 
dwell! 

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 



Tribes of the wandering foot and v/eary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
Tlie wild dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 



OJSr JORDAIPS BANKS. 

Ox Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray. 
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
Yet there — even there — oh, God — thy thunders 
sleep! 

There— where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone ! 
There— where thy shadow to thy people shone ! 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fii-e : 
Thyself — none living see and not expire ! 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appear ; 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear ! 
How long by tyrants shall thy land "be trod ? 
How long thy temple worshipless, oh, God ? 



JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTEB. 

SixCE our Country, our God — oh, my Sire I 
Demand that thy Daughter expire ; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow- 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now I 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er. 
And the mountains behold me no more : 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow I 

And of this, oh, my Father! be sure — 
That the blood of thy child is as pure 
As the blessing I beg ere it flow. 
And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my Father and Country are free ! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget hot I smiled as I died ! 



OH! SNATCH D AV/AY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 

Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom. 
On thee shall X)ress no ponderous tomb ; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Tlieir leaves, the earliest of the year; 
And the wild cypress 'wave in tender gloom : 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head. 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause, and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain. 
That death nor heeds nor hears distress: 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less ? 

And thou — wlro telFst me to forget, 

Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
371 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



MY SOUL IS DABK. 

My soul is dark — oh I quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

'T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. 
But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Xor let thy notes of joy be first : 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must Aveep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst ; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 't is doomed to know the worst. 

And break at once— or yield to song.* 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 

I SAW thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that eye of blue ; 
And then methoug'ht it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile— the sapphire's blaze 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
"Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 
Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 

Their own pure joy impart; 
Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 

That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ABE DO^-E. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun: 

Thy countrj^'s strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
Tiie deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, wiiile we are free 
Thou Shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that flow'd from thee 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be. 
Thy spirit on oia- breath ! 

Thy name, our charging liosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glory wTOng ; 

Thou Shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFOBE HLS LAST 
BATTLE. 

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft or the 

sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 

* " It was generally conceived that Lord Byron's reported 
singularities approached on some occasions to dei-angement ; 
and at one period, indeed, it was very currentlj' asserted that 
his intellects were actually impaired. The report only served 
to amuse his lordship. He referred to the circumstance, and 
372 



Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 

Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
Should the soldiers of Saul look a,way from the foe, 
Stretch me that moment in blood at tliy feet ! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 

Farewell to others, but never w^e part, 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway. 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day I 



SAUL. 



Thou w^hose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear. 

" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer !" 
Earth yawn'd : he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand w^as wither 'd, and his veins were dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame. 
Like cavern'd Avinds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King V Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow% when with me : 
Ere the coming day is done. 
Such Shalt thou be", such thy son. 
Fare thee w^ell, but for a day. 
Then we mix our mouldering cla5^ 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low. 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand sliall guide : 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul ! " 



s 



''ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE 
PBEACHEB.'' 

Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine. 

And health and youth possess 'd me ; 
My goblets blush 'd from every vine. 

And lovely forms caress 'd me ; 
I sumi'd my heart in beauty's eyes. 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
All earth can give, or mortal prize, 

AVas mine of regal splendor. 

I strive to number o'er wiiat days 

Remembrance can discover, 
WHiich all that life or earth displays 

W^ould lure me to live over. 
Tliere rose no day, there roll'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
And not a trapping deck'd my power 

That gaird not wliile it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 
And spells, is won from liarming ; 



declared that he would try how a madman could write : seiz- 
ing- the pen with eagerness, he for a moment fixed his eyes in 
majestic wildness on vacancy ; when, like a flash of inspira- 
tion, Avithout erasing a single word, the above verses were the 
result." 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



But that which coils around the heart, v 
Oh ! who hath power of charming ? ^ 

It will not list to wisdom's lore, / 

IS'or music's voice can lure it ; 

But there it stings for evermore 
The soul that must endure it. 



^ 



WHEJS' COLDNESS WBAPS THIS SUF- 
FEEING CLAY. 

"WheivT coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

Ah ! whither stra5's the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stay, 

But leaves its darken 'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all. 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years. 
In one broad glance the soul beholds. 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
And where the furthest lieaven had birth. 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
• While sun is quench 'd or system breaks, 

Eix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 

Its years as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing, 

O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly ; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Porgetting what it was to die. 



VISION OF BELSHAZZAB. 

The King was on his throne. 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 

O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 

in Judah deem'd divine- 
Jehovah's vessels hold 

The godless Heathen's wine. 

In that same hour and hall, 

The Angers of a hand 
Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand : 
The fingers of a man ; — 

A solitary hand 
Along the letters ran. 

And traced them like a wand. 

The monarch saw, and shook, 
And bade no more rejoice ; 

All bloodless wax'd his look, 
And tremulous his voice. 



* " Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling under 
the suspicion of infidelity, was put to death by his order. 
She was a woman of unrivalled beauty, and a haughty spirit ; 
unhappy in being the object of passionate attachment, 
which bordered on frenzy, to a man who had more or less 
concern in the murder of her grandfather, father, brother. 



'' Let the men of lore appear. 
The wisest of the earth. 

And expound the vfords of fear, 
Which mar our royal mirth." 

Chaldea's seers are good, 

But here they have no skill ; 
And the unknown letters stood 

Untold and awful still. 
And Babel's men of age 

Are wise and deep in lore ; 
But now they were not sage, 

They saw— but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 
He heard the king's command. 

He saw that writing's truth. 
The lamps around were bright, 

The prophecy in view ; 
He read it on that night, — 

The morrow proved it true. 

" Belshazzar's grave is made. 

His kingdom pass'd away, 
He, in the balance weigh 'd. 

Is light and worthless clay, 
The shroud his robe of state, 

His canopy the stone : 
The Mede is at his gate! 

The Persian on his throne I" 



SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS! 

Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star I 
Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel. 
How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
So gleams the past, the light of other daj^s. 
Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays ; 
A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
~ " '" clear— but oh, how cold! 



WEEE 3IY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 

I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 

It was but abjuring my creed to efface 

The curse which, thou sayst, is the crime of my race. 

If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free I 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high. 
Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 

I have lost for that faith more than thou canst be- 
stow, 
As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
In his hand is my heart and my hope— and in thine 
The land and the life which for him I resign. 



HEBOD'S LAMENT FOE MAEIAMNE.* 

Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding ; 
Revenge is lost in agony. 

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 



and uncle, and who had twice commanded her death, in case 
of his own. Ever after, Herod was haunted by the image of 
the murdered Mariamne, until disorder of the mind brought 
on disorder of body, which led to temporary derangement." 

— MiLMAN. 

373 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou? 

Thou canst not liear my bitter pleading : 
Ah ! couldst thou — tliou wouldst pardon now, 

Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 

And is she dead ?— and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving ? 
My wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her 's o'er mie waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She 's gone, who shared my diadem : 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing; 
I swept that flower from Judah's stem. 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well. 

Which unconsumed are still consuming I 



BY THE BIVEBS OF BABYLON WE SAT 
DOWN AND WEFT, 

We sat down and wept by the waters 

Of Babel, and thought of the day 
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 

Made Salem's high places his prey ; 
And ye, oh, her desolate daughters ! 

Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

AYhile sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below. 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ! 

May this right liand be wither'd for ever, 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh, Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were ended 
But left me that token of thee : 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down likethe wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the 

sea, 
AVhen the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath 

blown, 
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. 

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the 

blast. 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passYl ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and cliill. 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever 

grew still I 



And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it tliere roll'd not the breath of his 

pride ; 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblowai. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in tlieir wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 

sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



A SPIRIT PASS'D BEFORE ME, 

FROM JOB. 

A SPIRIT pass'd before me : I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil 'd— 

Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 

And there it stood,— all formless— but divine : 

Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake; 

And as my damp hair stiffen 'd, ijius it spake : 

" Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more just V 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light ! " 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION 
OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
I beheld thee, oh, Sion ! when render 'd to Eome : 
'T was thy last sun went down, and the flames of 

thy fall 
Flash 'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
And forgot for a moment my bondage to come : 
I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
And the fast-fetter 'd hands that made vengeance 
in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy 
shrine. 

And now on that mountain I stood on that day. 
But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its 

stead, 
And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head ! 

But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
And scatter'd and scorn 'd as thy people may be, 
Our worship, oh. Father ! is only for thee. 




The reverse of the small silver coin of the famous .Tewish leader, Bar-cochab, who led the last grreat but unsuccessful 
revolt ag-alnst the Romans (A. D. 131-134), bore the inscription, Lacheruth Jerusalem, "The Deliverance of Jerusalem," 
around two trumpets, which were doubtless in remembrance of the command of Moses that their sounding- was to be the 
sig-nal for the departure of the camp, (Numbers x. 1 ; 1 Mace. xvi. 8.) A specimen of this coin is in the British Museum. 

374 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



1816. 



FABE THEE WELL.'' 

" Alas ! they havabeen friends in youth ; 
But whispering- tongues can poison truth ; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth ts vain : 
And to be -wroth with one 'we love. 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
***** 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining:— 
They stood aloof, the scars remaining-, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; 
A dreary sea now flows between, 
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall whollj^ do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Christabel. 

Fare thee well I and if forever, 

Still forever, fare thee well : 
Even thoiio'h unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

"Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again : 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'T was not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow. 

Even its praises must offend thee. 
Founded on another's woe : 

Though my many faults defaced me. 

Could no other arm be found. 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound ? 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not ; 

Love may sink by slow decay. 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away ; 

Still thine own its life retaineth— 
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 

And the undying thought whicli paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 



* '' It was about the middle of April, 1816, that his two cele- 
brated copies of verses, 'Fare thee well,' and 'A Sketch,' 
made their appearance in the newspapers. Byron in his 
' Memoranda ' described, and in a manner whose sincerity 
there was no doubting-, the swell of tender recollections un- 
der the influence of which, as he sat one nig-ht musing in his 
study, these stanzas were produced,— the tears, as he said, 
falling fast over the paper as he wrote them. Neither did it 
appear, from that account, to have been from any wish or 
intention of his own, but through the injudicious zeal of a 



These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead ; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widow 'd bed. 

And when thou would solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow, 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 
AVhen her lip to thine is press 'd, 

Tliink of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more mayst see. 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
With a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest, 
All my madness none can know ; 

All my iiopes, vrliere'er thou goest, 
Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee— by thee forsaken. 

Even my soul forsakes me now : 

But 't is done— all words are idle- 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

But the thoughts vre cannot bridle 
Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well !— thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted. 

More than this I scarce can die. 

[Ifarch 17, 1816.] 



A SKETCH.^ 

" Honest— honest lago ! 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 

Shakspeare. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 
And from its wages only to be guess 'd — 

friend whom he had suffered to take a copy, that the verses 
met the public eye."— Moore. The appearance of the MS. 
confirms this account of the circumstances under which it 
was wi-itten. It is blotted all over with the marks of tears. 

+ "I send you my last night's dream, and request to have 
fifty copies struck off, for private distribution. I wish Mr.. 
Gifford to look at them. They are from life."— _Lo7'd Byron 
to Mr. Murray, March 30, 1816. The person alluded to in 
"A Sketch" Avas Mrs. Clermont, Lady Byron's compan- 
ion. 

375 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Eaised from the toilette to the table,— wliere 

Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 

With eye unmov'd, and forehead nnabash'd, 

She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 

Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie— 

The genial confidante, and general spj^ — 

Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess — 

An only infant's earliest governess ! 

She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell. 

An adept next in penmansliip she grows, 

As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 

AVhat she had made the pupil of her art, 

None know— but that high Soul secured the heart, 

And panted for the truth it could not hear, 

AVith longing breast and undeluded ear. 

FoiPd was perversion by that youthful mind. 

Which Flattery fool'd not— Baseness could not 

blind. 
Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
>^or master'd Science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 
Nor Genius swell— nor Beauty render vain — 
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain— 
Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow. 
Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now\ 
Serenely purest of her sex that live. 
But wanting one sweet weakness— to forgive. 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
She deems that all could be like her below : 
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more, 
She rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers— none know why — ^before her quake ; 
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake ; 
If early habits — those false links which bind 
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind- 
Have given her power too deeply to instill 
The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
If like a snake slie steal within your walls, 
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
Skill 'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
With all tlie kind mendacity of hints, 
Wiiile mingling truth with falsehood— sneers with 

smiles— 
A thread of candor with a web of wiles ; 
A plain blunt show of briefl3--spoken seeming. 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd schem- 
ing; 
A lip of lies ; a face form'd to conceal. 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
A cheek of parclmient — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how tlie channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
(For dravv'U from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colors in that soul or face) — 



* The poet's sister, the Honorable Mrs. Leigh.— These stan- 
zas—the parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tenderness 
had been the author's sole consolation during the crisis of 
domestic misery^were, we believe, the last verses written by 
Lord Byron in England. In a note to Mr, Rogers, dated 
April 16, he says,—*' My sister is now with »ie, awd leaves 
376 



Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged— 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
Yet true to "^Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
This female dog-star of her little sky. 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 

Oh ! wretch without a tear— without a thought, 
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou infiictest now ; 
Feel for thy vile self -loving self in vain, 
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush 'd affection.s light 
Back on thy bosom wiih reflected bligiit ! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Black— as"^ thy will for others would create: 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, 
The Avidow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread! 
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with 

prayer, 
Look on thine earthly victims— and despair ! 
Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear— 
Thy name— thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd com])eers — 
And festering iii the infamy of years. 

p/arc/i 29, 1816.'\ 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA* 

When" all around grew drear and dark, 
And reason half withlield her ray — 

And hope but shed a dying spark 
Which more misled my lonely way ; 

In that deep midnight of the mind. 
And that internal strife of heart, 

When, dreading to be deem'd too kind, 
The weak despair— the cold depart ; 

When fortune changed— and love fled far. 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast. 

Thou wert the solitary star 
AVhich rose and set not to the last. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the night, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And wlien the cloud upon us came. 
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it v;hat to brave or brook- 
There 's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke. 



town to-morrow : we shall not meet again for some time at 
all events, — if ever ! and, under these circumstances, I trust 
to stand excused to you and Mr. Sheridan, for being unable 
to wait upon him this evening." On the 35th, the poet took a 
last leave of his native country. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Thou stood 'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, thougli gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The v/inds might rend— the skies might pour, 
But there thou wert— and still wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy w^eeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight, 

"Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
For Heaven in sunshine will requite 

The kind— and thee the most of all. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 
Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel— but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside, 
Were found and still are fix'd in thee ; — 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert— ev'n to me. 



A 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA* 



\\ 



Though the day of my destiny 's over. 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul witli my grief was acquainted, 

It slirunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling. 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling. 

Because it reminds m.e of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean. 

As the breasts I believed in with me. 
If their billows excite an emotion. 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd. 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain— it shall not be its slave. 
Th.ere is many a pang to pursue me : 

They may crush, but they shall not contemn — 
They may torture, but shall not subdue me— 

'T is of thee that I think— not of them. 

Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake. 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake ; 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me. 

Though parted, it was not to fly. 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Xor, mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Xor the war of the many with one ; 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'T was folly not sooner to shun : 
And if dearly that error hath cost me. 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish 'd. 
Thus much I at least may recall, 

* These 'beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's 
wounded feelings at the moment, were written in July, 1816, 
at the Campag-ne Diodati, near Geneva, and transmitted to 
England for publication, with some other pieces. 



It hath taught me that what I most cherish 'd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide w^aste tliere still is a tree. 
And a bird in the solitude singing. 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

[July 2U, 1816.] 

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 

My sister ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine ; 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim . 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
Go wiiere I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
Tliere yet are two things in my destiny,^ 
A world to roam through, and a home with thee. 

The first were nothing— had I still the last. 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast. 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
Eecalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire'sf fate of yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 

If my inheritance of storms hath been - 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook 'd or unforeseen, 
I have su stain 'd my share of worldly shocks, 
Tlie fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow. 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 

' That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
The gift,— a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard. 
And thought. of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
But nov/ I fain w^ould for a time survive, 

If but to see w^hat next can well arrive. 

Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And wiien I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what— does still uphold 
A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purcliase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair. 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air 
(For even to this may change of soul refer. 
And with light armor we may learn to bear), 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 
In happy childhood; trees, andfiowers, andbrooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind w^as sacrificed to books. 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee. 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 

+ Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making- a voy- 
ag-e without a tempest. He was known to the sailors lay 
the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack." 



377 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
But something- worthier do such scenes inspire : 
Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
For much I view which I could most desire, 
And, above all, a lake I can behold 
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 

Oh that thou wert but with me!— but I grow 
The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show;— 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter 'd eye. 

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,* 
By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair : but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
Resign 'd for ever, or divided far. 

Tlie world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply— 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask. 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister— till I look again oji thee. 

I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not ;— for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be ; 
The passions which have torn me would have slept; 
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 
To baffled millions which have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care ; 
I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
Having survived so many things that were ; 
j\[y years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 

And for the remnant which may be to come 
lam content ; and for the piast I feel 
Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings further. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around. 
And worship Nature with a thought profound. 

For thee, my own sweet sis,ter, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art — 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 

* The Lake of Newstead Abbey. 

t These vei'ses were written immediately after the failure 

of the neg-otiation for a reconciliation before Lord Byron left 

378 



It is the same, together or apart. 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined— let death come slow or fast, 
The tie which bound the first endures the last ! 



LINES 



ON HEARING THAT LADY BYPtON WAS ILL.f 

And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; 
Methought that joy and health alone could be 

Where I was 7toi— and pain and sorrow here ! 
And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold. 

And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck 'd heart lies cold, 

• AVhile heaviness collects the sliatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd, and wisli to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged !— but 't w^as my right ; 

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who sliould requite— 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. 
Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep !— 

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 

A hollow agony which will not heal. 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend. 

And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
But thou in safe implacability 
Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakn^gs 

shielded. 
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded. 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare ; 
And thus upon the world— trust in thy truth, 
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd"youth— 

On things that were not, and on things that are- 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord. 

And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 

And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold. 

For present anger, and for future gold— 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways. 
The early trutli, which was thy proper praise, 
Did not still .Wcilk beside thee— but at times, 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
Deceit, avertments incompatible. 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits— the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence— the pretext 
Of prudence, with advantages annex 'd — 
Tlie acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is ^von — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast done ! 

ISeplember, 1816.'\ 



Switzerland for Italy, but were not intended for the public 
eye: as, however, they have recently found their way Into 
circulation, we include them in this collection. 



i 



MONODY 

tk §am 4 the lisht ion. f. J. ^Wdmi 



SPOKEN AT DRUEY LANE THEATRE. 



Whe]N" the last sunshine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
While Nature makes that melanclioly pause. 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime ; 
Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep. 
The voiceless thought which w^ould not speak but 

weep, 
A holy concord— and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy wdth suns that set ? 
'T is not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt without bitterness— but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame— and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instills 
When Summer's day declines along tlie hills, 
So feels the fullness of our heart and eyes 
When all of Genius which can perisli dies. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed— a Power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness— to whose hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeathed — no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
The flash of Wit— the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song— the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun— but still have left behind- 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole. 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
Which all embraced— and lighten 'd over all. 
To cheer— to pierce — ^to please — or to appall. 
From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied. 
The praised— the proud — who made his praise their 

pride. 
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man. 
His was the thunder— his the avenging rod. 
The wrath— the delegated voice of God ! 
Which shook the nations through his lips — and 

blazed 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 

And here, oh I here, where yet all young and 
warm , 
The gay creations of his spirit charm, 

* Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this mon- 
ody was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the request of 
Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. 



Tlie matchless dialogue— the deathless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
Tlie glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
Home to our heart the truth from which they 

spring ; 
These wondrous beings of his fancy, wrought 
To fullness by the fiat of his thought. 
Here in their first abode you still may meet. 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat ; 
A halo of the light of other days, 
Which still the splendor of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
Men who exult wiien minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own. 
Still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Yice might be but Woe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
Kepose denies her requiem to his name. 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel— accuser— judge— and spy. 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
The envious Avho but breathe in others' pain, 
Behold the host ! delighting to deprave. 
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave. 
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
Half to the ardor which its birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie. 
And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 
These are his portion— but if join'd to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league witli deep Disease, 
If the high Spirit must forget to soar. 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage— and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew 'd caress. 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness :— 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne. 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder— scorch, 
and burst. 

But far from us and from our mimic scene 
Such things should be— if such have ever been; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask. 
To mourn the vanish'd beam, and add our mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orators ! wdiom yet our councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
379 



THE DREAM. 



Tlie worthy rival of the wondrous Three I "^ 
AVhose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
He was your Master — emulate him here I 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! f 
He was your brother— bear his ashes hence ! 
While Powers of mind almost of boundless range, 
Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
While Eloquence— Wit— Poesy— and Mirth, 



That humbler Harmonist of care on Eartli, 
Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness— long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain. 
Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
And broke the die— in moulding Sheridan. 

IDmlati, July 17, JSJ6.] 



THE DREAM. 



I. 

Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world. 
And a wide realm of wild reality. 
And dreams in their development have breatli. 
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts. 
They take a weight from off our waking toils. 
They do divide our being ; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time. 
And look like heralds of eternity ; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future ; they have power— 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain : 
They make us what w^e were not — w^hat they will, 
And shake us with the vision that 's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows— Are they so ? 
Is not the past all shadow ? What are they V 
Creations of the mind '?— The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter than have been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all tiesh. 
I would recall a vision which I dream 'd 
Perchance in sleep— for in itself a thought, 
A slumbering thought, is capable of years. 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 

II. 

I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such. 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreatiiing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown *d with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
Xot by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both w^re young, and one was beautiful : 



* Fox— Pitt— Burke. 

+ "In society I have met Sheridan frequently. He was su- 
perb ! I have seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz Madame de 
Stael, annihilate Colman, and do little less by some othei's of 
yood fame and ability. I have met him at all places and par- 
ties—at Whitehall with the Melbournes, at the Marquis of 
Ta\-istock's, at Bobins's the auctioneer, at Sir Humphry 
Davy's, at Sam Rog-ers's- in short, in most kinds of company, 
and always found him convivial and delig-htful."- J3j/roH 
Diary, 1821. 

%ln the first draught of this poem, Lord Byron had en- 
380 



And both were young— yet not alike in youth. 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge. 

The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 

The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 

Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 

There was but one beloved face on earth. 

And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 

Upon it till it could not pass away ; 

He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 

She was his voice ; he did not speak to her. 

But trembled on her words : she was his sight, 

Eor his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, 

AYhich color 'd all his objects : he had ceased 

To live within himself ; she was his life, 

The ocean to the river of his thoughts. 

Which terminated all : upon a tone, 

A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 

And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 

LTnknowing of its cause of agony. 

But she in these fond feelings had no share : 

Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 

Even as a brother— but no more ; 'twas much. 

For brotherless she was, save in the name 

Her infant friendship had bestow 'd on him; 

Herself the solitary scion left 

Of a time-honor'd race. I — It w^as a name 

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not — and 

why? 
Time' taught him a deep answ^er — wdien she loved 
Another ; even now she loved another, 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 

III. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

There was an ancient mansion, and before 

Its walls there was a steed caparison'd : 

Within an antique Oratory stood 

The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 

And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 

He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 

Words which I could not guess of ; then he lean'd 

His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere 

AYith a convulsion— then arose again, 

titled it '"The Destiny." Mr. Moore says, "it cost him many 
a tear in writing," and justly characterizes it as "the most 
mournful as well as picturesque 'story of a wandering life' 
that ever came from the pen and heart of man." It was com- 
posed at Diodati, in July, 1816. 

§ " Our union," said Lord Byron in 1831, " would have healed 
feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers— it would 
have joined lands, broad and rich— it would have joined at 
least one heart and two persons not ill-matched in years (she 
is two years my elder)— and— and— and— what has been the 
result 1" 



^ 




These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her ; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful ; 

THE DREAiVl.— Page 380. 



^ 



■* 



THE DREAM. 



And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 

What he had written, but he shed no tears. 

And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 

Into a kind of quiet : as he paused. 

The Lady of his love re-enter 'd there ; 

She was serene and smiling then, and yet 

She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew, 

For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart 

Was darken'd with lier shadow, and she saw 

That he was wretched, but she saw not all.* 

He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 

He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 

A tablet of unutterable thoughts 

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came, . 

He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps 

Eetired, but not as bidding her adieu, 

Por they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 

From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 

And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 

ly. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home. 
And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like Avhat he had been; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of all ; and in tlie last he lay 
Eeposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruined Avails that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them : by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 

y. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 

The Lady of his love was wed with One 

Who did net love her better : — in her home, 

A thousand leagues from his,— her native home, 

She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 

Daughters and sons of Beauty,— but behold ! 

L^pon her face there was the tint of grief. 

The settled shadow of an inward strife, 

And an lui quiet drooping of the eye. 

As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. 

What could her grief be ?— she had all she loved, 

And he who had so loved her was not there 

To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 

Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 

What could her grief be ?— she had loved him not. 

Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 

Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 

Upon her mind— a spectre of the past. 

yi. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
Tlie Wanderer was return'd.— I saw him stand 
Before an Altar— with a gentle bride ; 



* "I had long- been in love with M. A. C, and never told 
it, though sl\c had discovered it without. I recollect my sen- 
sations, but cannot describe them, and it is as vf ell."— Byron 
Diary, 1833. 

t This touching- picture agrees closely, in many of its cir- 
cumstances, with Lord Byron's own prose account of the 
wedding in his Memoranda; in which he describes himself 
as waking, on the morning of his marriage, with the most 



Her face was fair, but was not that which made 
The Starlight of his Boyhood ;— as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then— 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced— and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 

hat wh: 

been — 

But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place. 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour. 
And lier who was his destiny, came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
What business had they there at such a time ? f 

yii. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love; — Oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes. 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
AVere combinations of disjointed tliings ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy ; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Wliicli strips the distance of its fantasies. 
And brings life near in utter nakedness. 
Making the cold reality too real ! 

yiii. 

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
Tlie Wanderer was alone as heretofore. 
The beings which surrounded him were gone. 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For bligiit and desolation, compass'd round 
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix'd 
In all which was served up to him, until. 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days. 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
Through that v/hich had been death to many men. 
And made him friends of mountains: with the 

stars 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
He held his dialogues ! and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries; 
To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss reveal 'd 
A marvel and a secret— Be it so. 

IX. 

My dream was past ; it had no further cliange. 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 

Almost like a reality — ^the one 

To end in madness — both in misery. IJvhj, isie.i 



melancholy reflections, on seeing his wedding-suit spread 
out before him. In the same mood he wandered about the 
grounds alone, till he was summoned for the ceremony, and 
joined, for the first time, on that day, his bride and her 
family. He knelt down— he repeated the words after the 
clergyman ; but a mist was before his eyes — his thoughts were 
elsewhere ; and he was but awakened by the congratulations 
of the bystanders to find that he was— married."— Mocre. 
381 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



AD VEB TISEMEXT. 



AT Ferrara. in the Library, are preserved the original 
MSS. of Tasso's Gernsalemme and of Guarini's Pastor 
Fido, with letters of Tasso, one from Titian to Ariosto, and 
the inkstand and chair, the tomb and the house of the 
latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for pos- 
terity, and little or none for the contemporary, the cell 
where Tasso was confined in the hospital of St. Anna at- 
tracts a more fixed attention than the residence or the 



monument of Ariosto — at least it liad this effect on me. 
There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the 
second over the cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the 
wonder and the indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is 
much decayed and depopulated : the castle still exists en- 
tire ; and I saw the court v.-here Parisina and Hugo -^^ere 
beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon.* 



U\\t lament of feso. 



I. 

Long years !— It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle spirit of a child of Song- 
Long years of ontrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude,! 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches tlie heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
Marring the sunbeams Avith its hideous shade. 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
And bare, at once. Captivity displayed 
Stands scoffing through the never-open 'd gate, 
Wliich nothing through its bars admits, save day, 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and— it may be— my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
For I have battled with mine agony. 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
And revell'd among men and things divine, 
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
Li honor of the sacred war for him. 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven. 
For he has strengthen 'd me in heart and limb. 
That through this sufferance I might be forgiven. 



* The original MS. of this poem is dated, " The Apennines, 
April 20, 1817." It was written In consequence of Lord Bjron I 
having' ^asited Ferrara, for a single day, on his way to Flor- ; 
ence. In a letter from Rome, he says—" The ' Lament of ! 
Tasso,' which I sent from Florence, has, I trust, arrived, I ; 
look upon it as a ' These be good rhymes !' as Pope's papa 
said to him when he was a boy." i 

+ Tasso's biographer, the Abate Serassi, has left it without ! 
doubt, that the first cause of the poet's punishment was his 
desire to be occasionally, or altogether, free from his servi- ' 
tude at the court of Alfonso. In 1575, Tasso resolved to visit 
Rome, and enjoy the indulgence of the jubilee ; " and this | 
382 



I have employ'd my penance to record 

How Salem's shrine was won, and how adored. 

II. 

But this is o'er— my pleasant task is done: — 

My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 

If I do blot thy final page with tears. 

Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 

But thou, my young creation! my soul's child! 

Which ever playing round me cametand smiled. 

And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 

Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 

And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 

With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 

Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 

For I liave anguish yet to bear — and how ? 

I know not that— but in the innate force 

Of my o^^^l spirit shall be found resource. 

I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 

^or cause for such : they call'd me mad— and why? 

Oh, Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 

I was indeed delirious in my iieart 

To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 

But still my frenzy was not of the mind : 

I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 

Not less because I suffer it unbent. 

That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 

Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 

But let them go, or torture as they will. 

My heart can multiply thine imag"e still ; 

Su^ccessf ul love may sate itself away ; 

The wretched are the faithful ; 't is their fate 

To have all feeling, save the one, decay, 

And every passion into one dilate. 

As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 

But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



error," says the Abate, " increasing the suspicion already en- 
tertained, that he was in search of another service, was the 
origin of his misfortunes. On his return to Ferrara, Tasso, 
being treated with contempt, denounced the duke and the 
house of Este. For this otfence he was arrested, conducted 
to the hospital of Saint Anna, and confined in a solitary cell 
as a madman. This dungeon is below the ground floor of the 
hospital, and the light penetrates through its grated window 
from a small yard, which seems to have been common to 
other cells. It is nine paces long, between five and six wide, 
and about seven feet high."— Serassi, Vita del Tasso. 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO, 



III. 

Above me, hark I the long and maniac cry 

Of minds and bodies in' captivity. 

And liark! the lasli and the increasing howl, 

And the half -in articulate blasphemy ! 

There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 

Some who do still goad on the o'er-labor'd mind. 

And dim the little light that 's left behind 

AVith needless torture, as their tj-rant will 

Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 

With these and with their victims am I class'd, 

'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have 

pass'd; 
'Mid sights and sounds like these my life may close : 
So let it be— for then I shall repose. 

lY. 

I have been patient, let me be so ^-et ; 

I had forgotten half I would forget, 

But it revives— Oh ! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot !— 

Feel I not wroth with tliose who bade me dwell 

In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind, 

'^ov words a language, nor e'en men mankind; 

Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 

And each is tortured in his separate hell — 

For we are crowded in our solitudes — 

Many, but each divided by the wall. 

Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbor's call — 

None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 

Who was not made to be the mate of these. 

Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 

Feel I not wroth with those wiio placed me here ? 

Who have debased me in the minds of men, 

Debarring me the usage of my own, 

Blighting my life in best of its career. 

Branding my thoughts as tilings to shun and fear ? 

Would I not pay them back these pangs again. 

And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan ? 

The struggle to be calm, and cold distress. 

Which undermines our Stoical success ? 

No ! — still too proud to be vindictive— I 

Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would die. 

Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 

I weed all bitterness from out my breast. 

It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 

Thy brother hates — but I cannot detest ;'^ 

Thou pitiest not — but I cannot forsake. 

Y. 

Look on a love which knows not to despair,! 
But all unquench'd is still my better part. 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart. 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck,— forth flies the all-ethereal dart ! 
And tlms at the collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my fram^e, 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit by me ;— they are gone— I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
Were punisli'd by the silentness of thine, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine, 

* Not long- after his imprisonment, Tasso appealed to the 
mercy of Alfonso, in a canzone of ^eat heauty, couched in 
terms so respectful and pathetic, as must have moved, it 
mig-ht he thought, the severest bosom to relent. The heart 
of Alfonso was, however, impregnable to the appeal. 



Worshipp'd at holy distance, and around 
Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground; 
Not for thou wert a princess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with a glory, and array 'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay 'd — 
Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass— 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine — 
My star stood still before thee :— if it were 
Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, wiiich wrongs me— but for thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd lialf its weight ; and for the rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigor to sustain. 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 

YL 

It is no marvel — ^from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, — which did pervade 

And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth : 

Of objects all inanimate I made 

Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 

And rocks, wiiereby they grew, a paradise. 

Where I did lay me down within the shade 

Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours. 

Though I was chid for wandering ; and the wise 

Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 

Of such materials wretched men were made, 

And such a truant boy would end in woe. 

And that the only lesson was a blow ; 

And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 

But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 

Beturn'd and wept alone, and dream'd again 

The visions which arise without a sleep. 

And with my years my soul began to pant 

With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain; 

And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 

But undefined and wandering, till the day 

I found the thing I sought— and that was thee; 

And then I lost my being, all to be 

Absorb'd in thine ; the world w^as past away ; 

Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 

YII. 

I loved all Solitude — ^but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
From all communion with existence, save 
The m.aniac and his tyrant ; — had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave. 
But who hath seen me writhe, or heard me rave ? 
Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The workVis all before him — mine is here^ 
Scarce twice" the space they must accord my bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his ej^e. 
And with a dying glance upbraid the sky ; 
I will not raise my own in such reproof. 
Although 't is clouded by my dungeon roof. 

YIII. 

Yet do I feel at times my mind decline. 
But with a sense of its decay : I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine. 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty i)ains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 



+ " Was not the princess anxious to avoid her own ruin ? In 
taking too warm an interest for the poet, did she not risk de- 
strojing herself, without saving him?" — FoscoLO. 



383 



ODE ON VENICE, 



But much to One, who lon.o- hath suffer'd so, 
Sickness of h.eart, ami narrowness of y-lace, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
I thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
But Spirits may be leagued with them— all Earth 
Abandons— Heaven forgets me ;— in the dearth 
Of such defence the Powers of Evil can. 
It may be, tempt me furtlier,— and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. ^ 

Why in this furnace is my spirit proved. 
Like steel in tempering th-e ? because I loved ? 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 

IX. 

I once was quick in feeling— that is o'er : 
jNIy scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
i\Iv brain against these bars, as tlie sun flasli'd 
Jii mockery through them ;— If I bear and bore 
Tlie much I have recounted, and the more 
Which hath no words,— 't is that I would not die 
And sanction with self -slaughter the dull lie 
Which snared me here, and with thebrand of shame 
Stamp Madness deep into my memory. 
And woo Compassion to a blighted name. 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
No — it shall be immortal !— and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 



Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall down. 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,— 
A poet's dungeon thy most far reno\vn. 
While strangers v/oiider o'er thy unpeopled walls !* 
And thou, Leonora !— thou— who wert ashanied 
That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
To less th.an monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
Go I tell thy brother, tliat my heart, untamed 
By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
Attaint of that he would impute to me— 
From long infection of a den like this. 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abj'ss, — 
Adores thee still ; and add — that when the towers 
And battlements which guard his joj^ous hours 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot. 
Or left untended in a dull repose, 
This— this— sliall be a consecrated spot ! 
But Thou— whew all that Birth and Beauty throws 
Of magic round tliee is extinct — shalt iiave 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. f 
No power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend tliee from my heart. 
Yes, Leonora! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever— but too late I 



ODE ON VENICE. 



On, Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walls 

Are level with the waters, there shall be 
A crv of nations o'er thy sunken lialls, 

A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
What should thy sons do ?— anything but weep ; 
And yet they only murmur in their sleep. 
In contrast with their fathers— as the slime, 
The dull green ooze of the receding deep. 
Is with the dashing of tlie spring-tide foam 
That drives the sailor shipless to his home, 
Are tliey to those that were ; and thus they creep. 
Crouching and crab-like, through their sapping 

streets. 
Oh ! agony— that centuries should reap 
No mellower harvest ! Thirteen hundred years 
Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears ; 
And every monument the stranger meets. 
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets ; 
And even the Lion all subdued appears. 
And the liarsh sound of the barbarian drum, 
AVith dull and daily dissonance, repeats 
The echo of thy tjTant's voice along 
Tlie soft waves, once all musical to song, 
Tliat heaved beneath the moonlight with the throng 
Of gondolas— and to the busy hum 



* " Those who indulg-e in the dreams of earthly retribution 
will observe, that the ci-uelty of Alfonso was not left Avithout 
its recompense, even in his own person. He survived the 
affection of his subjects and of his dependants, who deserted 
him at his death ; and suffered his body to be interred with- 
out princely or decent honors. His last wishes were neg-- 
lected ; his testament cancelled. His kinsman, Don Ciesar, 
shrank from the excommunication of the Vatican, and, after 
a short struggle, or rather suspense. Ferrara passed away for 
ever from the dominion of the house of Este."— Hobhouse. 

t In July, 1586, after a confinement of more than seven 

years, Tasso was released from his dungeon. In the hope of 

384 



Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds 
Were but the overheating of the heart. 
And flow of too much happiness, which needs 
The aid of age to turn its course apart 
From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood 
Of sweet sens?^tions, battling with the blood. 
But these are better than the gloomy errors. 
The weeds of nations in their last decay. 
When Vice walks forth with lier unsoften'd terrors, 
And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay ; 
And Hope is nothing but a false delay, 
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death, 
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain, 
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning 
Of the cold staggering race which Death is winning, 
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away ; 
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay, 
To him appears renewal of his breath. 
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain ; 
And then he talks of life, and how again 
He feels his spirits soaring— albeit weak. 
And of the fresher air, which he would seek ; 
Aiid as he wliispers knows not that he gasps, 
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps. 
And so the film comes o'er him— and the dizzy 
Chamber swims round and round— and shadows 
busy, 

receiving his mother's dowry, and of again beholding his 
sister Cornelia, he shortly after visited Naples, where his 
presence was welcomed with every demonstration of esteem 
and admiration. Being on a visit at Mola di Gaeta, he re- 
ceived the following remarkable tribute of respect : Marco di 
Sciarra, the notorious captain of a numerous troop of ban- 
ditti, hearing where the great poet was, sent to compliment 
him, and offered him not only a free passage, but protection by 
the way, and assured him that he and his followers would be 
proud to execute his orders. See Manso, Vita del Tasso, p. 219. 
* This ode was transmitted from Venice, in 1819, along 
with '* Mazeppa." 



ODE ON VENICE. 



At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam, 
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream, 
And all is ice and blackness, — and the earth 
That which it was the moment ere our birth. 

II. 

There is no hope for nations ! — Search the page 

Of many thousand years— the daily scene. 
The flow and ebb of each recurring age, 
The everlasting to he which hath been, 
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean 
On tilings that rot beneath our weight, and wear 
Our strength away in wrestling with tlie air ; 
For 'tis our nature strikes us down: tlie beasts 
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts 
Are of as high an order— they must go 
Even where tlieir driver goads them, though to 

slaughter. 
Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water. 
What have they given your children in return? 
A heritage of servitude and woes, 
A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blov/s. 
AVhat ! do not yet the red-hot ploughshares burn, 
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, 
And deem this proof of loyalty the real ; 
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars. 
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ? 
All that your sires have left you, all that Time 
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime, 
Spring from a different theme !— Ye see and read, 
Adm.ire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed I 
Save the fev^r spirits who, despite of all, 
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd 
By the down-thundering of the prison wall. 
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender 'd. 
Gushing from Freedom's fountains — when the 

crowd. 
Madden 'd with centuries of drought, are loud. 
And trample on each other to obtain 
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain 
Heavy and sore,— in which long yoked they plough 'd 
The sand,— or if there sprnng'the yellow grahi^ 
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much 

bow'd, 
And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain : — 
Yes 1 the few spirits — who, despite of deeds 
Which they abhor, confound not with the cause 
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws. 
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite 
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth 
With all her seasons to repair the blight 
With a few summers, and again put forth 
Cities and generations — fair, when free — 
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee ! 

III. 

Glory and Empire ! once upon these towers 
With Freedom — godlike Triad ! how ye sate! 

The league of mightiest liations, in those hours 
When Venice was an envy, might abate, 



But did not quench, her spirit ; in her fate 
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew 

And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate, 
Although they Immbled— with the kingly few 
The many felt, for from all days and climes 
Slie was the voyager's worship ; — even her crimes 
Were of the softer order- born of Love, 
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead. 
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread ; 
For these restored the Cross, that from above 
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant 
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent, 
Whicli, if it waned and dwindled. Earth may 

thank 
The city it has clotlied in chains, which clank 
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe 
The nam.e of Freedom to her glorious struggles ; 
Yet she but shares with them a common woe. 
And call'd the '' kingdom " of a conquering foe, — 
But knows what all — and, most of all, n:e know — 
With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles ! 

lY. 

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone 

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe ; 
Venice is crush 'd, and Holland deigns to own 

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; 
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone 
His chainless mountains, 't is but for a time. 
For tyranny of late is cunning grown. 
And in its own good season tramples down 
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, 
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing oceau 
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion 
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and 
Bequeath'd — a heritage of heart and hand. 
And proud distinction from each otlier land, 
Whose sons Uiust bow them at a monarch's motion, 
As if his senseless sceptre were a wand 
Full of the magic of exploded science — 
Still one great clime, in full and free defiance, 
Yfet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, 
Above the far Atlantic ! — She has taught 
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag. 
The floating fer.ce of Albion's feebler crag, 
May strike to those whose red right hands have 

bought 
nights cheaply earn'd with blood. — Still, still, for 

ever 
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, 
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, 
Dam.m'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, 
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep. 
Three paces, and then faltering :-r-better be 
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, 
In their proud charnel of Thermopylae, 
Than stagnate in our marsh, — or o'er the deep 
Fly, and one current to the oceau add. 
One spirit to"the souls our fathers had. 
One freeman more, America, to thee ! 




25 



385 



THE MOEGANTE MAGGIORE 

OF PULCL* 



AD VEB TISEMENT. 



TIIE Morgante Maggiore, of the first canto of which 
this translation is offered, divides with the Or- 
hmdo Innamorato the honor of having formed and sug- 
gested the style and story of Ariosto. The great defects 
of Boiardo were his treating too seriously the narratives 
of chivalry, and his harsh style. Ariosto, in his contin- 
uation, by a judicious mixture of the gayety of Pulci, has 
avoided the one; and Berni, in his reformation of Boi- 
ardd's poem, has corrected the other. Pulci may be con- 
sidered as the precui-sor and model of Berni altogether, 
as he has partly been to Ariosto, however inferior to' both 
his copyists. He is no less the founder of a new style of 
poetry very lately sprung up in England. I allude to 
that of the ingenious Whistlecraft. The serious poems 
on Koncesvalles in the same language, and more partic- 
ularly the excellent one of Mr. Merivale, are to be traced | 
to the same source. 

It has never yet been decided entirely whether Pulci's 
intention was or was not to deride the religion which is 
one of his favorite topics. It appears to me, that such 
an intention would have been no less hazardous to the 
poet than to the priest, particularly in that age and coun- 
try ; and the permission to publish the poem, and its 
reception among the classics of Italy, prove that it neither 
was nor is so interpreted. That he intended to ridicule 
the monastic life, and suffered his imagination to play 
with the simple dullness of his converted giant, seems 
evident enough ; but surely it were as unjust to accuse 
him of irreligion on this account, as to denounce Field- 
ing for his Parson Adams, Barnabas, Thv/ackum, Supple, 
and the Ordinary in Jonathan Wild, — or Scott, for the 



exquisite use of his Covenanters in the "Tales of my 
Landlord." 

In the following translation I have used the liberty of 
the original with the proper names ; as Pulci uses Gan, 
Ganellon, or Ganellone ; Carlo, Carlomagno, or Carlo- 
mano ; Rondel, or Rondello, etc., as it suits his conven- 
ience ; so has the translator. In other respects the ver- 
sion is faithful to the best of the translator's ability in 
combining his interpretation of the one language with 
the not very easy task of reducing it to the same versifi- 
cation in the other. The reader, on comparing it with 
the original, is requested to remember that the antiquated 
language of Pulci, however pure, is not easy to the gen- 
erality of Italians themselves, from its great mixture of 
Tuscan proverbs ; and he may therefore be more indul- 
gent to the present attempt. How far the translator has 
succeeded, and whether or no he shall continue the work, 
are questions which the public will decide. He was in- 
duced to make the experiment partly by his love for, and 
partial intercourse with, the Italian language, of which it 
is so easy to acquire a slight knowledge, and with which it 
is so nearly impossible for a foreigner to become accurately 
conversant. The Italian language is like a capricious 
beauty, who accords her smiles to all, her favors to few, and 
sometimes least to those who have courted her longest. 
The translator wished also to present in an English dress 
a part at least of a poem never yet rendered into a north- 
ern language ; at the same time that it has been the orig- 
inal of some of the most celebrated productions on this 
side of the Alps, as well as of those recent experiments in 
poetry in England which have been already n^entioned. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



r^gi^^ 



In the beginning was the Word next God : 
God was the Word, the Word no less was he : 

This was in the beginning, to my mode 
Of thinking, and without him nought could be: 

Therefore, just Lord ! from out thy high abode, 
Benign and pious, bid an angel flee, 



* The following- translation was executed at Ravenna, in 
February, 1820, and first saw the lig-ht in the pages of the 
unfortunate .iournal called "The Liberal." 

386 



! One only, to be my companion, who 
Shall help my famous, worthy, old song through. 

II. 

And thou, oh. Virgin ! daughter, mother, bride 
Of the same Lord, who gave to you each key 

Of heaven, and hell, and everything beside, 
The day thy Gabriel said " All hail ! " to thee, 

Since to thy servants pity 's ne'er denied, 
With flowing rhymes, a pleasant style and free, 

Be to my verses then benignly kind. 

And to the end illuminate my mind. 

III. 

'T was in the season when sad Philomel 
Weeps with her sister, who remembers and 



31 ORG ANTE 31 AG G 10 RE. 



Deplores the ancient woes which both befell, 
And makes the nymphs enamor'd, to the hand 

Of Pliaeton by Piioebus loved so well 
His car (but temper'd by his sire's command) 

Was given, and on the horizon's verge just. now 

Appear'd, so that Tithonus scratch'd his brow : 

lY. 

When I prepared my bark first to obey, 
As it should still obey, the helm, my mind, 

And carry prose or rhyme, and this my lay 
Of Charles the Emperor, whom you will find 

By several pens already praised ; but they 
Who to diffuse his glory were inclined. 

For all that I can see in prose or verse, 

Have understood Charles badly, and wrote worse. 



Leonardo Aretino said already. 

That if, like Pepin, Charles had had a writer 
Of genius quick, and diligently steady. 

No hero would in history look brighter ; 
He in the cabinet being always ready, 

And in the field a most victorious fighter, 
Who for the church and Christian faith had 

wrought, 
Certes, far more than yet is said or thought. 

VI. 

You still may see at Saint Liberatore 
The abbey," no great way from Manopell, 

Erected in the Abruzzi to liis glory, 

l^ecause of the great battle in which fell 

A pagan king, according to the story, 
And felon people whom Charles sent to liell : 

And there are bones so many, and so many, 

Near them Giusaffa's would seem few, if any. 

YII. 

But the world, blind and ignorant, don't prize 
His virtues as I wish to see them : thou, 

Florence, by his great bounty don't arise, 
And hast, and may have, if thou wilt allow. 

All proper customs and true courtesies : 
Whate'er thou hast acquired from them till now, 

With knightly courage, treasure, or the lance, 

Is sprung from out the noble blood of France. 

YIII. 

Twelve paladins had Charles in court, of Avhom 
The wisest and most famous was Orlando ; 

Him traitor Gan conducted to the tomb 
In Roncesvalles, as the villain plann'd to, 

W^hile the horn rang so loud, and knell'd the doom 
Of tlieir sad rout, though he did all knight can do ; 

And Dante in his comedy has given 

To him a happy seat v.'ith Charles in heaven. 

IX. 

'T was Christmas-day ; in Paris all his court 
Charles held : the chief, I say, Orlando was, 

The Dane ; Astolfo tliere too did resort. 
Also Ansuigi. the gay time to pass 

In festival and in triumphal sport, 
Tiie much-renown'd St. Dennis being the cause ; 

Angiolin of Bayonne, and Oliver, 

And gentle Belinghieri too came there. 

X. 

Avolio, and Arino, and Othone 
Of Normandy, and Richard Paladin, 

Wise Hamo, and the ancient Salamone, 
Walter of Lion's Mount, and Baldovin, 

Who was the son of the sad Ganellone, 
Were there, exciting too much gladness in 

Tlie son of Pepin : — when his knights came hitlier, 

He groan 'd with joy to see them all together. 



XL 

But watchful Fortune, lurking, takes good heed 
Ever some bar 'gainst our intents to bring : 

While Charles reposed him thus, in word and deed, 
Orlando ruled court, Charles, and everything ; 

Curst Gan, with envy bursting, had such need 
To vent his spite, that thus with Charles the 
king 

One day he openly began to say, 

" Orlando must we always then obey ? 

XII. 

" A thousand times I 've been about to say, 
Orlando too presumptuously goes on ; 

Here are we, counts, kings, dukes, to own thy sway, 
Hamo, and Otho, Ogier, Solomon, 

Each have to honor thee and to obey ; 
But he has too much credit near the throne. 

Which we won't suffer, but are quite decided 

By such a boy to be no longer guided. 

XIII. 

" And even at Aspramont thou didst begin 
To let him know lie was a gallant knight. 

And by the fount did much the day to win ; 
But I know who that day had won the fight 

If it had not for good Gherardo been ; 
The victory was Almonte's else ; his sight 

He kept upon the standard, and the laurels 

In fact and fairness are his earning, Charles. 

XIY. 

"If thou rememberest being in Gascony, 
Wlien there advanced the nations out of Spain, 

The Christian cause had suffered shamefully, 
Had not his valor driven them back again. 

Best speak the truth when there's a reason Avhy ; 
Knov/ then, oh. Emperor! that all complain : 

As for myself, I shall repass the mounts 

O'er which I cross 'd with two and sixty counts. 

XY. 

" 'T is fit thy grandeur should dispense relief, 

So that each here may have his proper part, 
For the whole court is more or less in grief: 

Perhaps thou deem'st this lad a Mars in heart ?" 
Orlando one day heard this speech in brief, 

As by himself it chanced he sate apart : 
Displeased he was with Gan because he said it, 
But much more still that Charles should give him 
credit. 

XYI. 
And with the sword he would have murder'd Gan, 

But Oliver thrust in between the pair, 
And from his hand extracted Durlindan, 

And tlius at length they separated were. 
Orlando, angry too with Carloman, 

Wanted but little to have slain him there ; 
Then forth alone from Paris went the chief, 
And burst and madden 'd with disdain and grief. 

XYII. 

From Ermellina, consort of the Dane, 
He took Cortana, and then took Rondell, 

And on towards Brara prick'd him o'er the plain ; 
And when she saw him coming, Aldabelle 

Stretch 'd forth her arms to clasp her lord again : 
Orlando, in wiiose brain all was not well, 

As "Welcome, my Orlando, home," she said. 

Raised up his sword to smite her on the head. 

XYII I. 
Like him a fury counsels; his revenge 

On Gan in that rasli act he seem'd to take, 
AVhich Aldabella thought extremely strange; 
But soon Orlando found himself awake ; 
387 



31 ORG ANTE NAG G 10 RE. 



And his spouse tookliis bridle on this change, 

And he dismounted from his horse, and spake 
Oi everythiiig which pass'd without demur. 
And then reposed himself some days with iier. 

XIX. 

Tlien full of wrath departed from the place, 
As far as pagan countries roam\l astray, 

And while he rode, yet still at every pace 
The traitor Gan remember'd by the way ; 

And Avandering on in error a long space, 
An abbey which in a lone desert lay, 

'Midst glens obscu.re. and distant lauds, he found, 

"Which fornfd the Christian's and the pagan's 
bound. 

XX. 

The abbot was called Clermont, and by blood 
Descended from Anglante : under cover 

Of a great mountain's brow the abbey stood, 
But certain savage giants look'd him over; 

One Passamout was foremost of the brood. 
And Alabaster and Morgante liover 

Second and tliird, with certain slings, and throw 

In daily jeopardy the place below. 

XXI. 

Tlie monks could pass the convent gate no more, 
Nor leave tlieir cells for water or for wood ; 

Orlando knock'd, but none would ope, before 
Unto the prior it at length seem'd good ; 

Ejiter'd, he said that he was taught to adore 
Him who was born of Mary's holiest blood. 

And was baptized a Christian ; and then show'd 

How to the abbey he had found his road. 

XXII. 

Said the abbot, " You are welcome ; what is mine 
Y7q give you freely, since that you believe 

With us in Mary Mother's Son divine ; 
And that you may not, cavalier, conceive 

The cause of our delay to let you in 
To be rusticity, you shall receive 

The reason why our gate was barr'd to you : 

Thus tliose who in suspicion live must do. 

XXIII. 

" When hither to inhabit first we came 
These mountains, albeit that they are obscure, 

As 3^ou perceive, yet without fear or blame 
They seem'd to promise an asylum sure : 

From savage brutes alone, too fierce to tame, 
'T was tit our quiet dwelling to secure ; 

But now, if here we 'd stay, we needs must guard 

Agaiust domestic beasts w"^ith watch and ward. 

XXIY. 

" Tliese make us stand, in fact, upon the watch ; 

For late there have appear "d tliree giants rougii ; 
What nation or what kingdom bore the batcli 

I know not, but they are all of savage stuff; 
Wlien force and malice with some genius match, 

You know, they can do all — we are not enough : 
And these so much our orisons derange, 
I know not what to do, till matters change. 

XXY. 

"Our ancient fathers living the desert in, 
For just and holy works were duly fed; 
Think not they lived on locusts sole, 'tis certain 
That manna was rain'd down from heaven in- 
stead ; 
But here 'tis fit we keep on the alert in 
Our bounds, or taste the stones shower'd down 
for bread. 
From oil yon mountain daily raining faster, 
And flung by Passamont and Alabaster. 
383 



XXYI. 

" The third, Morgante, 's savagest by far ; he 
Plucks up pines, beeches, poplar-trees, and oaks, 

And flings them, our community to bury ; 
And all that I can do but more provokes." 

While thus they parley in the cemetery, 
A stone from one of their gigantic strokes. 

Which nearly crush 'd Ilondell, came tumbling over, 

So that he took a long leap under cover. 

XXYII. 

" For God-sake, cavalier, come in with speed ; 

The manna 's falling now," the abbot cried. 
''This fellow does not wish my horse should feed, 

Dear abbot,'' iloland unto him replied. 
" Of restiveness he 'd cure him had he need ; 

That stone seems with good will and aim ap- 
plied." 
The holy father said, " I don't deceive ; 
They '11 one day fling the mountain, I believe." 

XXYIII. 

Oi'lando bade them take care of Eondello, 
And also made a breakfast of his own : 

"Abbot," he said, " I want to find that fellow 
Who tiung at my good horse yon corner-stone." 

Said the abbot, " Let not my advice seem shallow ; 
As to a brother dear I speak alone ; 

I would dissuade you, baron, from this strife, 

As knowing sure that you will lose your life. 

XXIX. 

" Tliat Passamont lias in his hand three darts — 
Such slings, clubs, ballast-stones, that yield you 
must ; 

You know that giants have much stouter hearts 
Than us, with reason, in proportion just : 

If go you will, guard well against their arts. 
For these are very barbarous and robust." 

Orlando answer'd, ''This I '11 see, be sure, 

And walk the wild on foot to be secure." 

XXX. 

The abbot sign'd the great cross on his front, 
" Then go you Avith God's benison and mine : " 

Orlando, after he had scaled the mount. 
As the abbot had directed, kept the line 

Right to the usual haunt of Passamont ; 
Who, seeing him alone in this design, 

Survey'd him fore and aft with eyes observant. 

Then ask'd him, '' If he wisli'd to stay as servant? " 

XXXI. 

And promised him an ofiice of great ease. 

But, said Orlando. " Saracen insane ! 
I come to kill you, if it shall so please 

God, not to serve as foot boy in your train ; 
You with his monks so oft have broke the peace — 

Vile dog ! 't is past his patience to sustain." 
The giant ran to fetch his arms, quite furious. 
When he received an answer so injurious, 

XXXII. 

And being return'd to where Orlando stood, 
Who had not moved him from the spot, and 
swinging 

The cord, he hurl'd a stone with strength so rude, 
As show^'d a sample of his skill in slinging ; 

It roU'd on Count Orlando's helmet good 
And head, and set both head and helmet ringing. 

So that he swoon 'd with pain as if he died, 

But more than dead, he seem'd so stupefied. 

XXXIII. 

Then Passamont, who thouglit him slain outright. 
Said, " I will go, and v/hile he lies along. 



MORGAN TE MAGGIORE, 



Disarm me : wiiy sucli craven did I fight ? " 
But Christ his servants ne'er abandons long, 

Especially Orlando, such a knight, 
As to desert would almost be a wrong. 

While the giant goes to put off his defences, 

Orlando has recalPd his force and senses : 

xxxiy. 

And loud he shouted, " Giant, wdiere dost go? 

Thou thougiit'st me doubtless for the bier out- 
laid ; 
To the right about — without wings thou 'rt too slow 

To fly my vengeance— currivSh renegade ! 
'Twas but by treachery thou laid'st me low." 

The giant his astonishment betray 'd, 
And turn'd about, and stopp'd his journey on. 
And then he stoop'd to pick up a great stone. 

XXXY. 

Orlando had Cortana bare in hand ; 

To split the head in twain was wliat he schemed : 
Cortana clave the skull like a true brand, 

And pagan Passamont died unredeem'd. 
Yet harsh and haughty, as he lay he bann'd. 

And most devoutly Macon still blasphemed ; 
But while his crude," rude blasphemies he lieard, 
Orlando thank'd the Father and the Word, — 

XXXYI. 

Saying, " What grace to me thou 'st this day given ! 

And I to thee, oh, Lord ! am ever bound. 
I know my life was saved by thee from heaven, 

Since by the giant I was fairly down'd. 
All things by thee are measured just and even ; 

Our power without thine aid would nought be 
found : 
I pray thee take heed of me. till I can 
At least return once more to Carloman." 

XXXVII. 

And having said thus much, he went his way; 

And Alabaster he found out below, 
Doing the very best that in him lay 

To root from out a bank a rock or two. 
Orlando, when he reach 'd him, loud 'gan say, 

'' How think 'st thou, glutton, such a stone to 
throw ? '• 
When Alabaster heard his deep voice ring, 
He suddenly betook him to his sling, 

xxxyiii. 

And hurl'd a fragment of a size so large, 
That if it had in fact fuliiird its mission. 

And Roland not avaiPd liim of his targe, 
There would have been no need of a physician. 

Orlando set himself in turn to cliarge. 
And in his bulky bosom made incision 

With all his sword . The lout fell ; but o'ertbrown, he 

However by no means forgot Macone. 

XXXIX. 

Morgante had a palace in his mode. 

Composed of branches, logs of w^ood, and earth, 
And stretch'd himself at ease in this abode, 

And shut himself at night within his berth. 
Orlando knock 'd, and knock 'd again, to goad 

The giant from his sleep ; and he came forth 
The door to open, like a crazy thing. 
For a rough dream had shook him slumbering. 

XL. 

He thouG:ht that a fierce serpent had attack'd him ; 

And Mahomet he call'd ; but Mahomet 
Is nothing worth, and not an instant back'd him; 

But praying blessed Jesu, he was set 
At liberty from all tlie fears which rack'd him ; 

And to the gate he came with great regret — 



"Who knocks here?" grumbling all the while, said 
" That," said Orlando, '' you w^ill quickly see. [he. 

XLI. 
" I come to preach to you, as to your brothers. 

Sent by the miserable monks — repentance ; 
For Providence divine, in you and others, 

Condemns the evil done my new acquaintance. 
'T is writ on high your wrong must pay another's; 

From heaven'itself is issued out this sentence. 
Know then, that colder now than a pilaster 
I left your Passamont and xilabaster." 

XLII. 

Morgante said, "Oh, gentle cavalier! 

Now by thy God say me no villainy ; 
The favor of your name I fain would hear, 

And if a Christian, speak for courtesy." 
Replied Orlando, " So much to your ear 

I by my faith disclose contentedly ; 
Christ I adore, Avho is tlie genuine Lord, 
And, if you please, by you may be adored." 

XLIII. 

The Saracen rejoin 'd in humble tone, 
" I have had an extraordinary vision ; 

A savage serpent fell on me alone. 
And Macon would not pity my condition ; 

Hence to thy God, who for ye did atone 
Upon the cross, preferr'd I my petition ; 

His timely succor set me safe and free. 

And I a Christian am disposed to be." 

XLIV. 

Orlando answer'd, " Baron just and pious. 
If this good wish your heart can really move 

To the true God, you will not then deny us 
Eternal honor, you will go above. 

And, if you please, as friends we will ally us, 
And I will love you with a perfect love. 

Your idols are vain liars, full of fraud : 

The only true God is the Christian's God. 

XLV. 

"The Lord descended to the virgin breast 
Of Mary Mother, sinless and divine ; 

If you acknowledge the Redeemer blest. 
Without whom neither sun nor star can shine, 

Abjure bad Macon's false and felon test. 
Your renegado god, and worship mine. 

Baptize yourself with zeal, since you repent." 

To which Morgante answer'd, "I 'm content." 

XL VI. 

And then Orlando to embrace him flew. 
And made much of his convert, as he cried, 

" To the abbey I will gladly marshal you." 
To whom Morgante, " Let us go," replied; 

"I to the friars have for peace to sue," 
Which thing Orlando heard with inward pride, 

Saying, "My brother, so devout and got:)d, 

Ask the abbot pardon, as I wish you would : 

XLVII. 

" Since God has granted your illumination, 

Accepting you in mercy for his owm, 
Humility should be j^our first oblation." 

Morgante said, "For goodness' sake, make 
known — 
Since that your God is to be mine— your station. 

And let your name in verity be shown ; 
Tiien will I everything at your command do." 
On wliich the other said, he w^as Orlando. 

XL VIII. 

" Then," quoth the ginnt, "blessed be Jesu 
A thousand times with gratitude and praise ! 
389 



31 ORG ANTE 31 AG G 10 RE. 



Oft, perfect baron I have I beard of you 
Throiig-li all the dilfereiit periods of my days : 

And, as I said, to be your vas:<al too 
I wish, for your great gallantry always." 

Thus reasoning, they continued much to say, 

And onwards to the abbey went their way. 

XLIX. 
And by the way about the giants dead 

Orlando with Morgante reason'd : " Be, 
For tlieir decease, I "pray you, comforted; 

And, since it is God's pleasure, pardon me; 
A thousand wrongs unto tlie monks they bred, 

And our true Scripture soundeth openly. 
Good is rewarded, and cliastised the ill, 
Which the Lord never faileth to f ulhli : 



" Because his love of justice unto all 
Is such, he wills his judgment should devour 

All who have sin, however great or small; 
But good he well remembers to restore. 

Nor without justice holy could Ave call 
Him, whom I now require you to adore. 

All men must make his will their wishes sway, 

And quickly and spontaneously obey. 

LI. 

"And here our doctors are of one accord, 
Coming on this point to the same conclusion, 

That in tiieir thoughts who praise in heaven the Lord 
If pity e'er was guilty of intrusion 

For tlieir unfortunate relations stored 
In hell below, and damn'd in gTeat confusion. 

Their happiness would be reduced to nought. 

And thus unjust the Almighty's self be thought. 

LII. 

" But they in Christ have firmest hope, and all 
Which seems to him, to them too must appear 

Well done ; nor could it otherwise befall : 
He never can in any purpose err. 

If sire or motlier suffer endless thrall. 
They don't disturb themselves for him or lier ; 

What pleases God to them must joy inspire ; — 

Such is the observance of the eternal choir." 

LIII. 

''A w^ord imto the^wise," Morgante said, 
" Is wont to be enough, and jou shall see 

How much I grieve about my brethren dead; 
And if the will of God seem good to me. 

Just, as you tell me, 'tis in heaven obey'd — 
Ashes to ashes,— merry let us be! 

I will cut off the hands from both tlieir trunks, 

And carry them mito the holy monks, 

LIY. 

" So that all persons may be sure and certain 
That they are dead, and have no further fear 

To wander solitary this desert in, 
And that they may perceive my spirit clear 

By the Lord's grace, who hath withdrawn the cur- 
tain 
Of darkness, making his bright realm appear." 

He cut his brethren's hands olf at these words. 

And left them to the savage beasts and birds. 

LY. 

Then to the abbey they went on together. 
Where waited them the abbot in great doubt. 

The monks, Avho knew not yet the fact, ran thither, 
To tlieir superior, all in breathless rout. 

Saying with tremor, '' Please to tell us whether 
You wish to have this person in or out ? " 

The abbot, looking through upon the giant. 

Too greatly fear'd, at first, to be compliant. 
390 



LYI. 

Orlando, seeing him thus agitated, 

Said quickly, •' Abbot, be thou of good cheer ; 
He Christ believes, as Christian must be rated. 

And hath renounced his Macon false ; " which here 
Morgante with the hands corroborated, 

A proof of both the giants' fate quite clear: 
Thence, with due thanks, the abbot God adored. 
Saying, " Thou hast contented me, oh, Lord ! " 

LYII. 

He gazed ; Morgante's height he calculated, 
And more than once con'templated his size; 

And then he said, '' Oh, giant celebrated! 
Know, that no more my wonder will arise, 

How you could tear and fiing tlie trees you late did, 
When I behold your form with my own eyes. 

You now a true and perfect friend will show 

Yourself to Christ, as once you were a foe. 

LYIII. 

''And one of our apostles, Saul once named. 
Long persecuted sore the faith of Christ, 

Till, one day, by the Spirit being inflamed, 
' Why dost thou persecute me thus ? ' said Christ ; 

And then from his offence he was reclaim 'd. 
And went forever after preaching Christ, 

And of the faith became a trump, whose sounding 

O'er the whole earth is echoing and rebounding. 

LIX. 

"•So, my Morgante, you may do likewise : 

He who repents— thus writes the Evangelist- 
Occasions more rejoicing in the skies 

Than ninety-nine of the celestial list. 
You may be sure, should each desire arise 

With just zeal for the Lord, that you "11 exist 
Among the happy saints for evermore ; 
But you were lost and damn'd to hell before ! " 

LX. 

And thus great honor to Morgante paid 
The abbot : many days they did repose. 

One day, as with Orlando they both stray 'd. 
And saunter'd here and there, where'er they chose, 

The abbot show'd a chamber, where array'd 
Much armor was, and hung up certain bows; 

And one of these Morgante for a whim 

Girt on, though useless, he believed, to him. 

LXI. 

There being a want of Vv'ater in the place, 
Orlando, like a worthy brother, said, 

'' Morgante, I could wish you in this case 
To go for v.ater." " You shall be obey'd 

In all commands." was the reply, "• straight ways." 
Upon his shoulder a great tub he laid, 

And went out on his way unto a fountain. 

Where he was wont to drink, below the mountain. 

LXII. 

Arrived there, a prodigious noise he hears. 
Which suddenly along the forest spread. 

Whereat from out his quiver he prepares 
An arrow for his bow, and lifts his head ; 

And lo ! a monstrous herd of swine appears. 
And onward rushes with tempestuous tread, 

And to the fountain's brink precisely pours; 

So that the giant *s join'd by all the boars. 

LXIII. 

Morgante at a venture shot an arrow. 
Which pierced a pig precisely in the ear. 

And ])ass'd unto the other side quite thorough ; 
So that the boar, defunct, lay tripp'd up near. 

Another, to avenge his fellow farrow. 
Against the giant rush'd in fierce career, 



MO RG ANTE MAG G 10 RE. 



And reach 'd the passage with so swift a foot, 
Morgante was not now in time to shoot. 

LXIY. 

Perceiving that the pig was on him close, 

He gave him such a punch upon the head, 
As floor'd him so that he no more arose, 

Smashing the very bone ; and he fell dead 
Next to the other. 'Having seen such blows. 

The other pigs along the valley tied ; 
Morgante on his neck the bucket took, 
Full from the spring, which neither swerved nor 
shook. 

LXV. 
The tun was on one shoulder, and there were 

The hogs on t'other, and he brush'd apace 
On to the abbey, tliough by no means near, 

Nor spilt one drop of water in his race. 
Orlando, seeing him so soon appear 

With the dead boars, and with that brimful vase, 
Marveird to see his strength so very great ; 
So did the abbot, and set wide the gate. 

LXYI. 

Tlie monks, who saw the water fresh and good, 
Rejoiced, but much more to perceive the pork ; 

All animals are glad at sight of food : 
They lay their breviaries to sleep, and work 

With greedy pleasure, and in such a mood, 
Tliat the tlesh needs no salt beneath their fork. 

Ot rankuess and of rot there is no fear. 

For all the fasts are now left in arrear. 

LXVII. 

As though they wish'd to burst at once, they ate ; 

And gorged so that, as if the bones had been 
In water, sorely grieved the dog and cat. 

Perceiving that they all were pick'd too clean. 
The abbot, who to alfdid lionor great, 

A few days after this convivial scene, 
Gave to Morgante a fine horse, well train'd, 
Which he long time had for himself maintain'd. 

LXYIII. 

The horse Morgante to a m.eadow led. 
To gallop, and to pat him to the proof. 

Thinking that he a back of iron had, 
Or to skim eggs unbroke was light enough ; 

But the horse, sinking with the pain, fell dead. 
And burst, while cold on earth lay head and hoof, 

Morgante said, " Get up, thou sulky cur ! " 

And still continued pricking with the spur. 

LXIX. 

But finally he thought fit to dismount, 
And said, " I am as light as any feather, 

And he has burst ; — to this what say you, count ? " 
Orlando answer'd, " Like a ship's mast rather 

You seem to me, and with the truck for front : 
Let him go ; Fortune wills that we together 

Should march, but you on foot Morgante still." 

To which the giant answer'd, "So I will. 

LXX. 

" When there shall be occasion, you will see 
How I approve my courage in the fight." 

Orlando said, '' I really think you "11 be. 
If it should prove God's will, a goodly knight ; 

Nor will you napping there discover me. 
But never mind your horse, though out of sight 

'T were best to carry him into some wood, 

If but the means or way I understood." 

LXXI. 

The giant said, " Then carry him I will. 
Since that to carry me he was so slack — 



To render, as the gods do, good for ill ; 

But lend a hand to place him, on my back." 
Orlando answer'd, '' If my counsel still 

May weigh, Morgante, do not undertake 
To lift or carry this dead courser, who 
As you have done to him, will do to you. 

LXXII. 
" Take care he don't revenge himself , though dead, 

As Nessus did of old beyond all cure. 
I don't know if the fact you 've heard or read ; 

But he will make you burst, you may be sure." 
" But help him on my back," Morgante said, 

'• And you shall see what weight I can endure. 
In place, my gentle Roland, of this palfrey. 
With all the bells, 1 '11 carry yonder belfry." 

LXXIII. 

Tlie abbot said, "The steeple may do well, 
But, for tlie bells, you 've broken them, I wot." 

Morgante answer'd, "Let them pay in hell 
The penalty who lie dead in yon grot ; " 

And hoisting up the horse from where he fell. 
He said, "Now look if I the gout have got, 

Orlando, in the legs — or if I have force ; " — 

xind then he made two gambols with the horse. 

LXXIY. 

Morgante was like any mountain framed ; 

So if he did this, 'tis no prodigy; 
But secretly himself Orlando blamed, 

Because he was one of his family ; 
And fearing that he might be hurt or maimed, 

Once more he bade him lay his burden by : 
" Put down, nor bear him further the desert iu." 
Morgante said, " I '11 carry him for certain." 

LXXY. 

He did ; and stow'd him in some nook away. 
And to the abbey then return 'd with speed. 

Orlando said, " Why longer do we stay V 
Morgante, here is nought to do indeed." 

The abbot by the hand he took one day. 
And said, with great respect, he had agreed 

To leave his reverence ; but for this decision 

He wish'd to have his pardon and permission. 

LXXYI. 

The honors they continued to receive 
Perhaps exceeded what his merits claim 'd: 

He said, "I mean, and quickly, to retrieve 
The lost days of time past, which may be blamed ; 

Some days ago I should have ask'd your leave. 
Kind father, but I really was ashamed, 

And know not how to show my sentiment, 

So much I see you with our stay content. 

LXXYII. 

" But in my heart I bear through every clime 
The abbot, abbey, and this solitude— 

So much I love you in so short a time ; 
For me, from heaven reward you with all good 

The God so true, the eternal Lord sublime ! 
Whose kingdom at the last hath open stood. 

Meantime we stand expectant of your blessing. 

And recommend us to your prayers with pressing.'* 

LXXYIII. 

Now when the abbot Count Orlando heard. 
His heart grew soft with inner tenderness. 

Such fervor in his bosom bred each word ; 
And, " Cavalier," he said, " if I have less 

Courteous and kind to your great worth appeared, 
Than fits me for such gentle blood to express, 

I know I have done too little in this case ; 

But blame our ignorance, and tliis poor place. 
391 



MORGANTE MAGGIORE, 



LXXIX. 

*' We can indeed but honor you with masses, 
And sermons, thanksgivings, and paternosters, 

Hot suppers, dinners (fiUing other places 
In verity much rather than the cloisters) 

But such a love for you my heart embraces. 
For thousand virtues which your bosom fosters, 

Tl'.at wheresoever you go I too shall be, 

And, on the other part, you rest with me. 

LXXX. 

" Tliis may involve a seeming contradiction ; 

But you I know are sage, and feel, and taste. 
And understand my speech, witli full conviction. 

For your just pious deeds may you be graced 
With tlie Lord's great reward and benediction, 

By whom you w^ere directed to this waste : 
To his high mercy is our freedom due. 
For which we render thanks to him and you. 

LXXXI. 

" You saved at once our life and soul : such fear 
The giants caused us, tliat the way was lost 

By which we could pursue a fit career 
In search of Jesus and the saintly host ; 

And your departure breeds such sorrow here, 
That comfortless we all are to our cost ; 

But months and years you would not stay in sloth, 

Nor are you form'd to 'wear our sober cloth ; 

LXXXII. 

" But to bear arms, and wield the lance : indeed, 
With these as much is done as with this cowl ; 

In proof of whicli the Scriptures you may read. 
This giant up to heaven may bear his soul 

By your compassion : now in peace proceed. 
Your state and name I seek not to unroll; 

But, if I 'm ask'd, this answer shall be given, 

That here an angel was sent down from heaven. 



LXXXIII. 

"If you want armor or aught else, go in, 
Look o'er the wardrobe, and take wdiat you choose. 

And cover with it o'er this giant's skin.*" 
Orlando answer'd, "If there should lie loose 

Some armor, ere our journey we begin, 
Which might be turn'd to my companion's use, 

The gift would be acceptable to me." 

The abbot said to him, " Come in and see." 

LXXXIV. 

And in a certain closet, where the wall 
Was cover'd with old armor like a crust, 

The abbot said to them, " I give you all." 
Morgante rummaged piecemeal from the dust 

The whole, which, save one cuirass, w^ as too small, 
And that too had the mail inlaid with rust. 

They wonder'd how it fitted him exactly. 

Which ne'er has suited others so compactly. 

LXXXY. 

'Twas an immeasurable giant's, who 

By tlie great Milo of Agrante fell 
Before the abbey many years ago. 

Tlie story on the wall was figured well ; 
In the last moment of the abbey's foe. 

Who long had waged a war implacable : 
Precisely as the war occurr'd they drew liim, 
And there was Milo as he overthrew him. 

LXXXYI. 

Seeing this history. Count Orlando said 
In his own heart, " Oh, God, who in the sky 

Know'st all things! how was Milo hither led V 
Who caused the giant in this place to die ? " 

And certain letters, weeping, then he read, 
So that he could not keep his visage dry, — 

As E will tell in tlie ensuing story. 

From evil keep you the high King of glory ! 




THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS, ATHENS. 

"And pad and sombre, 'mid the holy calm. 
Near Theseus' fane."— Pa^e 363. 



392 




THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



" T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore. 
And coming events east their shadows before." 

Campbell. 

DEDICATION. 



Lady ! if for the cold and cloudy clime . 

Where I was born, but where I would not die, 

Of the great Poet-Sire of Italy 
I dare to build the imitative rhyme, 
Harsh Runic copy of the South's sublime, 

Thou art the cause ; and howsoever I 

Fall short of his immortal harmony, 
Thy gentle heart will pardon me the crime. 



Thou, in the pride of Beauty and of Youth, 
Spakest ; and for thee to speak and be obey'd 

Are one ; but only in the sunny South 

Such sounds are utter'd, and such charms display 'd, 

So sweet a language from so fair a mouth — 
Ah ! to what eflbrt would it not persuade ? 

Ravenna, June, 21, 1819. 



DREFACE. 



IN the course of a visit to the city of Ravenna in the ! 
summer of 1819, it was suggested to the author that 
having composed something on the subject of Tasso's con- 
finement, he should do the same on Dante's exile, — the 
tomb of the poet forming one of the principal objects of 
interest in that city, both to the native and to the stranger. 
" On this hint I spake," and the result has been the 
following four cantos, in terza rima, now offered to the 
reader. If they are understood and approved, it is my 
purpose to continue the poem in various other cantos, to 
its natural conclusion in the present age. The reader is 
requested to suppose that Dante addresses him in the in- 
terval between the conclusion of the Divina Commedia 
and his death, and shortly before the latter event, fore- 
telling the fortunes of Italy in general in the ensuing 
centuries. In adopting this plan I have had in my mind 
the Cassandra of Lycophron, and the prophecy of Nereus 
by Horace, as well as the prophecies of Holy Writ. The 
measure adopted is the terza rima of Dante, which I am 
not aware to have seen hitherto tried in our language, ex- 
cept it may be by Mr. Hayley, of whose translation I 
never saw but one extract, quoted in the notes of Caliph 

* This poem, which Lord Byron, in sending- it to Mr. Mur- 
ray, called "the best thing he had ever done, if not unintel- 
ligible" was written, in the summer of 1819, at Ravenna. 
The Prophecy, however, was first published in May, 1821. 
It is dedicated to the Countess Guiccioli, who thus describes 
the origin of its composition:— "On my departui'e from 
Venice, Lord BjTon had promised to come and see me at 
Ravenna. Dante's tomb, the classical pine wood, the relics 
of antiquity which are to be found in that place, affoi-ded a 
sufficient pretext for me to invite him to come, and for him 
to accept my in^atation. He came in the month of June, 
1819, arriving at Ravenna on the day of the festival of the 
Corpus Domini. Being deprived at this time of his books, 
his horses, and all that occupied him at Venice, I begged him 
to gratify me by writing something on the subject of Dante ; 



Vathek ; so that — if I do not err — this poem may be con- 
sidered as a metrical experiment. The cantos are short, 
and about the same length of those of the poet, whose 
name I have borrowed, and most probably taken in 
vain. 

Amongst the inconveniences of authors in the present 
day, it is difficult for any who have a name, good or bad, 
to escape translation. I have had the fortune to see the 
fourth canto of Childe Harold translated into Italian 
versi sciolti, — that is, a poem written in the Spenserian 
stanza into blank verse, without regard to the natural di- 
visions of the stanza or of the sense. If the present poem, 
being on a national topic, should chance to undergo the 
same fate, I would request the Italian reader to remember 
that w^hen I have failed in the imitation of his great 
" Padre Alighier," I have failed in imitating that which 
all study and few understand, since to this very day it is 
not yet settled what was the meaning of the allegory in 
the first canto of the Inferno, unless Count March etti's in- 
genious and probable conjecture may be considered as 
having decided the question. 

He may also pardon my failure the more, as I am not 



and, with his usual facility and rapidity, he composed his 
Prophecy." 

Dante Alighiori was born in Florence in May, 1265, of an 
ancient and honorable family. In the earlj' part of his life 
he gained some credit in a militarj^ character, and distin- 
guished himself by his braverj- in an action where the Flor- 
entines obtained a signal victory over the citizens of Arezzo. 
He became still more eminent by the acquisition of court 
honors; and at the age of thirty-five he rose to be one of the 
chief magistrates of Florence, Avhen that dignity was con- 
ferred by the suffrages of the people. From this exaltation 
the poet himself dated his principal misfortunes. Italy was 
at that time distracted by the contending factions of the 
Ghibelines and Guelphs,— among the latter Dante took an 
active part. In one of the proscriptions he was banished, his 
possessions confiscated, and he died in exile in 1321. 
393 



CANTO I. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



(juite sure that he would be pleased with my success, j all this, knowing what would be thought in England of 
since the Italians, with a pardonable nationality, are par- j an Italian imitator of Milton, or if a translation of Monti, 
ticularly jealous of all that is left them as a nation — their j or Pinderaonte, or Ariel, should be held up to the rising 
literature ; and, in the present bitterness of the classic and I generation as a model for their future poetical essays. 



romantic war, are but ill disposed to permit a foreigner even 
to approve or imitate them, without finding some fault with 
his ultramontane presumption. I can easily enter into 



But I perceive that I am deviating into an address to the 
Italian reader, when my business is with the English one ; 
and be they iQW or many, I must take my leave of both. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 

OxcE more in man's frail world ! which I had left 
So long that 't was forgotten ; and I feel 
The weight of clay again, — too soon bereft 

Of the immortal vision which could heal 
My earthly sorrows, and to God's own skies 
Lift me from that deep gulf without rei)eal, 

Where late my ears rung with the damned cries 
Of souls in hopeless bale ; and from that place 
Of lesser torment, whence men may arise 

Pure from the fire to join the angelic race ; 
'Midst whom my own bright Beatrice * bless'd 
My spirit with her light ; and to the base 

Of the eternal Triad ! first, last, best, 
Mysterious, three, sole, infinite, great God! 
Soul universal! led the mortal guest, 

Unblasted by the glory, though he trod 
From star to star to reach the almighty throne. 
Oh, Beatrice ! whose sweet limbs the sod 

So long hath press'd, and the cold marble stone, 
Thou sole pure seraph of my earliest love, 
Love so ineffable, and so alone. 

That nought on earth could more my bosom 
move, 
And meeting thee in heaven was but to meet 
That without which my soul, like thearkless dove. 

Had wander Yl still in search of, nor her feet 
Relieved her wing till found : without thy light 
My paradise had still been incomplete. 

Since my tenth sun gave summer to my sight, 
Thou wert my life, the essence of my thought. 
Loved ere I knew the name of love, and bright 

Still in these dim old eyes, now overwrought 
"With the world's war, and years, and banishment, 
And tears for thee, by other woes untaught ; 

For mine is not a nature to be bent 
By tyrannous faction, and the brawling crowd. 
And though the long, long conflict hath been spent 

In vain, and never more, save when the cloud 
Which overhangs the Apennine my mind's eye 
Pierces to fancy Florence, once so proud. 

Of me, can I return, though but to die. 
Unto my native soil, they have not yet 
Quench'd the old exile's spirit, stern and high. 

But the sun, though not overcast, must set. 
And the night cometh ; I am old in days, 
And deeds, and contemplation, and have met 

Destruction face to face in all his ways. 
The world hath left me, what it found me, pure, 
And if I have not gather'd yet its praise, 

I sought it not by any baser lure ; 
Man wrongs, and Time avenges, and my name 
May form a monument not all obscure. 



* The reader is requested to adopt the Italian pronunciation 
of Beatrice, sounding- all the syllables. 

+ "Ut si quis predictorum uUo tempore in fortiara dicti 
communis pervenerit, fai/.s perveniens igne comburatur, sw 
quod moriaturJ" Second sentence of Florence ag'ainst Dante, 
and the fourteen accused with him. The Latin is worthy 
of the sentence.— On the 27th of Januarj% 1302, Dante was 
mulcted eig-ht thousand lire, and condemned to two years' 
394 



Though such was not my ambition's end or aim, 
To add to the vainglorious list of those 
Who dabble in the pettiness of fame. 

And make men's fickle breath the wind that blows 
Their sail, and deem it glory to be classed 
With conquerors, and virtue's other foes, 

In bloody chronicles of ages past. 
I would have had my Florence great and free; 
Oh, Florence ! Florence ! unto me thou wast 

Lil^e that Jerusalem which the Almighty He 
Wept over, "■ but thou wouldst not ;" as the bird 
Gathers its young, I would have gather'd thee 

Beneath a parent pinion, hadst thou heard 
My voice ; but as the adder, deaf and fierce, 
Against the breast that cherish'd thee was stirr'd 

Thy venom, and my state thou didst amerce, 
And doom this body forfeit to the fire. 
Alas ! how bitter is his country's curse 

To him who /or that country would expire. 
But did not merit to expire hy her. 
And loves her, loves her even in her ire ! 

The day may come when she will cease to err, 
T!ie day may come she would be proud to liave 
The dust she dooms to scatter, and transfer f 

Of him, whom she denied a home, the grave. 
But this shall not be granted ; let my dust 
Lie where it falls ; nor shall the soil which gave 

Me breath, but in her sudden fury thrust 
Me forth to breathe elsewhere, so reassume 
My indignant bones, because her angry gust 

Forsooth is over, and repeal'd her doom ; 
No, — she denied m.e what was mine — my roof. 
And shall not have what is not hers — my tomb. 

Too long her arm.ed wrath hath kept aloof 
The breast which would have bled for her, the 

heart 
That beat, the mind that was temptation proof. 

The man who fought, toil'd, travell'd, and each part 
Of a true citizen fulfill'd, and saw 
For his reward the Guelph's ascendant art 

Pass his destruction even into a law. 
These things are not made for forgetfulness, 
Florence shall be forgotten first ; too raw 

The wound, too deep the wrong, and the distress 
Of such endurance too prolong 'd to make 
My pardon greater, her injustice less, 

Though late repented ; yet— yet for her sake 
I feel some fonder yearnings, and for thine. 
My owm Beatrice, I would hardly take 

Vengeance upon the land which once was mine. 
And still is hallo w'd by thy dust's return, 
Whicli would protect the murderess like a shrine, 

And save ten thousand foes by thy sole urn. 
Though, like old Marius from Minturnee's marsh 
And Carthage ruins, my lone breast may burn 

At times with evil feelings hot and harsh, 

banishment; and in case the fine was not paid, hig groods 
were to be confiscated. On the 11th of March, the same 
year, he was sentenced to a punishment due only to the most 
desperate of malefactors. The decree, that he and his asso- 
ciates in exile should be burned, if they fell into the hands 
of their enemies, was first discovered in 1773. by the Conte 
Ludovico Savioli. See Tiraboschi, where the sentence ia 
given at length. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



CANTO II, 



And sometimes the last pangs of a vile foe 
Writhe in a dream before me, and o'erarch 

My brow with hopes of triumph, — let them go ! 
Such are the last infirmities of those 
Who long have suffer 'd more thail mortal woe, 

And 5^et, being mortal still, have no repose 
But on the pillow of Revenge — Revenge, 
Who sleeps to dream of blood, and waking glows 

With the oft baffled, slakeless tliirst of change. 
When we shall moimt again, and they that trod 
Be trampled on, while Death and Ate range 

O'er humbled heads and sever 'd necks Great 

God! 
Take these thoughts from me— to thy hands I 

yield 
My many wrongs, and thine almighty rod 

Will fall on those who smote me, — be my shield ! 
As thou hast been in peril, and in pain, 
In turbulent cities, and the tented field- 
In toil, and many troubles borne in vain 
For Florence.*— I appeal from her to Thee ! 
Thee whom I late saw in thy loftiest reign, 

Even in that glorious vision, which to see 
And live was never granted until now. 
And yet thou hast permitted this to me. 

Alas ! with what a weight upon my brow 
The sense of earth and earthly things come back, 
Corrosive passions, feelings dull and low. 

The heart's quick throb upon the mental rack. 
Long day, and dreary night ; the retrospect 
Of half a century bloody and black, 

And the frail few years I may yet expect 
Hoary and hopeless, but less hard to bear. 
For I have been too long and deeply wreck'd 

On the lone rock of desolate Despair, 
To lift my eyes more to the passing sail 
Which shuns that reef so horrible and bare ; 

Nor raise my voice — for who would heed my wail ? 
I am not of this people, nor this age, 
And yet my harpings will unfold a tale 

Which shall preserve these times when not a page 
Of their perturbed annals could attract 
An eye to gaze upon their civil rage, 

Did not my verse embalm full many an act 
Worthless as they who wrought it : 't is the doom 
Of spirits of my order to be rack'd 

In life, to wear their hearts out, and consume 
Their days in endless strife, and die alone ; 
Then future thousands crowd around their tomb, 

And pilgrims come from climes where they have 
known 
The name of him— who now is but a name, 
And wasting homage o'er the sullen stone. 

Spread his — by him unheard, unheeded — fame ; 
And mine at least hath cost me dear : to die 
Is nothing ; but to wither thus— to tame 

My mind down from its own infinity — 
To live in narrow ways with little men, 
A common sight to. every common eye, 

A wanderer, while even wolves can find a den, 
Ripp'd from all kindred, from all home, all things 
That make communion sweet, and soften pain — 

To feel me in the solitude of kings 
Without the power that makes them bear a 

crown — 
To envy every dove his nest and wings 

Which waft him where the Apennine looks down 
On Arno, till he perches, it may be, 
Within my all-inexorable town. 



Where yet my boys are, and that fatal she,t 
Their mother, the cold partner who hath brought 
Destruction for a dowry J— this to see 

And feel, and know without repair, hath taught 
A bitter lesson ; but it leaves me free : 
I have not vilely found, nor basely sought, 

They made an Exile— not a slave of me. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The Spirit of the fervent days of Old, 
When words were things that came to pass, and 

thought 
Flash 'd o'er the future, bidding men behold 

Their children's children's doom already brought 
Forth from the abyss of time which is to be. 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 

Shapes that must undergo mortality ; 
What the great Seers of Israel wore Avithin, 
That spirit was on them, and is on me. 

And if, Cassandra-like, amidst the din 
Of conflict none will hear, or hearing heed 
This voice from out the Wilderness, the sin 

Be theirs, and my own feelings be my meed, ^ 
The only guerdon I have ever known. 
Hast thou not bled ? and hast thou still to bleed, 

Italia ? Ah ! to me such things, foreshown 
With dim sepulchral light, bid me forget 
In thine irreparable wrongs my own; 

We can have but one country, and even yet 
Thou'rt mine— my bones shall be within thy 

breast. 
My soul within thy language, which once set 

With our old Roman sway in the Avide West ; 
But I will make another tongue arise 
As lofty and more sweet, in which express 'd 

The hero's ardor, or the lover's sighs, 
Shall find alike such sounds for every theme 
That every word, as brilliixnt as thy skies. 

Shall realize a poet's -proudest dream, 
And make thee Europe's nightingale of song ; 
So that all present speech to thine shall seem 

The note of meaner birds, and every tongue 
Confess its barbarism when compared with tliine. 
This Shalt thou owe to him thou didst so wrong, 

Thy Tuscan Bard, the banish 'd Ghibeline. 
Woe ! woe! the veil of coming centiuies 
Is rent, — a thousand years which yet supine 

Lie like the ocean waves ere winds arise, 
Heaving in dark and sullen undulation, 
Float from eternity into these eyes ; 

The storms yet sleep, the clouds still keep their sta- 
tion, 
The unborn earthquake yet is in the womb, 
The bloody chaos yet expects creation, 

But all things are disposing for thy doom ; 
The elements await but for the Avord, 
"Let there be darkness! " and thou grovv'st a 
tom.b! 

Yes ! thou, so beautiful, shalt feel the SAvord, 



* "In one so hig-hly endowed by nature, and so consummate injuries pursued him into the immensity of eternal light 
by instruction, we may well sympathize Avith a resentment [ and in the company of saints and ang-els, his unforgiving- 
which exile and poverty rendered perpetually fresh. But the spirit darkens at the name of Florence."— Hallam. 



heart of Dante was naturally sensible, and even tender: his 
poetry is full of comparisons from rural life ; and the sin- 
cerity of his early passion for Beatrice pierces through the 
veil of allegory that surrounds her. But the memory of his 



+ This ladj% whose name was Gemma, sprung from one of 
the most powerful Guelph families, named Donati. 

t "The violence of Gemma's temper proved a source of the 
bitterest suffering to Dante." 

395 



CANTO III. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE, 



Thou, Italy ! so fair that Paradise, 

Revived in thee, blooms forth to man restored : 

All ! must the sons of Adam lose it twice ? 
Thou, Italy ! whose ever-golden fields, 
Plough 'd by the sunbeams solely, would suffice 

For the world's granary ; thou, whose sky heaven 
gilds 
With brighter stars, and robes with deeper blue; 
Thou, in whose pleasant places Summer builds 

Iler palace, in whose cradle Empire grew, 
And form'd the Eternal City's oruiiments 
From spoils of kings whom freemen overthrew ; 

Birthplace of heroes, sanctuary of saints. 
Where earthly first, then heavenly glory made 
Her liome; tliou, all which fondest fancy paints, 

And finds her prior vision but portray 'd 
In feeble colors, when the eye — from the Alp 
Of horrid snow, and rock, and shaggy shade 

Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp 
^ods to the storm — dilates and dotes o'er thee, 
And wistfully implores, as 't were for help, 

To see thy sunny fields, my Italy, 
Nearer and nearer yet, and dearer still 
The more approacli'd, and dearest were thev free, 

Tliou — thou must wither to each tyrant's will : 
The Goth hath been,— the German, Frank, and 

Hun 
Are yet to come, — and on the imperial hill 

Ruin, already proud of the deeds done 
By the old barbarians, there awaits the new, 
Throned on the Palatine, while lost and won 

Rome at her feet lies bleeding ; and the hue 
Of human sacrifice and Roman slaughter 
Troubles the clotted air, of late so blue. 

And deepens into red the saffron water 
Of Tiber, thick with dead ; the helpless priest, 
And still more helpless nor less holy daughter, 

Vow'd to their God, have shrieking fled, and ceased 
Their ministry : the nations take their prey, 
Iberian, Almain, Lombard, and the beast 

And bird, w^olf, vulture, more humane than they 
Are ; these but gorge the flesh and lap the gore 
Of the departed, and then go their way ; 

But those, the human savages, explore 
All p'atlis of torture, and insatiate yet. 
With Ugolino hunger prowl for more. 

Nine moons shall rise o'er scenes like this and set ; 
The chiefiess army of the dead, wdiicli late 
Beneath the traitor Prince's bpdiner met, 

Hath left its leader's ashes at the gate ; 
Had but the royal Rebel lived, perchance 
Thou hadstbeen spared, but his involved thy fate. 

Oil, Rome! the spoiler or the spoil of France, 
From Brennus to the Bourbon, never, never 
Shall foreign standard to tiiy walls advance, 

But Tiber shall become a mournful river. 
Oh ! when the strangers pass the Alps and Po, 
Crush them, ye rocks! floods, whelm them, and 
for ever ! 

Why sleep the idle avalanches so. 
To topple on the lonely pilgrim's head ? 
Why doth Eridanus but overflow 

The peasant's harvest from his turbid bed ? 
AVere not each barbarous horde a nobler prey ? 
Over Cambyses' host the desert spread 

Her sandy ocean, and the sea waves' sway 
Roll'd over Pharaoh and his thousands, — why, 
Mountains and waters, do ye not as they ? 

And you, ye men ! Romans, who dare not die, 
Sons of the conquerors wlio overtlirew 
Those who o'erthrew proud Xerxes, where yet lie 

Tlie dead whose tomb Oblivion never knew, 
Are the Alps weaker than Thermopylae ? 
Their passes more alluring to the view 

Of an invader ? is it they, or ye. 
That to each host the mountain-gate unbar, 
And leave the march in peace, the passage free ? 
396 



Why, Nature's self detains the victor's car, 
And makes your land impregnable, if earth 
Could be so ; but alone she will not war. 

Yet aids the warrior worthy of his birth 
In a soil whete the mothers bring forth men : 
Not so with those whose souls are little worth ; 

For them no fortress can avail,— the den 
Of the poor reptile which preserves its sting 
Is more secure than w^alls of adamant, when 

The hearts of those within are quivering. 
Are ye not brave ? Yes, yet tlie Ausonian soil 
Hath hearts, and hands, and arms, and hosts to 
bring 

Against Oppression ; but how vain the toil. 
While still Division sows the seeds of woe 
And weakness, till the stranger reaps the spoil I 

Oh, my own beauteous land ! so long laid low. 
So long the grave of thy own children's hopes, 
When there is but required a single blow 

To break the chain, yet — yet the Avenger stops. 
And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and 

thee. 
And join their strength to that which with thee 
copes ; 

What is there w^anting then to set thee free, 
And show thy beauty in its fullest light ? 
To make the Alps impassable ; and we. 

Her sons, may do this with one deed Unite. 



=><^-^i=».. 




CANTO THE THIRD, 



Feom out the mass of never-dying ill. 
The Plague, the Prince, the Stranger, and the 

Sword, 
Yials of wTath but emptied to refill 

And flow again, I cannot all record 
That crowds on my prophetic eye : the earth 
And ocean written o'er would not afford 

Space for the annal, yet it shall go forth ; 
Yes, all, though not by human pen, is graven. 
There vv^here the farthest suns and stars have 
birth. 

Spread like a banner at the gate of heaven, 
The bloody scroll of our millennial wrongs 
Waves, and the echo of our groans is driven 

Athw^art the sound of archangelic songs. 
And Italy, the martyr'd nation's gore. 
Will not in vain arise to where belongs 

Omnipotence and mercy evermore : 
Like to a harpstring stricken by the wind. 
The sound of her lament shall, rising o'er 

The seraph voices, touch the Almighty Mind. 
Meantime I, humblest of thy sons, and of 
Earth's dust by immortality refined 

To sense and suffering, though the vain may scoff, 
xlnd tyrants threat, and meeker victims bow 
Before the storm because its breath is rough. 

To thee, my country ! whom before, as now, 
I loved and love, devote the mournful lyre 
And melancholy gift high poAvers allow 

To read the future : and if now my fire 
Is not as once it shone o'er thee, forgive ! 
I but foretell thy fortunes— then expire ; 

Think not that I would look on them and live. 
A spirit forces me to see and speak. 
And for my guerdon grants not to survive ; 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



CAIS^TO ITT. 



My heart shall be pour'd over thee and break : 
yet for a moment, ere I must resume 
Thy sable web of sorrow, let me take 

Over'the gleams that flash athwart thy gloom 
A softer glimpse ; some stars shine through thy 

night, 
And many meteors, and above thy tomb 

Leans sculptured Beauty, which Death cannot 
blight : 
And from thine ashes boundless spirits rise 
To give thee honor, and tlie earth deliglit ; 

Thy soil sliall still be pregnant with the wise, 
The gay, the learn'd, the generous, and the brave, 
Native to thee as summer to thy skies, 

Conquerors on foreign shores, and tlie far wave,* 
Discoverers of new worlds, which take their 

namerf 
For thee alone they have no arm to save, 

And all thy recompense is in their fame, 
A noble one to them, but not to thee — 
Shall they be glorious, and thou still the same ? 

Oil ! more than these illustrious far sliall be 
The being— and even yet he may be born — 
The mortal saviour who shall set thee free, 

And see thy diadem, so changed and worn 
By fresh barbarians, on thy brow re])laced ; 
And the sweet sun replenishing thy morn, 

Tliy moral morn, too long with clouds defaced, 
xVnd noxious vapors from Avernus risen, ^ 
Such as all they must breathe who are debased 

By servitude, and have the mind in prison. 
Yet through this centuried eclipse of woe 
Some voices shall be heard, and earth shall listen ; 

Poets shall follow in the path I show, 
And make it broader: the same brilliant sky 
AVliich cheers the birds to song shall bid them glow, 

And raise their notes as natural and high; 
Tuneful shall be their numbers; they shall sing 
^[any of love, and some of liberty, 

But few shall soar upon that eagle's wing. 
And look in the sun's face with eagle's gaze. 
All free and fearless as the feather'd king. 

But fly more near the earth ; how many a phrase 
Sublime shall lavish 'd be on some small prince 
In all the prodigality of praise ! 

And language, eloquently false, evince 
The harlotry of genius, Avhich, like beauty, 
Too oft forgets its own self -reverence, 

And looks on prostitution as a duty. 
He who once enters in a tyrant's hall t 
As guest is slave, his thoughts become a booty. 

And the first day which sees the chain entlirall ' 
A captive, sees his half of manhood gone^— 
The soul's emasculation saddens all 

His spirit ; thus the Bard too near the throne 
Quails from his inspiration, bound to please, — 
How servile is the task to please alone ! 

To smooth the verse to suit his sovereign's ease 
And royal leisure, nor too much prolong 
Aught save his eulogy, and find, and seize, 

Or force, or forge fit argument of song ! 
Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd "to Flattery's 
trebles, 

^' He toils through all, still trembling to be Avrong : 

For fear some noble thoughts, like heavenly rebels. 
Should rise up in high treason to his brain. 
He sings, as the Athenian spoke, with pebi3les 

In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer thro' his 
strain. 
But out of the long file of sonneteers 
There shall be some who will not sing in vain. 

And he, their prince, shall rank among my peers, || 



And love shall be his torment ; but his grief 
Shall make an immortality of tears, 

And Italy shall hail him as the Chief 
Of Poet-lovers, and his higher song 
Of Freedom wreathe him with as green a leaf. 

But in a farther age shall rise along 
The banks of P'o two greater still than he ; 
The world which smiled on him shall do them 
wrong 

Till they are ashes, and repose with me. 
The first v/ill make an epoch with his lyre, 
And fill the earth with feats of chivalry : 

His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, 
Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought 
Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire ; 

Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught. 
Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme. 
And Art itself seem into Nature wrought 

By the transparency of his bright dream. — 
The second, of a tenderer, sadder mood, 
Shall pour his soul out o'er Jerusalem ; 

He, too, shall sing of arms, and Christian blood 
Shed where Christ bled for man; and his high 

harp 
Shall, by the willow over Jordan's flood, 

Revive a song of Sion, and the sharp 
Conflict, and final triumph of the brave 
And pious, and the strife of hell to warp 

Their hearts from their great purpose, until wave 
The red-cross banners where the first red Cross 
Was crimson'd from his veins who died to save, 

Shall be his sacred argument ; the loss 
Of years, of favor, freedom, even of fame 
Contested for a time, while the smooth gloss 

Of courts would slide o'er his forgotten name, 
And call captivity a kindness, meant 
To shield him from insanity or shame. 

Such shall be his meet guerdon ! wiio was sent 
To be Christ's Laureate — they reward him well I 
Florence dooms me but death or banishment, 

Ferrara him a pittance and a cell. 
Harder to bear and less deserved, for I 
Had stung the factions which I strove to quell ; 

But this meek man, who with a lover's eye 
Will look on earth and heaven, and Avho will deign 
To embalm with his celestial flattery 

As poor a thing as e'er was spawn'd to reign, 
Wliat will he do to merit such a doom ? 
Perliaps he '11 7ore,— and is not love in vain 

Torture enough without a living tomb ? 
Yet it will be so — he and his compeer. 
The Bard of Chivalry, will both consume 

In penury and pain too many a xear. 
And, dying in despondency, bequeath 
To the kind world, which scarce will yield a tear, 

A heritage enriching all who breathe 
With the wealth of a genuine poet's soul, 
And to their country a redoubled wreath, 

Unmatch'd by time ; not Hellas can unroll 
Tlirough her olympiads two such names, though 

one 
Of hers be mighty; — and is this the whole 

Of such men's destiny beneath the sun ? 
Must all the finer thoughts, the thrilling sense. 
The electric blood with which their arteries run. 

Their body's self -tuned soul with the intense 
Feeling of that which is, and fancy of 
That which should be, to such a recompense 

Conduct ? shall their bright plumage on the rough 
Storm be still scatter "d ? Yes, and it must be; 
For, form'd of far too penetrable stuff, 

These birds of Paradise but long to flee 



* Alexander Farnese, Spinola, Pescara, Eugene of Savoy, ! took leave of Cornelia on entering- the boat in -\7hich be was 
Montecuccoli. slain. 

+ Columbus, Americo Vespucci, Sebastian Cabot. § The verse and sentiment are taken from Homer. 

t A verse from the Greek tragedians, with which Pompey II Petrarch. 

397 



CANTO IV. 



THE PROPHECY OF DANTE. 



Back to tlieir native mansion, soon tliey find 
Earth's mist with their pure pinions not agree, 

And die or are degraded ; for the mhid 
Succumbs to long infection, and despair, 
And vulture passions flying close beliind. 

Await the moment to assail and tear; 
And when at length the winged wanderers stoop, 
Then is the prey-birds' triumph, then they share 

The spoil, o'erpower'd at length by one fell swoop. 
Yet some have been untouch'd wdio learn'd to 

bear. 
Some whom no power could ever force to droop, 

Who could resist tliemselves even, hardest care ! 
And task most hopeless; butsomesuch have been, 
And if my name amongst the number were, 

That destiny austere, and yet serene, 
Were prouder than more dazzling fame unbless'd ; 
The Alp's snow summit nearer heaven is seen 

Than the volcano's fierce eruptive crest. 
Whose splendor from the black abyss is flung, 
While the scorch'd mountain, from whose burn- 
ing breast 

A temporary torturing flame is w^rung. 
Shines for a night of terror, then repels 
Its fire back to the liell from whence it sprung, 

The hell which in its entrails ever dwells. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Maisty are poets who have never penn'd 
Their inspiration, and perchance the best : 
They felt, and loved, and died, but would not lend 

Their thoughts to meaner beings; they compress'd 
The god within them, and rejoin'd the stars 
Unlaureird upon earth, but far more bless'd 

Than those who are degraded by the jars 
Of passion, and their frailties link'd to fame, 
Conquerors of high renown, but full of scars. 

Many are poets, but without the name, 
For what is poesy but to create 
From overfeeling good or ill : and aim 

At an external life beyond our fate. 
And be the new Prometheus of new men, 
Bestowing fire from heaven, and then, too late, 

Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain. 
And vultures to the heart of the bestower, 
Who, having lavish 'd his high gift in vain. 

Lies chain'd to his lone rock by the sea-shore ? 
So be it : we can bear. — But thus all they 
Whose intellect is an overmastering power 

Which still recoils from 4ts encumbering clay 
Or lightens it to spirit, whatsoe'er 
The form which their creations may essay. 

Are bards ; the kindled marble's bust may wear 
More poesy upon its speaking brow 
Than auglit less than the Homeric page may bear : 

One noble stroke wi,th a whole life may glow, 
Or deify the canvas till it shine 
With beauty so surpassing all below. 

That they who kneel to idols so divine 
Break no commandment, for high heaven is there 
Transfused, transfigurated : and the line 

Of poesy, which peoples but the air 

* The cupola of Saint Peter's. 

+ The Last Judg-ment, in the Sistine Chapel. 

% I have read somewhere (if I do not err, for I cannot re- 
collect where) that Dante was so great a favorite of Michael 
398 



With thought and beings of our thought reflected, 
Can do no more : then let the artist share 

The palm, he shares the peril, and dejected 
Faints o'er the labor unapproved — Alas! 
Despair and Genius are too oft connected. 

Within the ages which before me pass 
Art shall resume and equal even the sway 
Which with Apelles and old Phidias 

She held in Hellas' unforgotten day. ;. 

Ye shall be taught by Ruin to revive 
The Grecian forms at least from their decay, 

And Roman souls at last again shall live 
In Roman works wrought by Italian hands, 
And temples, loftier th^an the old temples, give 

New wonders to the world ; and while still stands 
The austere Pantheon, into heaven shall soar 
A dome,* its image, while the base expands 

Into a fane surpassing all before, 
Such as all flesh shall flock to kneel in : ne'er 
Such sight hath been unfolded by a door 

As this, to which all nations shall repair 
And lay their sins at this huge gate of heaven. 
And the bold Architect unto whose care 

The daring charge to raise it shall be given, 
Whom all arts shall acknowledge as their lord, 
Whether into the marble chaos driven 

His chisel bid the Hebrew, at whose word 
Israel left Egypt, stop the waves in stone, 
Or lilies of Hell be by his pencil pour'd 

Over the damn'd before the Judgment-throne,t 
Such as I saw them, such as all shall see. 
Or fanes be built of grandeur yet unknown, 

Tlie stream of his great thoughts shall spring from 
me,$ 
The Ghibeline, who traversed the three realms 
Which form the empire of eternity. 

Amidst the clash of swords, and clang of helms, 
The age which I anticipate, no less 
Shall be the Age of Beauty, and while whelms 

Calamity the nations with distress. 
The genius of my country shall arise, 
A Cedar towering o'er the Wilderness, 

Lovely in all its branches to all eyes. 
Fragrant as fair, and recognized afar, 
Wafting its native incense through tlie skies. 

Sovereigns shall pause amidst their sport of war, 
Wean'd for an hour from blood, to turn and gaze 
On canvas or on stone ; and they who mar 

All beauty upon earth, compell'd to praise. 
Shall feel the power of that which they destroy ; 
And Art's mistaken gratitude shall raise 

To tyrants who but take her for a toy 
Emblems and monuments, and prostitute 
Her charms to pontiffs proud, ^ who but employ 

The man of genius as the meanest brute 
To bear a burthen, and to serve a need, 
To sell hi^ labors, and his soul to boot. 

Who toils for nations may be poor indeed, 
But free ; who sweats for monarchs is no more 
Than the gilt chamberlain, who, clothed and 
fee'd, 

Stands sleek and slavish, bowing at his door. 
Oh, Power that rulest and inspirest ! how 
Is it that they on earth, whose earthly power 

Is likest thine in heaven in outward show, 
Least like to thee in attributes divine. 
Tread on the universal necks that bow% 

And then assure us that their rights are thine ? 
And how is it that they, the sons of fame. 
Whose inspiration seems to them to shine 

From high, they whom the nations of test name, 

Ang-elo's, that he had designed the whole of the Divina Coni- 
media ; but that the volume containing- these studies was lost 
by sea. 

§ See the treatment of Michael Angelo by Julius II., and 
his neglect by Leo X. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI, 



Must pass their days in penury or pain, 

Or step to grandeur through the paths of shame, 

And wear a deeper brand and gaudier cliain ? 
Or if their destiny be born aloof 
From lowliness, or tempted thence in vain, 

In their Own souls sustain a harder proof,' 
The inner war of passions deep and fierce ? 
Florence ! when tliy harsh sentence razed my roof , 

I loved thee ; but the vengeance of my verse, 
The hate of injuries which every year 
Makes greater, and accumulates my curse. 

Shall live, outliving all thou holdest dear, 
Thy pride, thy wealth, thy freedom, and even f/iai, 
The most infernal of all evils here. 

The sway of petty tyrants in a state ; 
For such sway is not limited to kings, 
And demagogues yield to them but in date, 

As swept off sooner ; in all deadly things. 
Which make men hate themselves, and one 

another. 
In discord, cowardice, cruelty, all that springs 

From Death the Sin-born 's incest with his mother. 
In rank oppression in its rudest shape, 
The faction Chief is but the Sultan's brother, 

And the worst despot's far less human ape : 
Florence ! when this lone spirit, which so long 
Yearn'd, as the captive toiling at escape. 



To fly back to thee in despite of wrong, 

An exile, saddest of all prisoners. 

Who has the whole world for a dungeon strong, 
Seas, mountains, and the horizon's verge for bars. 

Which shut him from the sole small spot of earth 

Where — whatsoe'er his fate — he still were hers. 
His country's, and might die where he had birth — 

Florence ! when this lone spirit shall return 

To kindred spirits, thou wait feel my worth, 
And seek to honor with an empty urn 

The ashes thou shalt ne'er obtain — Alas! 

" What have I done to thee, my people ? " Stern 
Are all thy dealings, but in this they pass 

The limits of man's common malice, for 

All that a citizen could be I w^as ; 
Raised'by thy will, all thine in peace or war. 

And for this thou hast warr'd with me. — 'Tis 
done : 

I may not overleap the eternal bar 
Built up between us, and will die alone, 

Beholding with the dark eye of a seer 

The evil days to gifted souls foreshown. 
Foretelling tliem to those who will not hear. 

As in the old time, till the hour be come 

When Truth shall strike their eyes through many 
a tear, 
And make them own the Prophet in his tomb. 



FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. 



FBOM THE INFEBNO OF DANTE. 

CANTO V. 

" The land where I w^as born sits by the seas. 
Upon that shore to which the Po descends. 
With all his followers, in search of peace. 

Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends. 
Seized him for the fair person wiiich w^as ta'en 
From me, and me even yet the mode offends. 

Love, w^ho to none beloved to love again 
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong. 
That, as thou seest, yet it doth remain. 

Love to one death conducted us along, 
But Caina waits for him our life who ended : " 
These were the accents utter'd by her tongue. — 

Since I first listen'd to these souls offended, 
I bow'd my visage, and so kept it till— 
"What think'st thou?" said the bard ; when I 
unbended. 

And recommenced : "Alas ! unto such ill 
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies. 
Led these their evil fortune to fulfill ! " 

And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes. 
And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies 
Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. 



* This translation, of what is generally considered the most 
exquisitelj'^ pathetic episode in the DiAina Commedia, was 
executed in Marc-h, 1820, at Ravenna, where, .iust five cen- 
turies before, and in the very house in which the unfor- 
tunate lady was born, Dante's poem had been composed. 

In mitigation of the crime of Francesca, Boccaccio relates, 
that "Guide engaged to give his daughter in marriage to 
Lanciotto, the eldest son of his enemy, the master of Rimini. 
Lanciotto, who was hideouslj^ deformed in countenance and 
figure, foresaw that, if he presented himself in person, he 
should be rejected by the lady. He therefore resolved to 
marry her by proxy, and sent as his representative his 
younger brother, Paolo, the handsomest and the most accom- 
plished man in all Italy. Francesca saw Paolo and imagined 



But tell me, in the season of sw^eet sighs, 
By what and how thy love to passion rose, 
So as his dim desires to recognize ? " 

Then she to me : " The greatest of all woes 
Is to remind us of our happy days 
In misery, and that thy teacher know^s. 

But if to learn our passion's first root preys 
Upon thy spirit with such sympathy, 
I will do even as he who w^eeps and says. — 

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh. 
Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 
We WTre alone, quite unsuspiciously. 

But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue 
All o'er discolor'd by that reading were ; 
But one point only wiiolly us o'erthrew ; 

When we read the long-sigh 'd-f or smile of her, 
To be thus kiss'd by such devoted lover. 
He wdio from me can be divided ne'er 

Kiss'd my mouth, trembling in the act all over. 
Accursed was the book and he who w^rote ! 
That day no further leaf w^e did uncover." 

While thus one spirit told us of their lot. 
The other wept, so that with pity's thralls 
I swoon 'd as if by death I liad been smote. 

And fell down even as a dead body falls. 



she beheld her future husband. That mistake was the com- 
mencement of her passion. The friends of Guido addressed 
him in sti-ong remonstrances, and mournful predictions of 
the dangers to which he exposed a daughter, whose high 
spirit would never brook to be sacrificed with impunit3^ 
But Guido was no longer in a condition to make war ; and 
the necessities of the politician overcame the feelings of the 
father." Afterwards Francesca and Paolo being taken in 
adultery, were both put to death by the enraged Lanciotto. 
The interest of this pathetic narrative is much increased, 
when it is recollected that the father of this unfortunate 
lady was the beloved friend and generous protector of Dante 
during his latter days. 



399 



THE BLUES 

% literarg fittogue.* 



" Nimiiim ne crede colori."— Virgil. 
O triLst not. ye beautiful creatures, to hue, 
Tliough your hair were as red as your stockings are blue. 



EOI^OaUE FIRST.t 



London — Before the Door of a Lecture Room. 
Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel. 

Lik. You 're too late. 
Tra. Is it over ? 

Ink. Nor will be this hour. 

But the benches are cramm'cl like a garden in 

flower, 
With the pride of our belles, who liave made it the 

fashion ; 
So, instead of "beaux arts," we may say " la helle 

passion " 
For learning, which lately has taken the lead in 
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen reading. 
I'ra. I know it too well, and" have worn out my 
patience 
With studying to study your new publications. 
There 's Yamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and Words- 
words and Co.J 
With their damnable— 

Lik. Hold, my good friend, do you know 

Whom you speak to ? 

Tra. Eight well, boy, and so does " the Row : " ^ 
You 're an author — a poet— 

Ink. And think j'ou that I 

Can stand tamely in silence to hear you decry 
The Muses ? 

Tra. Excuse me : I meant no offence 

To the jSTine; though the number who make some 
pretence 

To their favors is such but the subject to drop, 

I am just piping hot fi'om a ])nblisher's shop 
(Xext door to the pastry-cook's ; so that when I 
Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy 
(Yn the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, 
As one finds every author in one of those places) : 
Where I just had been skimming a charming 

critique, 
So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek ! 
Where your friend— you know who— has just got 
such a threshing, 



* This trifle, which Lord Byron has himself designated as 
a "mere buffoonery, never meant for publication," was writ- 
ton in 1820, and first appeared in "The Liberal." The per- 
sonal allusions in Avhich it abounds are, for the most part, 
sufficientl}' inteilig-ible ; and, with a few exceptions, so <^ood- 
humored, that the parties concerned maybe expected to join 
in the laugh. 

t " About the j'ear 1781, it was much the fashion for several 
400 



That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely ^^refresh- 
ing.'''' 
What a beautiful word ! 

Ink. Yerv true : 't is so soft 

And so cooling— they use it a little too oft ; 
And the papers have got it at last— but no matter. 
So they 've cut up our friend then ? 

Tra. 'Not left him a tatter — 

Xot a rag of his present or past reputation. 
Which they calla disgrace to the age and the nation. 
Lik. I 'm sorry to hear this ! for friendsliip, you 

know 

Our poor friend !— but I thought it would terminate 

so. 
Our friendship is such, I '11 read nothing to shock it. 
You don't happen to have the Eeview in your 
pocket ? 
Tra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and 
others 
( Yery sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a brother's) 
All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, 
And on fire with impatience to get the next glimpse. 
Ink. Let ns join them. 

Tra. What, won't you return to the lecture ? 
Ink. Why the i)lace is so cramm'd, there 's not 
room for a spectre. 
Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — 
Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? 
Ink. 1 liearl 

Quite enough; and, to tell you the truth, my re- 
treat 
Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat. 
Tra. I have had no great loss then ? 



Ink. 



Loss!— such a palaver! 



I 'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver 
Of a dog when gone i*abid, tlian listen two hours 
To the torrent of trash whicli around liim ]je pours, 
Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with sucli 

lal)or. 
That come — do not make me speak ill of one's 

neighbor. 
Tra. /make youl 

ladies to have evening assemblies, where the fair sex might 
participate in convei'sation with literary and ingenious men, 
animated by a desire to plccise. These societies were denomi- 
nated BUie-stoclnng Clubs. 

t See the stanzas on Messrs. Wordsworth and South cy in 
Don Juan, canto iii. 

§ Paternoster row— long and still celebrated as a vesy 
bazaar of booksellers. 



THE BLUES. 



I 



Ink. Yes, you ! I said notliing until 
You compell'd me, by speaking the truth 

Tra. To speak ill I 

Is that your deduction ? 

Ink. " AYhen speaking of Scamp ill, 

I certainly /oZZoio, not set an example. 
The fellow 's a fool, an impostor, a zany. 

Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows tliat one fool 
makes many. 
But we two will be wise. 

Ink. Pray, then, let us retire. 

Tra. I would, but 

Ink. There must be attraction much higher 

Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp he nicknames his 

lyre, 
To call you to this hotbed. 

Tra. I own it— 't is true — 

A fair lady 

Ink. A spinster ? 

Tra. Miss Lilac ! 

Ink. The Blue ! 

The heiress ! 

Tra. The angel ! 

Ink. The devil! why, man, 

Pray get out of this hobble as fast as you can. 
You wed with Miss Lilac ! 't would be your per- 
dition : 
She's a poet, a chemist, a mathematician. 

Tra. I say she 's an angel. 

Ink. Say rather an angle. 

If you and she marry, you '11 certainly wrangle. 
I say she 's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. 

Tra. And is that any cause for not coming to- 
gether V 

Ink. Humph ! I can't say I know any happy alli- 
ance 
Which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with 

science. 
She 's so learned in all things, and fond of concern- 
ing 
Herself in all matters connected with learning. 
That 

Tra. What ? 

Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue ; 

But there 's five hundred people can tell you you 're 
wrong. 

Tra. You forget Lady Lilac 's as rich as a Jew. 

ly^k. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you pursue ? 

Tra. Why, Jack, I '11 be frank with you — some- 
thing of both. 
The girl 's a fine girl. 

Ink. And you feel nothing loth 

To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet 
Her life is as good as your. own, I will bet. 

Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes : I de- 
mand 
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and 
hand. 

Ink. Why that heart 's in the inkstand — ^that 
hand on the pen. 

Tra. A propos — Will you write me a song now 
and then V 

Ink. To what purpose ? 

Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose 
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; 
But in rhyme 

Ink. You 're a terrible stick, to be sure. 

Tra. I own it : and yet, in these times, there 's 
no lure 
For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two ; 
And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? 

Ink. In your name ? 

Tra. In my name. I will copy them out. 

To slip into her hand at the very next rout. 

* Messrs. Southey and Sotheby. 
26 



Mr. Tracy — I 've nothing to 
-but I wish you good 



Ink. Are you so far advanced as to hazard this ? 
Tra. Why, 

Do you think m.e subdued by a Blue-stocking's eye. 
So far as to tremble to tell her in rhyme 
What I 've told her in prose, at the least, as sub- 
lime ? 
Ink. As sublime I If it be so, no need of my Muse. 
Tra. But consider, dear Inkel, she 's one of the 

"Blues." 
Ink. As sublime !- 
say. 
Stick to prose— As sublime ! !- 
day. 

Tra. i^ay, stay, my dear fellow — consider — I 'm 
wrong ; 
I owii it ; but, prithee, compose me the song. 
Ink. As sublime ! ! 

Tra. I but used the expression in haste. 

Ink. That may be, Mr. Tracy, but shows damn'd 

bad taste. 
Tra. I own it— I know^ it — acknowledge it— what 
Can I say to you more ? 

Ink. I see wiiat you 'd be at : 

You disparage my parts with insidious abuse. 
Till you think you can turn them best to your own 
use. 
Tra. And is that not a sign I respect them ? 
Ink. Why that 

To be sure makes a diiference. 

Tra. I know what is what : 

And you, who 're a man of the gay world, no less 
Than a poet of t' other, may easily guess 
That I never could mean, by a word, to offend 
A genius like you, and, moreover, my friend. 
Ink. No doubt ; you by this time should know 
what is due 

To a man of but come — let us shake hands. 

Tra. You knew, 

x\nd you know^ my dear fellow, how heartily I, 
Wliatever you publish, am ready to buy. 
Ink. That 's my bookseller's business ; I care not 
for sale ; 
Indeed the best poems at first rather fail. 
There were Eenegade's epics, and Botherby's 
plays,* 

And my own grand romance 

Tra. Had its full share of praise. 

I myself saw it puff'd in the " Old Girl's Review."! 
Ink. What Reviev/ ? 

Tra. 'T is the English " Journal de Trevoux : " 
A clerical work of our Jesuits at home. 
Have you never yet seen it ? 
Ink. That pleasure 's to come. 

Tra. Make haste then. 
Ink. Why so ? 

Tra. I have heard people say 

That it threaten'd to give up the ghost t'other day. 
Ink. Well, that is a sign of some spirit. 
Tra. No doubt. 

Shall you be at the Countess of Fiddlecome's 
rout ? 
Ink. I 've a card, and shall go : but at present, as 
soon 
As friend Scamp shall be pleased to step down from 

the moon 
(Where he seems to be soaring in search of his wits):,, 
And an interval grants from his lecturing fits, 
I 'm engaged to the Lady Bluebottle's collation, 
To partake of a luncheon and learn'd conversation r 
'Tis a sort of reunion for Scamp, on the days 
Of his lecture, to treat him with cold tongue and 

praise. 
And I own, for my own part, that 't is not unpleas- 
ant. 

f "My Grandmother's Review, the British." This heavy 
journal has since been gathered to its grandmothers., 
401 



THE BLUES, 



Will you go ? There 's Miss Lilac ^vill also be 
present. 
Tra. That " metal's attractive." 
Ink. Xo doubt — to the pocket. 

' Ti-a. You should rather encourage my passion 
than shock it. 

But let us proceed ; for I think, by the hum 

Ink. Very true ; let us go, then, before they can 
come, 
Or else we '11 be kept here an hour at their levy, 
On the rack of cross questions, by all the blue bevy. 
Hark ! Zounds, they '11 be on us ; I know by the 

drone 
Of old Botherby's spouting ex-cathedni tone. 



Ay ! there he is at it. Poor Scamp ! better join 
Your friends, or he '11 pay you back in your own coin. 

2Va. All fair ; 't is but lecture for lecture. 

Ink. That 's clear. 

But for God's sake let 's go, or the Bore will be here. 
Come, come : nay, I 'm off. {Exit Inkel. 

Tra. You are right, and I '11 follow ; 

'Tis high time for a '• Sic me servavit Apollo.''^ 
And yet we shall have the whole crew on our kibes, 
Blues, dandies, and dowagers, and second-hand 

scribes. 
All flocking to moisten their exquisite throttles 
AYith a glass of Madeka at Lady Bluebottle's. 

{Exit Tracy. 



ECLOaXJE SECON^D. 



An Apartment in the House of Lady Bluebottle 
— A Table prepared. 

Sir Richard Bluebottle solus. 

Was there ever a man who was married so sorry ? 
Like a fool, I must needs do the thing in a hurry. 
My life is reversed, and my quiet destroy 'd ; 
My days, which once pass'd in so gentle a void. 
Must now, every hour of the twelve, be employ'd : 
The twelve, do I say ?— of the whole twenty-four. 
Is there one which I dare call my own any more V 
What with driving and visiting, dancing and dining. 
What with learning, and teaching, and scribbling, 

and shining 
In science and art, I '11 be cursed if I know 
Myself from my wife ; for although we are two, 
Yet she somehow contrives that all things shall be 

done 
In a style which proclaims us eternally one. 
But the thing of all things which distresses me more 
Than the bills of the week (though they trouble me 

sore) 
Is the numerous, humorous, backbiting crew 
Of scribblers, wits, lecturers, white, black, and blue, 
Who are brought to my house as an inn, to my cost— 
For the bill here, it seems, is defray'd by the host — 
Xo pleasure ! no leisure ! no thought for my pains. 
But to hear a vile jargon wliich addles my brains : 
A smatter and chatter, glean 'd out of reviews. 
By the rag, tag, and bobtail, of those they call 

"Blues;" 

A rabble who know not But soft, here they come ! 

Would to God I were deaf! as I'm not, I'll be 

dumb. 

Enter Lady Blue'bottle, Miss Lilac, Lady Blue- 
mount, Mr. Botlierby, Inkel, Trac^, Miss 
Mazarine, and others, with Scamp the Lecturer^ 
etc., etc. 

Lady Blueb. Ah! Sir Kichard, good-morning: 

it 've brought you some friends. 
Sir Rich, {botes, and aftericards aside). If friends, 

they 're the first. "' 

Lady Blucb. But the luncheon attends. 

I pray ye be seated, " sans cerernonie.'^ 

^Lr. Scamp, you 're fatigued ; take your chair there, 

next me. ["Ihey all sit. 

Sir Bich. [aside). If he does, his fatigue is to 

come. 
Lady Blueb. Mr. Tracy — 

Lady Bluemount— Miss Lilac— be pleased, pray, to 

place ye ; 
And you, Mr. Botherby— 

Both. Oh, my dear lady, 

I obey. 

Lady Blueb. Mr. Inkel, I ought to upbraid ye : 
You were not at the lecture ! 
402 



Ink. Excuse me, T was ; 

But the heat forced me out in the best part— alas ! 
And when — 

Lady Blueb. To be sure it was broiling ; but then 
You have lost such a lecture ! 

Both. The best of the ten. 

Tra. How can you know that? there are two 
more. 

Both. Because 

I defy him to beat this day's wondrous applause. 
The very walls shook. 

Ink. Oil, if that be the test, 

I allow our friend Scamp has this day done his best. 
Miss Lilac, permit me to help you ;— a wing y 

3Iiss Lil. I\ more, sir, I thank you. Who lec- 
tures next spring ? 

Both. Dick Dunder. 

Ink. That is, if he lives. 

Hiss Lil. And why not ? 

Ink. Xo reason whatever, save that he 's a sot. 
Lady Bluemount ! a glass of Madeira ? 

Lady Bhcem. AVith pleasure. 

Ink.' How does your friend Wordswords, tliat 
Windermere treasure ? 
Does he stick to his lakes. like the leeches he sings. 
And their gatherers, as Homer sung warriors and 
kings' ? 

Lady Bluem. He has just got a place. 

Ink. As a footman ? 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! 

Nor profane with your sneers so poetic a name. 

Ink. Nay, I meant him no evil, but pitied his 
master ; 
For the poet of peddlers 't were, sure, no disaster 
To wear a new livery ; the mere, as 't is not 
The first time he has turn'd both his creed and liis 
coat. 

Lady Bluem. For shame ! I repeat. If Sir George 
could but liear 

Lady Blueb. Never mind our friend Inkel; we 
all know, my dear, 
'T is his way. 

Sir Rich. But this place 

Ink. Is perhaps like friend Scamp's, 

A lecturer's. 

Lady Bluem. Excuse me— 'tis one in '-tlie 
Stamps: " 
He is made a collector.* 

Tra. Collector ! 

Sir Rich. How ? 

Miss Lil. What ? 

Ink. 1 shall think of him oft when I buy a new 
hat : 
There his works will appear 

Lady Bluem. Sir, they reach to the Ganges. 



* Wordsworth was collector of stamps for Cumberland and 
Westmoreland, 



THE BLUES. 



Ink. I sha'n't go so far— I can have them at 
Grange's.* 

Lady Blueb. Oh he ! 

Miss Lil. And for shame ! 

Lady Bluem. You 're too bad. 

Both. Very good I 

Lady Bluem. How good ? 

Lady Blueb. He means nought— 't is his phrase. 

Lady Bluem. He grows rude. 

Lady Blueb. He means notliing ; nay, ask him. 

Lady Bluem. Pray, sir ! did you mean 

What you say ? 

Lik. Never mind if he did : 't will be seen 

That whatever he means won't alloy w^hat he says. 

Both. Sir? 

Ink. Pray be content with your portion of praise ; 
'T was in your defence. 

Both. It you please, with submission, 

I can make out my own. 

Ink. It would be your perdition. 

While you live, my dear Botherby, never defend 
Yourself or your works : but leave both to a friend. 
A propos — Is your play then accepted at last ? 

Both. At last ? 

Ink. Why I thougiit— that 's to say — 

there had pass'd 
A few green-room whispers, which hinted— you 

know 
That the taste of the actors at best is so-so. 

Both. Sir, the green-room 's in rapture, and so 's 
the Committee. 

Ink. Ay — yours are the plays for exciting our 
"pity 
And fear," as the Greek says: for "purging the 

mind," 
I doubt if you '11 leave us an equal behind. 

Both. I have written the prologue, and meant to 
have pray 'd 
For a spice of your wit in an epilogue's aid. 

Ink. Well, time enough yet, when tlie play 's to 
be play'd. 
Is it cast yet ? 

Both. Tlie actors are fighting for parts. 

As is usual in that most litigious of arts. 

Lady Blueb. We '11 all make a party, and go the 
first night. 

Tra. And you promised the epilogue, Inkel. 

Ink. Not quite. 

However, to save my friend Botherby trouble, 
I '11 do what I can, though mv pains must be double. 

Tra. Why so ? 

Ink. To do justice to what goes before. 

Both. Sir, I 'm happy to say, I have no fears on 
that score. 
Your parts, Mr. Inkel, are 

Ink. Never mind mine; 

Stick to those of your play, which is quite your own 
line. 

Lady Bluem. You 're a fugitive writer, I think, 
sir, of rliymes ? 

Ink. Yes, ma'am; and a fugitive reader some- 
times. 
On Wordswords, for instance, I seldom alight. 
Or on Mouthey, his friend, witliout taking to flight. 

Lady Bluem. Sir, your taste is too common : but 
time and posterity 
Will right these great men, and this age's severity 
Become its reproach. 

^ Ink. I 've no sort of objection. 

So I 'm not of the party to take the infection. 

* Grange is or was a famous pastry-cook and fruiterer in 
Piccadilly. 

+ Sir George Beaumont— a constant friend of Mr. Words- 
worth. 

* It was not the present- earl of Lonsdale, but James, the 
first earl, who offered to build, and completely furnish and 



LoAy Blueb. Perhaps you have doubts that they 

ever will take f 
Ink. Not at all; on the contrary, those of the 
lake 
Have taken already, and still wdll continue 
To take— what they can, from a groat to a guinea. 
Of pension or place; — but the subject 's a bore. 
Lady Bluem. Well, sir, the time 's coming. 
Ink. Scamp ! don't you feel sore ? 

What say you to this ? 

Scam2). They have merit, I own ; 

Though their system's absurdity keeps it unknown. 
Ink. Then why not unearth it in one of your lec- 
tures ? 
Scam}). It is only time past which comes under 

my strictures. 
Lady Blueb. Come, a truce with all tartness ; — 
the joy of my heart 
Is to see Nature's triumph o'er all that is art. 
Wild Nature ! — Grand Shakspeare ! 
Both. And down Aristotle ! 

Lady Bluem. Sir George f thinks exactly with 
Lady Bluebottle ; 
And my Lord Seventy-four. J who protects our dear 

Bard, 
And wdio gave him his place, has the greatest re- 
gard 
For the poet, who, singing of peddlers and asses, 
Has found out the way to dispense with Parnassus. 
Tra. And you. Scamp !— 

Scamp. I needs must confess I 'm embarrass'd. 
Ink. Don't call upon Scamp, who 's already so 
harass 'd 
With old schools, and new schools, and no schools, 
and all schools. 
Tra. Well, one thing is certain, that some must 
be fools. 
I should like to know who. 

Ink. And I should not be sorry 

To know who are not:— it would save us some 
worry. 
Lady Blueb. A truce with remark, and let noth- 
ing control 
This " feast of our reason, and flow of the soul." 
Oh ! my dear Mr. Botherby ! sympathize ! — I 
Now feel such a rapture, I 'm ready to fly, 
I feel so elastic—" so buoyant I — so buoyant .^ " ^ 
Ink. Tracy ! open the window. 
Tra. I wish her much joy on 't. 

Both. For God's sake, my Lady Bluebottle, check 
not 
This gentle emotion, so seldom our lot 
Upon earth. Give it way; 'tis an impulse which 

lifts 
Our spirits from earth ; the sublimest of gifts ; 
For which poor Prometheus was chain'd to his 

mountain : 
'Tis the source of all sentiment— feeling's true 

fountain ; 
'T is the Vision of Heaven upon Earth : 't is the gas 
Of the soul : 't is tlie seizing of shades as they pass, 
And making them substance— 'tis something di- 
vine: — 
Ink. Shall I help you, my friend, to a little more 

wine ? 
Both. A thank you ; not any more, sir, till I dine. 
Ink. A propos— T>o you dine with Sir Humphry ||, 

to-day ? 
Tra. I should think with Buke Humphry was 
more in your way. 



man, a ship of seventy-four guns, towards the close of tlie 
American war, for the service of his country, at his own ex- 
pense ; — hence the soubriquet in the text. 

§ Fact from life, with the words. 

II The lafe Sir Humphry Davy, president of the Royal 
Society. 

403 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Ink. It might be of yore ; but we authors now 
look 
To the Knight, as a landlord, much more than the 

Duke. 
The truth is, each writer now quite at his ease is, 
And (except with his publisher) dines where he 

pleases. 
But 't is now nearly five, and I must to tlie Park. 
Tra. And I '11 take a turn with you there till 't is 
dark. 

And you, Scamp 

Scamp. Excuse me ! I must to my notes 

For my lecture next week. 

Ink. He must mind whom he quotes 

Out of "Elegant Extracts." 

Lady Blueh. Well, now we break up ; 

But remember Miss Diddle* invites us to sup. 



Ink. Then at two 
meet again. 



hours past midnight we all 



For the sciences, sandwiches, hock, and champagne ! 
Tra. And the sweet lobster salad ! 
Both. I honor that meal ; 

For 't is then that our feelings most genuinely— feel. 
Ink. True; feeling is truest then., far beyond 
question ; 
I wish to the gods 't was the same with digestion ! 
Lady Blueb. Pshaw !— never mind that ; for one 
moment of feeling 
Is worth— God knows what. 
Ink. 'T is at least worth concealing 

For itself, or what follows But here comes your 

carriage. 
Sir Bich. {aside). I wish all these people were 
d d with my marriage ! [Exeunt. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 

BY QUEYEDO KEDIYIYUS.t 

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLER." 



' A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.'* 



PREFACE. 



IT hath been wisely said, that " One fool makes many ; " 
and it hath been poetically observed, 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread."— Pope. 

If Mr. Sou they had not rushed in where he had no 
business, and where he never was before, and never will 
be again, the following poem would not have been writ- 
ten. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his 
own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, 
natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull 
impudence, the renegado intolerance and impious cant, 
of the poem by the author of " Wat Tyler," are some- 
thing so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself — 
containing the quintessence of his own attributes. 

So much for his poem — a word oniiis preface. In this 
preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate to draw | 
the picture of a supposed '' Satanic school," the which he i 
doth recommend to the notice of the legislature ; thereby i 
adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of an i 
informer. If there exists anywhere, excepting in his i 
imagination, such a school, is he not sufficiently armed I 
against it by his own intense vanity? The truth is, that \ 
there are certain writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like 
Scrub, to have "talked of Am; for they laughed con- 
sumed ly." 

I think I know enough of most of the writers to wliom 
he is supposed to allude, to assert, tliat they, in their in- 

* The late Miss Lydia White, whose hospitable functions 
have not yet been supplied to the circle of London artists 
and literati— an accomplished, clever, and truly amiable, but 
very eccentric lady. The name in the text could only have 
been sug^^ested by the jingling resemblance it bears to Lydia. 
404 



dividual capacities, have done more good, in the charities 
of life, to their fellow-creatures, in any one year, tlian 
Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities 
in his whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. But I 
have a few questions to ask. 

Istly, Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wat Tyler" ? 

2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law by the high- 
est judge of his beloved England, because it was a blas- 
phemous and seditious publication ? 

3dly, Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full 
parliament, " a rancorous renegado" ? 

4tlily, Is he not poet-laureate, with his own lines on 
Martin the regicide staring him in the face? 

And, 5tlily, Putting the four preceding items together, 
with Avhat conscience dare he call the attention of the laws 
to the publications of others, be they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding ; 
its meanness speaks for itself ; but I wish to touch upon 
the motive, which is neither more nor less than that Mr. 
S. has been laughed at a little in some recent publica- 
tions, as he Avas of yore in the "Anti-jacobin" by his 
present patrons. Hence all this " skimble-scamble stuff" 
about " Satanic," and so forth. However, it is worthy of 
him — " qualis ah incepio." 

If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions 
of a portion of the public in the following poem, they 
may thank Mr. Southey. He might have written hex- 



+ In 1831, Mr. Southey published a piece, in English hex- 
ameters, entitled "A Vision of Judgment;" and which Lord 
Byron, in criticising it, laughed at as "the Apotheosis of 
George the Third." In 1833 Byron's "Vision of Judgment " 
was issued in the pages of " The Liberal." 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



ameters, as he has written everything else, for aught that 
the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. 
But to attempt to canonize a monarch, who, Avhatever 
were his household virtues, was neither a successful nor 
a patriot king, — inasmuch as several years of his reign 
passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing 
of the aggression upon France, — like all other exaggera- 
tion, necessarily begets opposition. In whatever manner 
he may be spoken of in this new " Vision," his public 
career will not be more favorably transmitted by history. 
Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the 
nation) there can be no doubt. 

With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, 
I can only say that I know as much about them, and (as 
an honest man) have a better right to talk of them, than 
Robert Southey. I have also treated them more tolerantly. 
The way in which that poor insane creature, the laureate, 
deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his 
own judgment in this. If it was not completely ludi- 
crous, it would be something worse. I don't think that 
there is much more to say at present. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in 
these objectionable times, to the freedom with which 
saints, angels, and spiritual persons discourse in this 
" Vision." But, for precedents upon such points, I must 
refer him to Fielding's " Journey from this World to the 
next," and to the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in 
Spanish or translated. The reader is also requested to 
observe, that no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or dis- 
cussed ; that the person of the Deity is carefully withheld 
from sight, which is more than can be said for the laure- 
ate, who hath thought proper to make him talk, not " like 
a school divine," but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. 
The whole action passes on the outside of heaven ; and 
Chaucer's Wife of Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, 
Swift's Tale of a Tub, and the other works above referred 
to, are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, 
etc., may be permitted to converse in works not intended 
to be serious. Q. R. 



*^* Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good Christian 
and vindictive, threatens, I understand, a reply to this 
our answer. It is to be hoped that his visionary faculties 
will in the mean time have acquired a little more judg- 
ment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself 
into new dilemmas. These apostate jacobins furnish rich 
rejoinders. Let him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laud- 
eth grievously ** one Mr. Landor," who cultivates much 
private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and not 
long ago, the poet-laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, 
one of his fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem 
called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in this same Gebir 
the aforesaid Savage Landor^' (for such is his grim cog- 
nomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person 
than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, 
even George the Third ! See also how personal Savage 
becometh, when he hath a mind. The following is his 
portrait of our late gracious sovereign : — 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal regions, the 
sliades of his royal ancestors are, at his request, called up to 
his view ; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide—) 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 

Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 

Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 

Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 

He too amongst my ancestors ! I hate 

The despot, but the dastard I despise. 

Was he our countryman?" 

"Alas, O kingl 

Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 

Inclement winds blew blighting from northeast." 
" He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods? " 
" Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 

Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 

And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 

Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 

And the tame cruelty and cold caprice— 

Oh madness of mankind! address' d, adored ! " 

Gehir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, 
wishing to keep the proper veil over them, if his grave 
but somewhat indiscreet worshipper will suffer it; biit 
certainly these teachers of "great moral lessons" are apt 
to be found in strange company. 



WiU Wmm of Ju%m^nt» 



I. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial ^ate : 
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 

So little trouble had been given of late ; 
Kot that the place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight " 
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 

And " a pull altogether," as they say 

At sea— which drew most souls another way. 

II. 

The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two. 



* Walter Savage Landor, Esq., author of " Count Julian, a 
tragedy "—" Imaginary Conversations," in three series— and 
various other works, was an early friend of Mr. Southey, and 



Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
Splitting some planet with its playful tail. 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale. 

III. 

The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 
Finding their charges past all care below ; 

Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 
Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 

Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
With such rapidity of vice and woe. 

That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 

And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

lY. 

His business so augmented of late years, 
That lie was forced, against his will no doubt 

(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), 
For some resource to turn hims^elf about, 



difference of politics had never disturbed their personal feel- 
ings towards each other. Mr. Landor had long' resided in 
Italy. 

405 



THE VISION OF J UD GHENT. 



And claim the help of his celestial peers, 

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out, 
By the increased demand for his remarks : 
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 



This was a handsome board — at least for heaven ; 

And yet they had even tlien enough to do. 
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven. 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw tlieir pens down in divine disgust — 
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 

YI. 

This by the way ; 't is not mine to record 
What angels shrink from : even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
,So surfeited with the infernal revel : 

Though he himself liad sharpen'd every sword. 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 

'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

YII. 

Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont. 

And heaven none— they form the tyrant's lease. 
With nothing but new names subscribed upon't : 

'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, 
" With seven heads and ten horns," and all in 
front, 

Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 

VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn * 
Died George the Tliird ; although no tyrant, one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun : 

A better farmer ne'er brush 'd dew from lawn, 
A worse king never left a realm^ undone ! 

He died— but left liis subjects still bel^Jnd, 

One-half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 

IX. 

He died !— his death made no great stir on earth ; 

His burial made some pomp •, there was profusion 
Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears— save those shed by collusion. 
For these things may be bought at their true worth ; 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 

X. 

Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flock 'd to swell or see the show. 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 

Tiiere throbb'd not there a thought wdiich pierced 
the paU ; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 

XL 

So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and. fire, and air ; 

* George III. died the 29th of January, 1820,— a year in 
which the revolutionary spirit broke out all over the south 
of Europe. 

406 



But the unnatural balsams merely blight 

What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
As the mere million's base unmummied clay- 
Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 

XII. 

He 's dead— and upper earth with him has done ; 

He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill. 
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 

For him, unless he left a German will ; 
But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ? 

In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 

XIII. 

" God save the king ! " It is a large economy 
In God to save the like ; but if he will 

Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 
Of those who think damnation better still : 

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small hope of bettering future ill 

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 

XIY. 

I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous; I know one maybe damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erfiow ; 

I know that all save England's church have 
shamm'd. 
And that the other twice two hundred churclies 
And synagogues have made a damned bad purcliase. 

XY. 

God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
God knovi's, as helpless as the devil can wish, 

And not a whit more difficult to damn. 
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, 

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish, 

As one day will be that immortal fry 

Of almost every body born to die. 

XYI. 

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate. 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great. 

Which would have made aught save a saint ex- 
claim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think ! " 

XYII. 

But ere he could return to his repose, 
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose : 
'^ Saint porter," said the angel, '' prithee rise 1 " 

Waving a goodly wing, which giow'd, as glows 
An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes ; 

To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the 
matter V 

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ? " 

XYIII. 

":N"o," quoth the cherub; "George the Third is 
dead." 
"And who is George the Third?" replied the 
apostle : 
''What George? ichat Third f' "The king of 
England," said 
The angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 



THE VISION OF J UD GHENT. 



Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 
And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 

XIX. 

" He was, if I remember, king of France ;* 
That head of his, which could not keep a crown 

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs— like my own : 

If I had had my sword, as I had once 
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 

But having but my Iceys, and not my brand, 

I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 

XX. 

" And then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him in ; 

And there he sits by Saint Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul— the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 

XXI. 

" But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to tell : 

The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 

And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 

And seems the custom here to overthrow 

Whatever has been wisely done below." 

XXII. 

The angel answer 'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and all entire, 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet— by its wire, 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
My business and your own is not to inquire 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do." 

XXIIl. 

Wliile thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 

Cleaving the fields of space, as cloth the swan 
Some silver stream (say Ganges, l^ile, or Inde, 

Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man 
With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 

Seated their fellow traveller on a cloud. 

XXIY. 

But bringing up the rear of this bright host 

A Spirit of a different aspect waved 
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast 

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is 
paved ; 
His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd ; 

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
Eternal wrath on his immortal face. 
And ii^here he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 

XXY. 

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Xe'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 

* Louis XVI., guillotined in January, 1793. 

+ See Captain Sir Edward Parry's Voyage, in 1819-20, for the 
Discovery of a Northwest passage.-"! believe it is almost 
impossible for words to give an idea of the beauty and 
variety which this magnificent phenomenon displayed. The 
luminous arch had broken into irregular masses, streaming 
with much rapidity in different directions, varying contin- 



With such a glance of supernatural hate, * 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within ; 

He patter'd with his keys at a great rate. 
And sweated through his apostolic skin : 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 

XXYI. 

The very cherubs huddled all together. 
Like birds jvhen soars the falcon ; and they felt 

A tingling to the tip of every featlier, 
And form'd a circle like Orion's belt ■ 

Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew 
whither 
His guards had led him, though they gently 
dealt 

With royal manes (for by many stories. 

And true, we learn the angels "all are Tories). 

XXYII. 

As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 

Flung over space an universal hue 
Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges 

Reach 'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 

O'er the North Pole 
bound. 

By Captain Parry's crew, in " Melville's Sound." f 

XXYIII. 

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Yictorious from some world-o'erthrowiug fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likenesses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote,t or Bob Southey raving. 

XXIX. 

'T was the archangel Michael : all men know 
The make of angels and arcliangels, since 

There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to show. 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince ; 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 

XXX. 

Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And'good arise ; the portal past— he stood; 

Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary — 
I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 

XXXL 

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 
Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 

No thought, save for his Master's service, durst 
Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
He knew him but the viceroy of the sky. 

ually in shape and interest, and extending themselves from, 
north, by the east, to north." 

t Johanna Southcote, the aged lunatic, who fancied her- 
self, and was believed by many thousand followers, to be 
with child of a new Messiah, died in 1815. There was a full 
account of her in the Quarterly Review, 

407 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



XXXI I. 

He and the sombre, silent Spirit met— 

The)- knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such ^yas their power, that neither could forget 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 't were less their ^^ill 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and their ''champ clos" the 
spheres. 

XXXIII. 

But here they were in neutral space : we know 
From Job, "that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that " the sons of God," like those of clay, 

Must keep him company ; and we might show 
From the same book, in how polite a v.-ay 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil— but 't would take up hours. 

XXXIV. 

And this is not a theologic tract. 
To prove with Hebrew' and with Arabic, 

If Job be allegory or a fact. 
But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

'T is every tittle true, bayond suspicion, 

And accurate as any other vision. 

XXXY. 

The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued o'er. 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect: though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXYI. 

The archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 

But with a graceful oriental bend, 
Pressing one radiant arm just where below 

The heart in good men is supposed to tend ; 
He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 

XXXYII. 

He merel}^ bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
In act to assert liis right or wrong, and show 
Cause wh\^ King George by no means could or 
should 
3Iake out a case to be exempt from woe 

Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
With better sense and hearts, whom history men- 
tions, 
Who long have " paved hell with their good inten- 
tions."* 

XXXYIIL 
Michael began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 
Xow dead, and brought before the Lord V What ill 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race l^egan. 
That thou canst claim him "i iSpeak I and do thy 
will, 
If it be just ; if in this earthly span 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfill 
His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 



* " No saint in the course of his religious warfare was more 
sensible of the unhappy failure of pious resolves than Dr. 
408 



XXXIX. 

" Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
Before the gate of him thou servest, must 

I claim my subject : and will make appear 
That as he was my worshipper in dust. 

So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 

Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 

He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone. 

XL. 

" Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 
Once^ more thy Master's: but I triumph not 

In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot : 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon Aveak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 

XLI. 

"And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord ; and even had 

I such an inclination, 't were (as you 
Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad. 

That hell has nothing better left to do 
Than leave them to themselves : > so much more 
mad 

And evil by their own internal curse, 

tieaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 

XLII. 

" Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor 
worm 

Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign. 
The world and he both wore a different form. 

And much of earth and all the watery plain 
Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 

His isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 

For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

" He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
Look to the state in wliich he found his reedm, 

And left it ; and his annals too behold. 
How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 

IIow grew upon his heart a thirst for gold. 
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelui 

The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance 

Thine eye along America and France. 

XLIY. 

" 'T is true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 

So let him be consumed. From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs— from the bloody rolls amassed 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' school, 

Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the 
slain. 

" He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
Xations as men, home subjects, foreign foes. 

So that thev utter'd the word ' Liberty!' 
Found George the Third their first opponent. 
Whose 

History was ever stain 'd as his will be 
With national and individual woes ? 

I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 

His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 



Johnson : he said one day, talking- to an acquaintance on this 
subject, ' Sir, hell is paved with good intentions.' ''—BosxcelL 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



XL VI. 
" I know he was a constant consort ; own 

He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 

As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 

I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
And this was well for him, but not for those 
Millions who found him what oppression chose. 

XLYII. 

" The Ji^ew World shook him off ; the Old yet groans 
Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 

Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
To all his vices, without what begot 

Compassion for him— his tame virtues ; drones 
Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 

A lesson which shall be retaught them, wake 

Upon the thrones of earth ; but let them quake ! 

XLYIII. 

*' Five millions of the primitive, who hold 
The faith which makes ye great on earth, im- 
plored 

A part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have not abhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

" True ! he allow 'd them to pray God : but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same base 
With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 

But here Saint Peter started from his place. 
And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw : 

Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelph, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself ! 

L. 

*' Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 

My office (and his is no sinecure) 
Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 
" Saint ! " replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 

The wrongs he made your satellites endure ;* 
And if to this exchange you should be given, 
I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI. 

Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 

Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 

Satan! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level: 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in 
session. 
Have you got more to say?" — "Ko." — "If you 

please, 
I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses." 

LII. 

Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand. 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand. 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies ; 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 



* George III.'s determination ag-ainst the Catholic claims. 
+ A gold or g-ilt key, peeping from below the skirts of the 
coat, marks a lord chamherlain. 



LIII. 

This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 
Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
Of hell assign 'd ; but where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely— being damn'd the same. 

LIY. 

They are proud of this— as very well they may. 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins ;t or like to an " entree " 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 

LY. 

When the great signal ran from heaven to hell— 
About ten million times the distance reckoned 

From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
How much time it takes up, even to a second. 

For every ray that travels to dispel 
The fogs of London, through which, dimly 
beacon 'd, 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year. 

If that the summer is not too severe '.% — 

LYI. 

I say that I can tell— 'twas half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more time 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime. 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own clime. 

The sun takes up some years for every ray 

To reach its goal— the devil not half a day. 

LYII. 

Upon the verge of space, about the size 

Of half a crown, a little speck appear 'd 
(I 've seen a something like it in the skies 

In the ^gean, ere a squall) ; it near'd. 
And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 

Like an aerial ship, it tack'd, and steer 'd, 
Or li^as steer 'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 
Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza 
stammer ; — 

LYIII. 
But take your choice) ; and then it grew a cloud ; 

And so it was— a cloud of witnesses. 
But such a cloud! ]Sro land e'er saw a crowd 

Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
They shadow'd with their myriads space ; their loud 

And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
(If nations may be likened to a goose). 
And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose." 

LIX. 

Here crash 'd a sturdy oath of stout .lohn Bull, 
Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 

There Paddy brogued " By Jasus ! "— " Wliat 's your 
wull ? " 
The temperate Scot exclaim 'd: the French ghost 
swore 

In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, 
As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the war. 

The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 

" Our president is going to war, I guess." 



t An allusion to Horace Walpole's expression in a letter— 
■ The summer has set in with its usual severity.'" 



409 



THE VISION OF JUDG3IENT, 



LX. 

Besides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane : 
In short, an universal shoal of shades, 

From Otaheite's isle to Salisburj' Plain, 
Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 

Ready to swear against the good king-s reign, 
Bitter as cluhs in cards are against spades : 

All summon'd by this grand '' subpoena," to 

Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 

LXI. 

When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 

lie turn'd all colors— as a peacock's tail. 
Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skyliglit 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale. 
Or distant lightning on the horizon hy night, 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 

LXII. 

Then he address'd himself to Satan : " Why— 
My good old fi'iend, for such I deem you, though 

Our 'different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 

Our difference is political^ and I 
Trust that, whatever may occur below. 

You know my great respect for you : and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss— 

LXiir. 

*' Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 

That you should half of earth and hell produce; 
'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 

True testimonies are enough : we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, between 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 

LXIV. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
Indifferent, in a personal point of view: 

I can have fifty better souls than this 
With far less trouble than we have gone through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 
Late'majesty of Britain's case with you 

ITpon a point of form : you may dispose 

Of him ; I 've kings enough below, God knows ! " 

LXY. 

Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd " multifaced " 
By multo-scribbling Southey). '• Tlien we '11 call 

One or two persons of the myriads placed 
Around our congress, and dispense with all 

The rest," quoth Michael: '"AYho may be so 
graced 
As to speak first ? there 's choice enough— wlio 
shall 

It be ? " Then Satan answer'd, " There are many ; 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
Upon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress 'd in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
'All the costumes since Adam's, right or wrong. 

From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 



* For the political history of John Wilkes, who died cham- 
berlain of the city of London, we must refer to any histoi*y 
ot the reign of George III. His profligate personal charac- 
410 



LXYII. 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaimed, '' My friends of all 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these 
clouds ; 
So let 's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds. 
And 't is for an election that they bawl. 

Behold a candidate witli unturn'd coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ? " 

LXYIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, " you mistake ; these things 
Are of a former life, and what we do 

Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 

''- Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 
Said Wilkes, "are cherubs : and tliat soul below 

Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 

A good deal older— Bless me ! is he blind ? " 

LXIX. 

" He is what j^ou behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 
"If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 

Gives license to the humblest beggar's head- 
To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 

Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead, 
For such a libertj' — and I, for one, 
Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 

LXX. 

'-'■ Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel. 
"Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past, 
Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last. 
With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 

LXXI. 

" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 

But then 1 blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be unwilling 

To see him punish xl here for their excess, 
Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 

Their place"^ below : for me, I have forgiven. 

And vote his ' habeas corpus ' into heaven.'* 

LXXII. 

" Wilkes," said the devil, " I understand all this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died,'^ 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry; you forget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more : you 've lost your labor. 
For at the best he will but be your neighbor. 

LXXIII. 

" However, T knew what to think of it, 
AVhen I beheld you, in your jesting way, 

Flitting and whisperiiig round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 

That fellow even in hell breeds further ills : 

I '11 have him gagg'cZ— 't was one of his own bills. 

tcr is abundantly displayed in the collection of his letters, 
published by his daughter! since his death. 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 



LXXIV. 
" Call Junius ! " From the crowd a shadow stalk 'd, 

And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease. 
But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'd. 

As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, 
Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder, 
Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXY. 

The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure. 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 

Quick in its motions, with an air of vigor, 
But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 

I^ow it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
With now an air of gloom, or savage 'mirth ; 

But as you gazed upon its features, they 

Changed every instant — to wliat^ none could say. 

LXXYI. 

The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 

The devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
They varied like a dream— now here, now there ; 

And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 

He was his father ; upon which another 

Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 

An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 
A nabob, a man-midwife : * but tlie wight 

Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 

He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 
The man was a phantasmagoria in 
Himself — he was so volatile and tliin.f 

LXXYIII. 

The moment. that you liad pronounced him one. 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 

And Avhen that change was hardly well put on. 
It varied, till I don't think liis OTvai mother 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to t'other ; 

Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " Iron Mask." % 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
" Three gentlemen at once " (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
That he was not even one; now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
Hid him from sight— like fogs on London days : 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fan- 
cies. 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. § 

* Among- the various persons to whom the letters of 
Junius have been attributed we find the Duke of Portland, 
Lord Georg-e Sackville, Sir Philip Francis, Mr. Burke, Mr. 
Dunning-, the Rev. John Home Tooke, Mr. Hugh Boyd, Dr. 
Wilmot, etc. 

+ "I don't know what to think. Why should Junius be 
dead? If suddenly apoplexed, would he rest In his grave 
without sending his eiSojAov to shout in the ears of posterity, 
'Junius was X. Y. Z., Esq., buried in the parish of ***** .' 
Repair his monument, ye churchwardens! Print a new 
edition of his Letters, ye booksellers ! Impossible,— the man 
must be alive^ and will never die without the disclosure. I 
like him ; he was a good hater."— Byroji Diai-y, Nov. 23, 1813. 
Sir Philip Francis died in December, 1818. 

* The mystery of "I'homme au masque de fer," the ever- 
lasting puzzle of the last century, has at length, in general 



LXXX. 

I 've an hypothesis— 't is quite my own ; 

I never let it oat till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer. 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown; 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
'T is, that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
AVritten without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
Are fill'd as well witliout the latter too : 

And really till we fix on somebody 
For certain sure to claim them as his due. 

Their author, like the Xiger's mouth, will bother 

The world to say if t/iere be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel said. 

"For that you may consult my title-page," 
Eeplied this mighty ^shadow of a shade : 

"If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell it now.''—" Canst thou upbraid," 

Continued Michael, " George Kex, or allege 
Aught further?" Junius answer 'd, "You had 

better 
First ask him for his answer to my letter : 

LXXXIII. 

" My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

" Repent 'st thou not," said Michael, " of some past 
Exaggeration ? something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
Too bitter— is it not so ?— in thy gloom 

Of passion ? "— " Passion ! "cried the phantom dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him. 

LXXXIY. 

"What I have written, I have written: let 
The rest be on his head Or mine ! " So spoke 

Old " Nomhiis Umbra ; " || and while speaking yet, 
Aw^ay he melted in celestial smoke. 

Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
To call George Washington, and John Horne 
Tooke, 

And Franklin ; "—but at this time there was heard 

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXY. 

At length, with jostlhig, elbowing, and the aid 
Of cherubim appointed to that post, 

Tlie devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 

Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
" What 's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 't is not 
a ghost ? " 



opinion, been cleared up, by a French work published in 
1825, and which formed the basis of an entertaining one in 
English by Lord Dover. See Quarterly Review, vol. xxiiv., 
p. 19. 

§ " That the work entitled ' The Identity of Junius with a 
distinguished Lining Character established ' proves Sir Philip 
Francis to be Junius, we will not affirm ; but this we can 
safely assert : that it accumulates such a mass of circumstan- 
tial e\'idence as renders it extremely difficult to believe he is 
not, and that, if so many coincidences shall be found to have 
misled us in this case, our faith in all conclusions drawn 
from proofs of a similar kind may henceforth be shaken."— 
Mackintosh. 

II The well-known motto of Junius is, '■'Stat nominis 
umbra." 

411 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



" I know it," quoth the mcubus ; " but he 
Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 

LXXXVI. 

" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 

My left wing, he -s so heavy ; one would think 
Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 

But to the point; while hovering o'er the brink 
Of Skiddaw* (where as usual it still rain'd), 

I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel- 
No less on history than the Holy Bible. 

LXXXYII. 

" The former is the devil's scripture, and 
The latter yours, good Michael : so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
I snatch'd him up just as you see him there. 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At least a quarter it can hardly be : 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 

LXXXYHI. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time here ; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold. 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 
Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 

"VYe had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 

With carriage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he 's here, let 's see what he has done." 
"Done! " cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 

The very business you are now upon. 

^ And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 

Who knows to what his ribaldry may run. 
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?" 

"Let's hear," quoth Michael; "what he has to 
say ; 

You know we 're bound to that in every way." 

XC. 

Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
By no means often was his case below. 

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
His voice into that awful note of woe 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 
Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow, 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 

Xot one of all whose gouty feet v/ould stir. 

XCI. 

But ere the spavin'd dactyls could be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay. 
Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried, " For God's sake, stop, my friend ! 't were 

best — 
Non Di^ non homines— you know the rest." 

XCII. 
A general bustle spread throughout the throng. 

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 
The angels had of course enough of song 

When upon service ; and the generation 

* Mr. Southey's residence is on the shore of Derwentwater, 
near the mountain Skiddaw. 

+ The king's trick of repeating his words in this way was a 
fei-tile source of ridicule to Peter Pindar (Dr. Walcot). 

* Henry James Pye, the predecessor of Mr. Southey in the 
poet-laiireateship, died in 1813. He was the author of many 

412 



Of ghosts had heard, too much in life, not long 

Before, to profit by a new occasion ; 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " What ! 

what ! t 
PyeX come again ? No more — no more of that ! " 

XCITI. 

The tumult grew; an universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate. 

When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
(Before he was first minister of state, 

I mean— the slaves hear noio) ; some cried "Off, off ! " 
As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate. 

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 

(Himself an author) only for his prose. 

XCIY. 

The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 

A good deal like a vulture in tlie face. 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " cZe se." 

XCY. 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise 
With one still greater, as is yet the mode 

On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice. 
Which now and then will make a slight inroad 

Upon decorous silence, few will twice 
Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 

With all the attitudes of self-applause. 

XCYI. 

He said— (I only give the heads)— he said. 

He meant no harm in scribbling ; *t was his way 
Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread. 

Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would delay 
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 

And take up rather more time than a day. 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
"Wat Tyler "—" Rhymes on Blenheim "—" Wa- 
terloo." 

XCYII. 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
He had written for republics far and wide. 

And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
For Pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin— 
Hadtui'n'dhis coat — and wouldhave turn'd his skin. 

XCYIII. 

He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 

Pieviewiugl "the ungentle craft," and then 
Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd— 

Fed, paid, and pamper 'd by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 

He had ^vritten much blank verse, and' blanker 
prose, 

And more of both than anybody knows. 

XCIX. 

He had T\Titten Wesley's life :— here turning round 
To Satan, " Sir, I 'm ready to write yours, 

works, besides his official Odes, among others "Alfred," an 
epic poem— all of which have been long- since defunct. Pj'O 
was a man of g-ood family in Berkshire, sat some time in par- 
liament, and was eminently respectable in every thing but 
his poeti-y. 
§ See "Life of Henry Kirke Whit^." 



THE AGE OF BRONZE, 



In two octavo volumes, nicely boimd, 
With notes and preface, all that most allures 

The pious purchaser ; and there 's no ground 
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers : 

So let me have the proper documents, 

That I may add you to my other saints." ■ 

C. 

Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 

With amiable modesty, decline 
My oifer, what says Michael ? There are few 

Whose memoirs could be render'd more divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 

CI. 

" But talking about trumpets, here 's my Vision ! 

Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
I settle all these things by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all. 
Like King Alfonso. When I thus see double, 
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 

CII. 

He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 

Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
He read the first three lines of the contents ; 

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
Had vanish 'd, with variety of scents, 

Ambrosial and sulpliureous, as they sprang. 

Like lightning, off from his *■' melodious twang." 

cm. 

Those grand heroics acted as a spell : 
The angels stopped their ears and plied their 
pinions ; 



The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own domin- 
ions — 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 

And i leave every man to his opinions) ; 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow! 

ciy. 

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been knov^Ti 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease. 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
A ditferent web being by the Destinies 

Woven for tlie Laureate's final wreath, whene'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 

CY. 

He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
But soon rose to the surface — like himself ; 

For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks, 
By tlieir own rottenness, light as an elf, 

Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf. 

In his own den, to scrawl some "' Life " or '' Vision," 

As Welborn says— ''the devil turn'd precisian." 



CVL 

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion, 
And show'd me what I in my turn have shown ; 

All I saw f urtlier, in the last confusion. 
Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for 
one ; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practicing the hundredth psalm. 



THE AGE OF BEONZE; 



OR, 



(ffarmen ^cculare ti %m\\% liiud Pimbills.* 



" Impar Congressus Achilli. 



The " good old times " — all times when old are 

good- 
Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
Want little of mere mortals but their will : 
A wider space, a greener field, is given 
To those who play their " tricks before highheaven." 
I know not if the angels weep, but men 
Have wept enough— for what ?— to weep again ! 

II. 

All is exploded— be it good or bad. 
Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 



* This poem -was -written by Lord Byron at Genoa, in the Mr. John Hunt, 
early pai't of the year 1833 ; and published in London, by | time. 



Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
His very rival almost deem'd him sucli. 
We, we have seen the intellectual race 
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face— 
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free, 
xls the deep billows of the ^gean roar 
Betwixt the Hellenic and the "Phrygian shore. 
But where are they — the rivals ! a few feet 
Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave. 
Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave, 
Wliich oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
Of '' dust to dust ; " but half its tale untold : 



Its authenticity -was mucli disputed at the 

413 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form, 
Yaried above, but still alike below; 
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow, 
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea 
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony ; 
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
How vain, how worse than vain, at length appear 
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear ! 
He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
Knows not his name, or but liis death, and birth, 
And desolation ; while his native Greece 
Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
He " wept for worlds to eonquer ! " he who ne'er 
Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 
With even the busy i^orthern Isle unknown, 
"Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne.* 

III. 

But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
AVho, born no king, made monarchs draw his car; 
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings,! 
Treed from the bit, believe themselves with wings. 
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawPd of late, 
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
Yes ! where is he, the champion and the child 
Of all that 's great or little, wise or wild ; 
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were 

thrones ; 
Whose table earth— whose dice Avere human bones ? 
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, J 
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
Sigh to behold the eag-le's lofty rage 
Beduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
Smile to survey the queller of the nations 
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines. 
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines; 
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things. 
Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
Behold tlie scales in which his fortune hangs, 
A surgeon's^ statement, and an earl's || harangues. 
A bust delay 'd,*[ a book refused, can shake 
The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
Is this indeed the tamer of the great, 
Now slave of all could tease or irritate — 
The paltry gaoler** and the prying spy. 
The staring stranger with his note-book nigh ? ff 
Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great; 
How low, how little was this middle state, 
Between a prison and a palace, where 
How few could feel for Avhat he had to bear ! 
Yain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill. 
His food and wine were doled out duly still ; 
Yain was his sickness, never was a clime 
So free from homicide— to doubt 's a crime ; 
And the stiff surgeon, who maintain 'd his cause. 
Hath lost liis place, and gain'd the world's applause. 
But smile— though ^11 the pangs of brain and heart 
Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
Though, save the few fond friends and imaged face 
Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
Xone stand by his low bed— though even the mind 
Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; 

* A sarcophagus, of breccia, supposed to have contained 
the dust of Alexander, which came into the possession of the 
English army, in consequence of the capitulation of Alexan- 
dria, in February, 1803, was presented by Georg-e III. to the 
British Museum. 

+ Sesostris is said, by Diodorus, to have had his chariot 
drawn by eight vanquished sovereigns. 

t Saint Helena. 

§ Mr. Barry O'Meara. II Earl Bathurst. 

1i The bust of Napoleon's son. ** Sir Hudson Lowe. 

++ Captain Bas^l Hall's interesting account of his inter\iew 
with the ex-emperor occurs in his " Voyage to Loo-choo." 
414 



Smile— for the fetter 'd eagle breaks his chain, 
And higher w^orlds than this are his again. J J 

lY. 

How, if that soaring spirit still retain 
A conscious twilight of his blazing reign, 
How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
The little that he was and sought to be ! 
What though his name a wider empire found 
Than his ambition, though with scarce a l30und ; 
Tliough first in glory, deepest in reverse. 
He tasted empire's blessings and its curse; 
Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape; 
How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave. 
The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave! 
Y\^hat though his gaoler, duteous to the last, 
Scarce deem'd the coffin's lead could keep him 

fast. 
Kef using one poor line along the lid, 
To date the birth and death of all it hid ; 
That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
A talisman to all save him who bore : 
The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
Shall hear their sea-boys hail it from the mast ; 
When Yictory's Gallic column shall but rise. 
Like Pompey's pillar, in a desert's skies. 
The rocky isle that holds or held his dust. 
Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
And mighty nature o'er his obsequies 
Do more than niggard envy still denies. 
But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 
Toucli the freed spirit or the fetter'd dust ? 
Small care hath he of what his tomb consists ; 
iSTought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists: 
Alike the better-seeing shade will smile 
On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, . 
As if his ashes found their latest home 
In Rome's Pantheon or Gaul's mimic dome. 
He wants not this; but Prance shall feel the want 
Of this last consolation, though so scant : 
Her honor, fame, and faith demand his bones, 
To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
Or carried onward in the battle's van. 
To form, like Guesclin's §^ dust, her talisman. . 
But be it as it is— the time may come 
His name shall beat the alarm, like Ziska's drum.|i|| 

Y. 

Oh, heaven ! of which he Avas in power a feature ; 
Oh, earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
Thou isle ! to be remember'd long and well, 
That saw'st the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
Ye Alps, which view'd him in his dawning flights 
Hover, the victor of a hiuidred fights ! 
Thou Rome, who saw'st thy Caesar's deeds outdone ! 
Alas ! why pass'd he too the Rubicon— 
The Rubicon of man's awaken 'd rights. 
To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 
Egypt ! from w^hose all dateless tombs arose 
Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, 
And shook within their pyramids to hear 
A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
Like startled giants by ^N'ile's famous flood ; ^1[ 

n Buonaparte died the 5th of May, 1821. 

§§ Guesclin, constable of France, died in the midst of his 
ti'iumphs, before Chateauneuf de Randon, in 1380. The 
English garrison, which had conditioned to surrender at a 
certain time, marched out the day after his death; and the 
commander respectfully laid the keys of the fortress on the 
bier, so that it might appear to have surrendered to his ashes. 

nil John Ziska, a distinguished leader of the Hussites. Et is 
recorded of him, that, in dying, he ordered his skin to be 
made the covering of a drum. The Bohemians hold his mem- 
ory in superstitious veneration. 

UTi At the battle of the pj-ramids, In July, 1798, Buonaparte 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell, 

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand 

To reman ure the uncultivated land ! 

Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 

Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 

Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall ! 

Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 

And falsehood— heirs to all except his fame : 

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell 

First, and but rose to follow ! Ye who dv/ell 

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 

Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd, 

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste, 

Forgetting all thy still-enduring claim, 

Thy lotted people and extinguished name, 

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear. 

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear — 

Kosciusko ! On — on — on — the thirst of war 

Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their czar. 

The half-barbaric Moscow's minarets 

Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets! 

Moscow ! thou limit of his long career. 

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 

To see in vain — lie saw thee — how ? with spire 

And palace fuel to one common fire. 

To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 

The prince his hall— and ^loscow was no more ! - 

Sublimest of volcanoes ! Etna's flame 

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla 's tame ; 

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight 

For gaping tourists, from his hackney 'd height : 

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the flre 

To come, in which all empires shall expire ! 

Thou other element ! as strong and stern, 
To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — 
Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, 
Till fell a hero with each flake of snoAv ; 
How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
Pierce, till hosts perish 'd with a single pang! 
In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ! 
In vain shall France recall beneath lier vines 
Her youth— their blood flows faster than her wines ; 
Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
Her offspring chill'd; its beams are now forsaken. 
Of all the trophies gather'd from the war. 
What shall return ? — the conqueror's broken car I 
The conqueror's yet unbroken heart 1 Again 
The horn of Koland sounds, and not in vain. 
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,* 
Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
Before their sovereign,— sovereign as before ; 
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field. 
And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquish'd yield ; 
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side 
To turn the bear's, and wolf's, and fox's guide; 
And backward to the den of his despair 
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 

said—" Soldiers ! from tlie summit of yonder pyramids forty 
ages behold you." 

* Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great battle of Lutzen, in 
November, 1632. 

+ The Isle of Elba. 

t The well-known motto on a French medal of Benjamin 
Franklin was— 

" Eripuit coelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis." 

§ " To be the first man {not the Dictator), not the Sylia, but 



Oh , ye ! and each, and all 1 Oh, France ! who found 
Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground. 
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
Look'd down o'er trampled Paris ! and thou Isle,t 
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile. 
Thou momentary shelter of his pride. 
Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride! 
Oh, France ! retaken by a single march, 
Whose path was through one long triumphal arcli I 
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo ! 
Which proves how fools may have their fortune too. 
Won half by blunder, half by treachery : 
Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy gaoler nigh — 
Hear ! hear Prometheus from his rock appeal 
To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
A name eternal as the rolling year ; 
He teaches them the lesson taught so long. 
So oft, so vainly— learn to do no wrong I 
A single step into the right had made 
This man the Washington of worlds betray 'd: 
A single step into the wrong has given 
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 
Thereed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod. 
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
His country's Caisar, Europe's Hannibal, 
Without their decent dignity of fall. 
Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
A surer path even to the fame he sought. 
By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
V/hile Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven. 
Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven. 
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth ; % 
While Washington 's a watchword, such as ne'er 
Shall sink while there 's an echo left to air ; | 
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! || 
Alas I why must the same Atlantic wave 
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave. 
Who bursts the chains of millions to renew 
The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own, 
To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 

YI. 

But 'twill not be— the spark 's awaken'd— lo ! 
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
Through eight long ages of alternate gore 
Revives — and where '? in that avenging clime . 
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime. 
Where Cortes' and Pizarro 's banner flew. 
The infant world redeems her name of "JVew;." 
'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
To kindle souls within degraded flesh. 
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 
Where Greece was—^o ! she still is Greece no more. 
One common cause makes myriads of one breast. 
Slaves of the east, or helots of the west ; 
On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl 'd, 
The self -same standard streams o'er either Avorld : 
The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ;^ 
The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord; 



the Washington, or Aristides, the leader in talent and truth, 
is to be next to the Divinity."— Byro?i Diary. 

II Simon Bolivar, the liberator of Colombia and Peru, died 
at San Pedro, December, 1830, of an illness brought on by ex- 
cessive fatigue and exertion. 
t The famous hymn, ascribed to Callistratus :— 
" Cover'd with myrtle- wreaths, I '11 wear my sword 
Like brave Harmodius, and his patriot friend 
Aristogeiton, who the laws restored. 
The tyrant slew, and bade oppression end," etc., etc. 
415 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek, 

Youn^ Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique; 

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore, 

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar; 

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 

Sweep slightly by the half -tamed land of France, 

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and w^ould fain 

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 

Break o'er th' ^geaii, mindful of the day 

Of Salamis ! — there, there the waves arise, 

Xot to be lull'd by tyrant victories. 

Lone, lost^ abandon'd in their utmost need 

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, 

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile. 

The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey ; — 

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can 

show 
The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 
^'ot the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
How should the autocrat of bondage be 
The king of serfs, and set' the nations free? 
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
Tlian swell the Cossack's prowling caravan ; 
Better still toil for masters, than await, 
The slave of slaves, before a Kussian gate,— 
^umber'd by hordes, a human capital, 
A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
While their immediate owner never tastes 
Llis sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes: 
Better succumb even to their own despair, 
And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 

YII. 

But not alone within the hoariest clime 

Where Freedom dates her birth witli that of Time, 

And not alone where, plunged in niglit, a crowd 

Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 

The dawn revives : renown 'd, romantic Spain 

Holds back the invader from her soil again. 

Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 

Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword; 

iSTot now the Vandal or the Visigoth 

Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both ; 

Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 

The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 

That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor 

Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 

Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 

Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage ; 

The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they 

sprung. 
But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their 

sway. 
Yet left more anti-christian foes than they ; 
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest. 
The Inquisition, with her burning feast, 
The faith's red " auto," fed vvith human fuel, 
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel. 
Enjoying, with inexorable eye. 
That fiery festival of agony ! 
The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 
By turns ; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth ; 



* " Santiago y serra Espafia !" the old Spanish war-cry. 

+ The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this 
weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars. 

t The Congress of the sovereigns of Russia, Austria, Prus- 
sia, etc., etc., etc., which assembled at Verona, in the autumn 
of 1832. 

§ Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the 
41G 



The long degenerate noble ; the debased 

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced. 

But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 

The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 

The once impervious phalanx disarray 'd ; 

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 

The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore ; 

The very language which might vie with Rome's, 

And once was known to nations like their homes, 

Neglected or forgotten :— such was Spain ; 

But such she is not, nor sliall be again. 

These worst, these home invaders "felt and feel 

The new JSTumantine soul of old Castile. 

ITp ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 

Tue bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 

Revive the cry — " lago! and close Spain!"* 

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round. 

And form the barrier which Napoleon found,— 

The exterminating war, the desert plain, 

The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 

The wild sierra, with its wilder troop 

Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop 

For their incessant prey ; th.e desperate wall 

Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ; 

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 

Waving her more than Amazonian blade ; 

The knife of Arragon,t Toledo's steel ; 

The famous lauce of chivalrous Castile ; 

The unerring rifle of the Catalan ; 

The Andalusian courser in the van : 

The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 

And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 

Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 

And win— not Spain, but thine own freedom, 

France ! 

VIII. 
But lo ! a Congress ! % What ! that hallo vf'd name 
Which freed the Atlantic ? May Ave hope the same 
For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise. 
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic ej^es. 
The prophets of young Freedom, summon *d far 
From climes of Washington and Bolivar ; 
Henry, th§ forest-born Demosthenes, 
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; § 
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade. 
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; 
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake. 
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
But who compose this senate of the few 
That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
This consecrated name, till now assign 'd 
To councils held to benefit mankind '? 
Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 
An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape 
Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. 
A pious unity ! in purpose one — 
To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees. 
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed. 
Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
But these, more hungry, must have sometliing 

more. 
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
Ah ! how much happier were good ^sop's frogs 
Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 



American Congress, died in June, 1797. Lord Byron alludes 
to his famous speech in 1765, in which, on saying, " Ctesar 
had his Brutus— Charles the First his Cromwell— and George 
the Third " Henry was interrupted with shouts of "Trea- 
son! treason !! "—but coolly finished the sentence with— 
"George the Third may profit ty their example; if this be 
treason, make the most of it." 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
And crushing nations with a stupid blow; 
All duly anxious to leave little work 
Unto the revolutionary stork. 

IX. 

Thrice blest Yerona ! since the holy three 

With their imperial presence shine on thee : 

Honor'd by tliem, thy treacherous site forgets 

The vaunted tomb of '' all the Capulets ; " * 

Thy Scaligers— for what was " Dog the Great," 

" Can Grande "t (which I venture to translate), 

To these sublinier pugs ? Thy poet too, 

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 

And Dante's exile shelter 'd by thy gate ; 

Thy good old man, w^hose w^orld Vv^as all wdthin 

Thy w^all, nor knew^ the country held iiira in : 

Would that tlie royal guests it girds about 

Were so far like, as never to get out ! 

Ay, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 

To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 

Crowd to tlie theatre with loyal rage, 

The comedy is not upon the stage : 

The show is rich in ribbonry and stars. 

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 

Tor thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free ! 

X. 

Resplendent sight ! Behold the coxcomb Czar, J 
Tlie autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
A Calnmck beauty with a Cossack wit. 
And generous s])irit, when 't is not frost-bit ; 
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw. 
But harden 'd back whene'er the morning 's raw ; 
With no objection to true liberty. 
Except that it would make the nations free. 
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! 
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece ! 
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
Tiien told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain! 
How royally show off in proud Madrid 
His goodly person, from the Soutli long hid! 
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son ! 
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on ; 
And that which Scythia was to him of yore 
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth. 
Thy predecessor on the banks of Prutli ; 
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 
Many an old woman, but no Catherine.? 
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles— 
The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
]>etter reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords 
To ploughshares, shave and w^ash thy Bashkir 
hordes, 

* " I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is wonder- 
ful—beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juliet's story, they 
seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the fact— giving a 
date (1303), and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and 
partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaA^es in it, in a 
wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, now 
ruined to the very graves. The situation struck me as very 
appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their love." — 
Byron Letters, November, 1816. 

tCane I. Delia Scala, surnamed the Great, died in 1339: he 
was the protector of Dante, who celebrated him as "il Gran 
Lombardo." 

27 



Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 

Than follow headlong in the fatal route. 

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 

With thy foul legions. Spain w^ants no manure : 

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 

Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 

But were I not Diogenes, I 'd wander 

Rather a w^orm than such an Alexander! 

Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free ; 

His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 

Still will he holdtiis lantern up to scan 

The face of monarchs for an ''honest man." 

XI. 

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
Of ne 'plus ultra ultras and their band 
Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers 
And tribune, which each orator first clambers 
Before he finds a voice, and wiien 't is found, 
Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ? 
Our British Commons sometimes deign to " hear! " 
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
Even Constant, their sole master of debate, 
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
But this costs little to true Franks, who 'd rather 
Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
What is the simple standing of a sliot, 
To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
AVhen Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction. 
In saying eloquence meant " Action, action I " 

XII. 

But wdiere 's the monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 

Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt? 

Have revolutionary pates risen, 

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison ? 

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops ? 

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? 

Have Carbonaro || cooks not carbonadoed 

Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 

Repletion ? Ah ! in thy dejected looks 

I read all France's treason in her cooks! 

Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say. 

Desirable to be the " Desire " ? 

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hart well's green 

abode, ^ 
Apician table, and Horatian ode. 
To rule a people who will not be ruled. 
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ? 
Ah ! thine w^as not the temper or the taste 
For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed ; 
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best. 
To be a kind host and as good a guest. 
To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
One-half the poet's, all the gourmand's art: 
A scholar always, now and then a wit, 
.\ nd gentle when digestion may permit ; — 
But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee. 

i The emperor Alexander ; who died in 1825. 

§ The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the 
Great bj'' courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans oa 
the banks of the river Pruth. 

II According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, 
during the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the 
Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the 
first that assumed the designation, since familiar all over 
Italy, of " Carbonari " (colliers). 

T Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire— the residence of Louis 
XVIII. during the latter years of the Emigration. 

417 



THE AGE OF BRONZE. 



XIII. 

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 

From a bold Briton in her wonted praise? 

'' Arts— arms— and George— and glory- and the 

isles— 
And happy Britain — wealth — and Freedom's 

smiles — 
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof- 
Contented subjects, all alike tax-i)roof— 
Proud AVellington, with eagle beak so cnrlM, 
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! 

And Waterloo— and trade— and (hush I not yet 

A syllable of imposts or of debt) 

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day — 
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm '- — 
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Re- 
form)." 
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
Methinks we need not sing tliem any more ; 
Found in so many volumes far and near. 
There 's no occasion you should lind them here. 
Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
AVith reason, and, what 's stranger still, with rhyme. 
Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit. 
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame 
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame : 
Our last, our best, our only orator, 
Even I can praise thee— Tories do no more : 
Nay, not so much; — they hate thee, man, because 
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's liollo, 
And where he leads tlie duteous pack will follow : 
But not for love mistake their yelling cry ; 
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; 
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, 
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; f 
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last 
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
AVith his great self and rider in the mud ; 
But what of that ? the animal shows blood. 



XIV. 

Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
Bewail her now twicountry gentlemen ? 
Tlie last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 
The first to make a malady of peace. 
For what were all these country patriots born ? 
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 
He was your great Triptolemus ; his vices 
Destroy 'd but realms, and still maintain 'd your 

prices ; 
He amplified to every lord's content 
Tlie grand agrarian alchemy, high rent. 
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
Tlie man was worth much more upon his throne. 
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
13 ut what of that ? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; 
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
And acres told upon the appointed day. 



* "The Pilot that Aveather'd the storm " is the burthen of 
a song, in honor of Pitt, by Mr. Canning. 

+ On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in August, 1822. Mr. 
Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as governor- 
general, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs,— 
not much, it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction of 
418 



But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail? 
The farm which never yet was left on hand ? 
The marsh reclaim 'd to most improving land ? 
The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
The doubling rental ? What an evil 's peace ! 
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
The landed interest— {yon may understand 
The phrase much better leaving out the land)— 
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 
For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes. 
Or else the ministry will lose their votes, 
And patriotism, so delicately nice. 
Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry. 
And nought remains of all the millions spent, 
Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
They who are not so, had their turn — and turn 
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn; 
Kow let their virtue be its own reward, 
And share the blessings which themselves pre- 
pared. 
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm. 
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; 
Tlieir ploughshare was the sw^ord in hireling hands. 
Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
Their brethren out to battle— why ? for rent ! 
Year after year they voted cent, per cent.. 
Blood, sweat, and tear- wrung millions— why ? for 

rent ! 
They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore 

they meant 
To die for England — why then live ? — for rent ! 
The peace has made one general malcontent 
Of these high-market patriots ; war was rent ! 
Their love of country, millions all misspent, 
How reconcile ? by reconciling rent ! 
And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
No : down with everything, and up with rent ! 
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 
Being, end, aim, religion, — rent, rent, rent ! 
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess; 
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ; 
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands 
Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war. 
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar I 
What ! would they spread their earthquake even 

o'er cash ? 
And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 
And found on 'Change a Fundliny Hospital ? 
Lo ! Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; 
The prelates go to — where the saints have gone. 
And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
Church, state, and faction, wTestle in the dark, 
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. 
Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, 
Another Babel soars— but Britain ends. 
And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants. 
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
" Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise; " 
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride. 
The price of taxes and of homicide ; 

George the Fourth, or of the high Tories in the cabinet. He 
lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet— to aban- 
don the foreign policy of his predecessor— to break up the 
Tory party by a coalition with the Whigs— and to prepare 
the way for Reform iu Parliament. 



THE AGE OF BRONZE, 



Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
The debt of nations :— pray, wlio made it high ? 

XV. 

Or turn to sail between tliose shifting rocks, 

The new Symplegades— the crushing Stocks, 

Where Midas might again his wish behold 

In real paper or imagined gold. 

That magic palace of Alcina shows 

More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 

Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, 

And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 

There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake, 

And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 

How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines. 

Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines ; 

Xo land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 

Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 

But let us not to own the truth refuse, 

Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 

Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 

And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 

All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, 

And waft a loan "from Indus to the pole." 

The banker — broker — baron* — brethren, speed 

To aid tliese bankrupt tyrants in their need. 

Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 

Fresh speculations follow each success; 

And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 

Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. 

Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march; 

'T is gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 

Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 

In eyery realm their scripture-promised land :— 

Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 

The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 

Two Jews— but not Samaritans — direct 

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 

What is the happiness of earth to them ? 

A congress forms their "New Jerusalem," 

Where baronies and orders both invite — 

Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 

Thy followers mingling with these royal swine. 

Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 

But honor them as portion of the show — 

(Where now, oh. Pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 

Could it not favor Judah with some kicks ? 

Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks " V) 

On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." 

XVI. 

Strange sight this congress ! destined to unite 

All that 's incongruous, all that 's opposite. 

I speak not of the sovereigns — they 're alike, 

A common coin as ever mint could strike ; 

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 

AVhile Europe wonders at the vast design : 

There Metternich, power's foremost parasite. 

Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight; 

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;t 

And subtle GreeksJ intrigue for stupid Tartars ; . 

There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, § 

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat. 

To furnish articles for the " Debats; " 

* The head of the illustrious house mf. Montmorenci has 
usually been designated "le premier baron Chretien;" his 
ancestor having-, it is supposed, been the first nobie convert 
to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the 
well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of 
Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon 
after the latter had been ennobled by the emperor of Austria, 
is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron 
Jxiif to M. le pretnier baron Clirttien. 

+ Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the au- 



Of war so certain— yet not quite so sure 
As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 
Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? 
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again, 
"Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain. "|| 

XVII. 

Enough of this— a sight more mournful woos 
The averted eye of the reluctant muse. 
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride ; 
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy. 
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen ; 
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour. 
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 
Her fitter place was by Saint Helen's wave, 
Her only throne is in 'Napoleon's grave. 
But, no— she still must hold a petty reign, 
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ; 
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 
What though she share no more, and shared in 

vain, 
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
Whicli swept from Moscow to the southern seas! 
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
Where Parma views the traveller resort, 
To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn— 
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold ;— 
But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould ;) 
She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 
Nor Homer's,)— Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 
Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through. 
Is offer'd and accepted ! Could a slave 
Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 
Her eye, her clieek, betray no inward strife. 
And the ex-empress grows as ex a wife ! 
So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 

XVIII. 
But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home. 
And sketch the group — the picture 's yet to come. 
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt. 
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 
Wliile throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan 
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar. 
While all the Common Council cry " Claymore ! " 
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt 
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt, 
She burst into a laughter so extreme. 
That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 

Here, reader, will we pause :— if there 's no harm in 
This first— you'll have, perhaps, a second "Car- 
men." 

thor in the minister, received a handsome compliment at 
Verona from a literary sov^ereign: "Ah! Monsieur C, are 
you related to that Chateaubriand who— who— who has writ- 
ten something?" (ecvit quelque chose !) It is said that the au- 
thor of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. 

* Count Capo d'Istrias, afterwards president of Greece. 
The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother 
and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned. 

§ The Duke de Montraorenci-Laval. 

li LFrom Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough.] 
419 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



1807-1824. 



THE ADIEU, 

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE 
AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. 

Adieu, thou Hill I* where early joy 

Spread roses o'er my brow ; 
Where Science seeks each loitering boy 

With knowledge to endow. 
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes, 
Partners of former bliss or woes; 

Xo more through Ida's paths we stray; 
Soon must I share the gloomy cell. 
Whose ever-slumberiiig inmates dwell 

IJnconscious of the day. 

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, 

Ye spires of Granta's vale. 
Where Learning robed in sable reigns, 

And Melancholy pale. 
Ye comrades of the jovial hour. 
Ye tenants of the classic bower, 

On Cama's verdant margin placed. 
Adieu ! while memory still is mine. 
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine, 

These scenes must be effaced. 

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime 

Where grew my youthful years ; 
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime 

His giant summit rears. 
Why did my childhood wander forth 
From you, ye regions of the North, 

With sons of pride to roam ? 
Why did I quit my Highland cave, 
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave, 

To seek a Southern home ? 

Hall of my Sires ! a long farewell- 
Yet why to thee adieu ? 
Thy vaults will echo back my knell, 

Tiiy towers my tomb will view : 
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, 
And former glories of thy HalLt 

Forgets its wonted simple note- 
But yet the Lyre retains the strings, 
And sometimes, on ^olian wings. 
In dying strains may float. 

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, 

While yet I linger here, 
Adieu ! you are not noAV forgot, 

To retrospection dear. 
Streamlet It along whose rippling surge 
My youthful limbs were wont to urge 



* Harro.w. 

t The river Grete, at Southwell. 
420 



t See ante, pp. 305, 336. 



At noontide heat their pliant course ; 
Plunging with ardor from the sliore, 
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more, 

Deprived of active force. 

And shall I liere forget the scene. 

Still nearest to my breast ? 
Rocks rise and rivers roll between 

The spot which passion blest ; 
Yet, Mary,^ all thy beauties seem 
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, 

To me in smiles display 'd : 
Till slow disease resigns his prey 
To Death, the parent of decay, 

Thine image cannot fade. 

And thou, my Friend !1| whose gentle love 

Yet thrills my bosom's chords. 
How much thy friendship was above 

Description's power of words ! 
Still near my breast thy gift I wear 
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear, 

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem ; 
Our souls were equal, and our lot 
In that dear moment quite forgot ; 

Let Pride alone condemn I 

All, all is dark and cheerless now^ ! 

'No smile of Love's deceit 
Can warm my veins with wonted glow. 

Can bid Life's pulses beat : 
Not e'en tlie liope of future fame 
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame. 

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. 
Mine is a short Inglorious race,— 
To humble in the dust my face. 

And mingle with the dead. 

Oh, Fame ! thou goddess of my heart ; 

On him who gains thy praise. 
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, 

Consumed in Glory's blaze; 
But me she beckons from the earth, 
My name obscure, uninark'd my birth, 

My life a short and vulgar dream : 
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd, 
My hopes recline within a shroud, 

My fate is Lethe's stream. 

When I repose beneath the sod, 

Unheeded in the clay. 
Where once my playful footsteps trod. 

Where now my head must lay, 
The meed of Pity will be shed " 
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, 

§ Mary Duff. See ante, p. 337, note* 
U Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



By nightly skies, and storms alone ; 
Xo mortal eye will deign to steep 
With tears the dark sepulchral deep 

Which hides a name unknown. 

Forget this world, my restless sprite, 

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven : 
There must thou soon direct thy flight, 

If errors are forgiven. 
To bigots and to sects unknown. 
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; 

To him address thy trembling prayer : 
He, who is merciful and just. 
Will not reject a child of dust, 

Although his meanest care. 

Father of Light ! to thee I call ; 

My soul is dark within : 
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert the death of sin. 
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star. 
Who calm'st the elemental war. 

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky. 
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; 
And, since I soon must cease to live. 

Instruct me how to die. 

[1807. First published, 1832.] 



TO A VAIN LADY. 

All, heedless girl ! why thus disclose 
What ne'er was meant for other ears ? 

Why thus destroy thine own repose. 
And dig the source of future tears ? 

Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid. 
While lurking envious foes will smile, 

For all the follies thou hast said 
Of those who spoke but to beguile. 

Yain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, 
If thou believ'st what striplings say : 

Oh, from the deep temptation fly, 
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. 

Dost thou repeat, in childish boast. 
The words man utters to deceive ? 

Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, 
If thou canst venture to believe. 

While now amongst thy female peers 
Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, 

Canst thou not mark the rising sneers 
Duplicity in vain would veil ? 

These tales in secret silence hush. 
Nor make thyself the public gaze: 

What modest maid without a blush 
Kecounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? 

Will not the laughing boy despise 
Her who relates each fond conceit — 

Wlio, thinking heaven is in her eyes, 
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? 

For she who takes a soft delight 
These amorous notliings in revealing, 

Must credit all we say or write. 
While vanity prevents concealing. 

Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign ! 

No jealousy bids ine reprove : 
One, who is thus from nature vain, 

I pity, but I cannot love. 

[January 15, 1807. First published, 1832. 



TO ANNE. 

Oh, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous : 
I thought from my wrath no atonement could 
save you ; 

But woman is made to command and deceive us— 
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. 

I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you. 
Yet thought that a day's separation was long ; 

When we met, I determined again to suspect you — 
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was 
wrong. 

I swore, in a transport of young indignation, 
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain j^ou: 

I saw you— my anger became admiration ; 
And now all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain 
you. 

With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the conten- 
tion! 
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ; 
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, 
Be false, my sweet Anne, wiien I cease to adore 
you! 

[Januai-y 16 18o7. First published, 1832.] 



TO THE SAME. 

Oh, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de- 
creed 
The heart which adores you should wish to dis- 
sever ; 
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,— 
To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. 

Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone 
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; 

By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown. 
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. 

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, 
The rage of the tempest united must weather ; 

My love and my life were by nature design'd 
To flourish alike, or to perish together. 

Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have de- 
creed 

Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; 
Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, 

His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 

[1S07. First published, 1832.1 



TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET 
BEGINNING, 

'sad is my verse,' you say, 'and yet no 

TEAR.' " 

Thy verse is " sad " enough, no doubt : 
A devilish deal more sad than witty ! 

Why we should weep I can't find out, 
Unless for Hiee we weep in pity. 

Yet there is one I pity more ; 

And much, alas! I think he needs it; 
For he, I 'm sure, will suffer sore, 

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. 

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, 
May once be read — but never after : 

Yet their effect 's by no means tragic. 
Although by far too dull for laughter. 
421 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



But would you make our bosoms bleed, 
And of no common pang complain— 

If you would make us weep indeed. 
Tell us, you 11 read them o'er again. 

IMarch S, 1807. First piiblix/ieJ, 1832.] 



ON FI^^'DING A FAN. 

In one who felt as once he felt, 

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame 
But now his heart no more will melt. 

Because that heart is not the same. 

As when the ebbing flames are low. 
The aid which once improved tlieir light, 

And bade them burn with fiercer glow. 
Now quenches all their blaze in night. 

Thus has it been with passion's fires— 
As many a boy and girl remembers — 

"While every hope of love expires, 
Extinguish 'd with the dying embers. 

The first, though not a spark survive, 
Some careful hand may teach to burn ; 

The last, alas! can ne'er survive: 
No touch can bid its warmth return. 

Or, if it chance to wake again, 
Not always doom'd its lieat to smother. 

It sheds (so" wayward Fates ordain) 
Its former warmth" around another. 

[1807. First published, 1832.] 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 

Thou Power ! who hast ruled me through infancy's 
days. 
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should 
part ; 
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays. 
The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, 
* Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to 

sing ; 
The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to 

soar, 
Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. 

Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing Lyre, 
Yet even these themes are departed for ever ; 

No more beam the eyes which my dream could 
inspire. 
My visions are flown, to return, — alas! never. 

AVhen drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the 
bowl, 
How vain is the effort delight to prolong ! 
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, 
, AVhat magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone. 
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? 

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? 
Ah, no ! for those hours can no longer be mine. 



* Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, 
planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that 
as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting- the abbey, 
during Loi"d Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found 
the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;— hence 
these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman (the proprietor) 
took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant 
who -was with him, '• Here is a fine young oak ; but it must be 
422 



Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to 
love y 

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! 
But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 

Wlien 1 scarcely can hope to behold them again? 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have 
done. 

And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? 
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone ! 

For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires ! 

Untouch'd, then, my Lj^e shall reply to the blast— 
'T is husli'd ; and my feeble endeavors are o'er ; 

And those who have heard it will pardon the past. 
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate 
no more. 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, 
Since early affection and love are o'ercast : 

Oh ! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, 
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the 
last. 

Farewell, my young Muse ! since we now can ne'er 
meet ; 

If our songshave been languid, they surely are few ; 
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet— 

The present— which seals our eternal Adieu. 

[1807. First published, 1832.] 



TO' AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD* 

Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the 
ground, 
I hoped that thy days would be longer than 
mine ; 
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish 
around, 
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with 
pride : 
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears, — 
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can 
hide. 

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ; 

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, 
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. 

Oh ! hardy thou wert— even now little care 
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds 
gently heal : 
But thou wert not fated affection to share— 
For who could suppose that a stranger would 
feel ? 

Ah. droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while ; 

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run. 
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, 

AVhen Infancy's years of probation are done. 

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds. 
That clog thv voung growth, and assist thy decay, 

For still in thy boeom are life's early seeds, 
And still may thy branches their beauty display. 

cut down, as it grows in an linproper place."—" I hope not, 
sir," replied the man ; " for it 's the one that my lord was so 
fond of, because he set it himself." The colonel, of course, 
took every possible care of it. It is inquired after, by 
strangers, as "the Byron oak," and promises to share, in 
after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and 
Pope's willow. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 
Though /shall lie low in the cavern of death. 

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, 
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. 

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave 
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; 

While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, 
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. 

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, 
Tie will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. 

Oh ! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : 
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. 

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing 
prime. 

Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay. 
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time 

Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 

11807. First published, 1832.'] 



OJSr REVISITING HARROW,'^ 

Here once engaged the stranger's view 
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 

Few were her words,— but yet, though few, 
Resentment's hand the line defaced. 

Deeply she cut— but not erased, 
The characters were still so plain. 

That Friendship once return 'd, and gazed, — 
Till Memory hail'd the words again. 

Repentance placed them as before ; 

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
So fair the inscription seem'd once more, 

Tliat Friendship thouglit it still the same. 

Thus might the Record iiow have been ; 

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor, 
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 

And blotted out the line for ever ! 

ISeptember, 1807.] 



EPITAPH OJSi JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTH- 
WELL, 

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKE?^NESS. 

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
He carried so much, and he carried so fast, 
He could carry no more— so was carried at last ; 
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one. 
He could not carry off, so he 's now carri-on. 

ISeplember, 1807.] 

TO MY SOJSr.f 

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, 
Bright as thy mother's in their hue ; 
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play 
And smile to steal the heart away, 
Recall a scene of former joy. 
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! 



* Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author 
eng-raved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few 
additional words, as a memorial. Afterwai'ds, on receiving' 
some real or imagined injury, the author destroj^ed the frail 
record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 
1807, he wrote under it these stanzas. 

+ " Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on 
facts, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as 
Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, 
such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, 



And thou canst lisp a father's name— 
Ah, William, were thine own the same, — 
No self-reproach— but, let me cease — 
My care for thee shall purchase peace ; 
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, 
And pardon all the past, my Boy! 

Her lowly grave the turf has prest. 

And thou hast known a stranger's breast. 

Derision sneers upon thy birth. 

And yields thee scarce a name on earth ; 

Yet shall not these one hope destroy, — 

A Father's heart is thine, my Boy ! 

Why, let the world unfeeling frown. 
Must I fond Nature's claim disown? 
Ah, no — though moralists reprove, 
1 hail thee, dearest child of love. 
Fair cherub, pledge of j^outh and joy — 
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy ! 

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, 
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, 
Ere half my glass of life is run, 
At once a brother and a son ; 
And all my wane of years employ 
In justice done to thee, my Boy ! 

Although so young thy heedless sire, 
Youth will not damp parental fire ; 
And, w^ert thou still less dear to me, 
While Helen's form revives in thee. 
The breast, which beat to former joy, 
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy ! 

[1807. First published, 1830.] 



FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST 
PRATER. 

Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For otlier's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft tliy name beyond the sky. 
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can'tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Farewell !— Farewell ! 

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; 

But in my breast and in my brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not by. 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel : 
1 only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel— Farewell !— Farewell ! 

[18G8.] 



BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL, 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 



would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass un- 
mentioned by him ; and yet neither in conversation nor in 
any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On 
the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote,— making 
allowance for the embellishments of fancy,— the transcript 
of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a 
poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted 
for its origin to imagination alone."— MooRE. But see post^ 
Don Juan, canto xvi., stanza Ixi. 

423 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be ; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
When we know that thy God is witli thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be : 
There should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of tliy rest : 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
For why should we mourn for the blest V 

[1S08.] 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 
Half broken-liearted 

To sever for years. 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 
Sank chill on my brow — 

It felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 

The vows are all broken, 
And light is thy fame ; 

I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear ? 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well : — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met— 

In silence I grieve. 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years. 
How should I greet thee ? — 

W^ith silence and tears. 



il8G8.'\ 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Few years have pass'd since tlioii and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name, 

And childhood's gay sincerity 
Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall ; 

And those who once have loved the most 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays. 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's. 
Will view thy mind estranged again. 

If so, it never shall be mine 
To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 
424 



The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee hckle as thou art. 

As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and ilow ; 

And who would in a breast confide, 
Where stormy passions ever glow ? 

It boots not that, together bred. 
Our childish days were days of joy: 

My spring of life has quickly fled : 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth. 
Slaves to the specious world's control, 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrupts the noblest soul. 

■Ay, joyous season ! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 

Wlien thought ere spoke is unconfined. 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years. 
When Man himself is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same. 
We learn at length our faults to blend ; 

And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
aSTor be w^hat all in turn must be ? 

No ; for myself, so dark my fate 
Through every turn of life hath been ; 

Man and the world so much I hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light. 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away ; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
But dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas ! whenever folly calls 
Where parasites and princes meet 

(For cherish 'd first in royal halls 
The welcome vices kindly greet), 

Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 

And still thy trifling lieart is glad 
To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair. 
Still simpering on with eager haste. 

As flies along the gay parterre, 
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. 

But say, what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapors move. 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis-fatuus-gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined. 
Will deign to own a kindred care ? 

AVho will debase his manly mind. 
For friendship every fool may share ? 

In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along ; 
Be something, anything, but— mean. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 
FORMED FROM A SKULL* 

Start not— nor deem my spirit fled ; 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, milike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quaff 'd, like thee: 
I died : let earth my hones resign : 

Fill up— thou canst not injure me ; 
The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
Than nurse tiie earth-worm's slimy brood ; 

And circle in the goblet's shape 
The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, 

In aid of others' let me shine ; 
And when, alas ! our brains are gone. 

What nobler substitute tlian wine ? 

Qnaif while thou canst : another race, 
When thou and thine, like me, are sped, 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace. 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 

Why not ? since through life's little day 
Our heads such sad effects produce ? 

Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

IKewstead Abbey, 1808.'] 



WELL! THOU ART HAPPY A 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's blest — and 'twill impart 
Somen)angs to view his happier lot: 

But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 

When late I saw thy favorite child, 
I thought my jealous heart would break 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it,— and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Mary,. adieu ! I must away : 
While thou art blest I '11 not repine ; 

But near thee I can never stay ; 
My heart would soon again be thine. 



* Lord Byton ^ives the following- account of this cup:— 
"The grardener, in digging-, discovered a skull that had prob- 
ably belonged to some .iolly friar or monk of the at>bey, 
about the time it was demonasteried, Obser\ing it to be of 
giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange 
fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking 
cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a 
verj^ high polish, and of a mottled color like tortoise-shell." 

+ A few days before these lines were written, the poet had 
been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of 
Mrs. Musters (formerly Miss Cbaworth) being brought into 
the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost diffi- 
culty suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that mo- 
ment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas. 

t This monument is still a conspicuous ornarhent in the 
grarden of NeAvstead. The following is the inscription by 
which the verses are preceded : — 



I deem\l that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
My heart in all,— save hope,— the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
My breast would thrill before thy look : 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met,— and not a nerve was shook. 

I saw thee gaze upon my face. 
Yet meet with no confusion there : 

One only feeling couldst thou trace ; 
The sullen calmness of despair. 

Away ! away ! my early dream 
liemembrance never must awake : 

Oh ! vrhere is Lethe's fabled stream ? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 

[Aovember 2. 1808,] 



INSCRIPTION ON TIIE MONUMENT OF 
A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.X 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth. 

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 

And storied urns record who rest below; 

When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 

Not what he was, but what he should have been : 

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 

The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 

Whose honest heart is still his master's own. 

Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 

Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 

Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 

While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven. 

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 

Oh, man ! thou feeble tenant of an houi*, 

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power. 

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust. 

Degraded mass of animated dust ! 

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 

By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 

Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 

Pass on— it honors none you wish to mourn : 

To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 

I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 

[Newstead Abbey, November SO, 1808.] 



TO A LADY, I 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOTl QUITTING 
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger 'd near the gate, 

" Near this spot 
Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
Strength without Insolence, 
Courage without Ferocity, 
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. 
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
If inscribed over human ashes. 
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
BOATSWAIN, a Dog, 
Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 
And died at Newstead Abbey, November 18, 1808." 
§ In the original MS. " To Mrs. Musters," the following is 
an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, writ- 
ten in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for 
Greece :— "Miss Cbaworth was two years older than myself. 
She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but 
425 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Each scene recaird the vanish 'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But, wandering on through distant climes. 
He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady ! will it be with me, 
And I must view thy charms no more; 

For, while I linger near to thee, 
I siglrfor all I knew before. 

In flight I shall be surely v/ise, 
Escaping from temptation's snare ; 

I cannot view my paradise 
AVithout the wish of dwelling there. 

[Decenibe7- 2, 1S08 



REMIND ME NOT, BEMIND ME NOT. 

Remind me not, remind me not, 
Of those beloved, those vanish 'd hours. 
When all my soul was given to thee ; 
Hours that may never be forgot. 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget— canst thou forget. 
When playing with thy golden hair. 
How quick thy fluttering heart did move ? 
Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet. 
With eyes so languid, breast so fair. 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast. 
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach 'd yet raised desire. 
And still we near and nearer prest. 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 

And then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on suow. 

I dreamt last night our love return 'd. 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its fantasy. 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
Eor eyes that ne'er like thine could beam 
In rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not. 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Can still a pleasing dream restore. 
Till thou and I shall be forgot. 
And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which tells that we shall be no more. 



THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT 
NAME. 

There was a time, I need not name, 
Since it will ne'er forgotten be. 

When all our feelings were the same 
As still my soul hath been to thee. 



And from that hour when first thy tongue 
Confess 'd a love which equal! xl mine, 
i Tiiough many a grief my lieart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine. 

None, none hath sunk so deep as tliis— 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss. 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew. 
When late I heard thy lips declare. 

In accents once imagined true. 
Remembrance of the days that were. 

Yes ; my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again. 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 't is a glorious thought to me, 
Nor longer shall my soul repine, 

Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be. 
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



AND WILT 



THOU WEEP 
LOWf 



WHEN I AM 



And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so— 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone. 
My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 

And w^hen I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine : 

And for awliile my sorrovrs cease. 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 

Oh, lady ! blessed be that tear- 
It falls for one who cannot weep ; 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 

But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

S\^eet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so - ■ 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her con- 
duct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sym- 
pathy between their characters. I had not seen her for 
many yeai-s, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, 
with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who 

liaa always had more influence "over me than any one else, j ante, in the Life of the Poet. 
426 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 

A SONG. 

Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its 

core ; 
Let us drink !— who would not ? — since, through 

life's varied round. 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 



persuaded me not to do it. Tor,* said she, 'if you go you 
will fall in love again, and then there Avill be a scene ; one 
step will lead to another, ct celafera un eclat.' I was guided 
by those reasons, and shortly after married,— with what suc- 
cess it is useless to say." A portrait of this lady may be seen. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; 
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye : 
I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can 

declare, 
That pleasure existed while passion was there? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its 

spring. 
And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
I liad friends ! — who has not ? — but what tongue 

will avow. 
That friends, rosy wdne ! are so faithful as thou ? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never 

canst change ;' 
Thou grow'st old — ^who does not? — ^but on earth 

what appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its 

years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 

Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 

We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou hast no such 

alloy ; 
For the more that enjoy thee, the more w^e enjoy. 

Then, the season of youth and its vanities past. 
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
There we find — do we not ?— in the ttcnvof the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left — was she not V— but the goblet we 

kiss. 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 

J^ong life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, 

The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: 

We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be 

forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



STANZAS TO A LADY^ ON LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

'T IS done — and shivering in the gale 
Tlie bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the freshening blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be w^hat I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen— 
Could I repose upon tlie breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest — 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'T is long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again : 
For tliougli I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate : 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face. 
And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

♦ In the orig-inal, "To Mrs. Musters." 



And I will cross the whitening foam, 
And I will seek a foreign liome ; 
Till I forget a false fair face, 
I ne'er si i all find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun. 
But ever love, and love but one. 

The poorest, veriest wTetch on earth 
Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
But friend or leman I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee. 
There 's not an eye will weep for me; 
There 's not a kind congenial heart, 
AVhere I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, wiio hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene. 

Of wiiat M^e are, and what we 've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe — 

But mine, alas! has stood the blow ; 

Yet still beats on as it begun. 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see. 
And why that early love was cross'd, 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most : 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too, 
With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
And I would fain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one. 

'T would soothe to take one lingering view, 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his j^outh are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 

11809.\ 



LINES TO MR. HODGSON. 

W^RITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. 

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, 

Our embargo 's off at last ; 
Favorable breezes blowing 

Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 
From aloft the signal 's streaming, 
Hark ! the farew^ell gun is fired ; 
AVomen screeching, tars blaspheming. 
Tell us that our time 's expired. 
Here 's a rascal 
Come to task all. 
Prying from the custom-house ; 
Trunks unpacking. 
Cases cracking. 
Not a corner for a mouse 
'Scai)es unsearch'd amid the racket. 
Ere we sail on board the Packet. 

Now our boatmen quit their mooring. 
And all hands must ply the oar; 

Baggage from the quay is low^ering, 
We 're impatient, push from shore. 

" Have a care ! that case holds liquor — 
Stop the boat— I 'm sick— oh, Lord I "' 
427 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



*' Sick, 11^1^1111, damme, you '11 be sicker, 
Ere you 've been an hour on board." 
Thus are-screaming 
Men and women, 
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; 
Here entangling. 
All are wrangling. 
Stuck together close as wax.— 
Such the general noise and racket, 
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. 

Xow we 've reach 'd her, lo ! the captain, 

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; 
Passengers their berths are clapt in, 

Some to grumble, some to spew. 
" Heyday ! call you tliat a cabin ? 

Wiiy 't is hardly three feet square : 
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in— 
Who the deuce can harbor there?" 
"Who, sir? plenty— 
Xobles twenty 
Did at once my vessel fill." — 
"Did they? Jesus, 
How you squeeze us I 
Would to*^God they did so still : 
Then I 'd 'scape the heat and racket 
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet." 

Fletcher ! Murray ! Bob ! * where are you ? 

Stretch 'd along- the deck like logs- 
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you ! 

Here 's a rope's end for the dogs. 
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, 

As the hatchway down he rolls, 
Now his breakfast, now his verses. 
Vomits forth— and damns our souls. 
" Here 's a stanza 
On Braganza— 
Help ! "— " A couplet ? "— " No, a cup 
Of warm water " — 
" What 's the matter ? " 
" Zounds ! my liver 's coming up ; 
I shall not survive the racket 
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet." 

Now at length we 're off for Turkey, 

Lord knows when we shall come back ! 
Breezes foul and tempests murky 

May unship us in a crack. 
But, since life at most a jest is. 

As philosophers allow. 
Still to laugh by far the best is. 
Then laugh on — as I do now. 
Laugh at all tilings, 
Great and small things. 
Sick or well, at sea or shore ; 
While we 're quailing, 
Let 's have laughing— 
Who the devil cares for more ? — 
Some good wine! and who would lack it, 
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ? 

[FaJraoulh Roads, June 30, 1S09. 
First published. ISSO j 



* Lord Byron's three servants. 

•♦•These lines were written at Malta. The lady to -whom 
they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophizes 
in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza, (see page 4291. 
and in Chiide Harold (see page 15). is thus mentioned in a let- 
ter to his mother :— " This letter is committed to the charge 
of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless 
heard of. Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis 
de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has 
since been shipwrecked : and her life has been from its com- 
mencement so fertile in remarkable incideats, that in a ro- 
mance they Avould appear improbable. She was born at Con- 
stantinople, -where her father. Baron Herbert, was Austrian 

428 



LINES WBITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT 
MALTA. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
Some name arrests the passer-by ; 

Thus, when thou view'st tliis page alone, 
May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 

And when by thee that name is read. 
Perchance in some succeeding year, 

Reflect on me as on the dead. 
And think my heart is buried here. 

[Sepiember Ik, 1809.\ 



TO FLORENCES 

Oh, Lady! when I left the shore, 
The distant shore which gave me birth, 

I hardly thought to grieve once more 
To quit another spot on earth : 

Yet here, amidst this barren isle. 
Where panting Nature droops the head, 

Where only thou art seen to smile, 
I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albion's craggy shore, 

Divided by the dark blue main ; 
A few, brief, rolling, seasons o'er, 

Perchance I view her cliffs again : 

But wheresoe'er I now may roam. 
Through scorching clime, and varied sea. 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 

On thee, in whom at once conspire 
All charms which heedless hearts can move 

Whom but to see is to admire. 
And, oh ! forgive the word— to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend ; 

And since thy heart I cannot share. 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee. 
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 

Nor be, what man should ever be. 
The friend of Beauty in distress ? 

Ah! who would think that form had pass'd 
Through Danger's most destructive path, 

Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast. 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? 

Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose. 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 

That glorious city still shall be ; 
On me 't will hold a dearer claim. 

As spot of thy nativity : 



ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been im- 
peached in point of character; excited the vengeance of 
Buonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several 
times risked her life ; and is not yet ftve-and-twentJ^ She is 
I here on her ^vay to England to join her husband, being 
j obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a \isit to her 
mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in 
j a ship of war. Since my arrival here 1 have had scarcely any 
I other companion. I have found her very pretty, very ac- 
1 complished, and extremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even 
1 now so incensed against her, that her life would be in danger 
I if she were taken prisoner a secoud time." 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wondrous scene. 

Since where thon art I may not dwell, 
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 

\Septemher , 18i 



STANZAS 



COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.* 

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 

Where Pindus' mountains rise. 
And angry clouds are pouring fast 

The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost. 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crost, 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 

Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom- 
How welcome were its shade !— ah, no ! 

'T is but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name. 

A shot is fired— by foe or friend ? 

Another— 't is to tell 
The mountain peasants to descend, 

And lead us where tiiey dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 

Our signal of distress ? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise 

To try the dubious road ? 
Nor rather deem from nightly cries 

That outlaws were abroad. 

Clouds burst, skies ilash, oh, dreadful hour ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ! 
Yet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm. 

While wand 'ring through each broken path, 

O'er brake and craggy brow; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

liot on the sea, not on the sea. 

Thy bark hath long been gone : 
Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 

Bow down my head alone! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When last I press 'd thy lip ; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship. 

Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 

Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
'T were hard if aught so fair as thou 

Should linger on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 

* This thunder-storm occurred during- the night of the 11th 
October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to 
Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, 



Do thou, amid the fair white walls. 

If Cadiz yet be free. 
At times from out her latticed halls 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by ; 
To others give a thousand smiles, 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace. 

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
Nor own for once thou thought 'st on one, 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen. 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; 

And on these waves, for Egj^t's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look. 
The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence ! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), 

Wiiilst thou art fair and I am young ; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times. 
When Avorlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Tliy charms might raise new Antonies. 

Though Fate forbids such things to be. 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee. 
But would not lose thee for a world. 

[November lU 1809.] 



THE SPELL IS BUOKE, THE CHAR 31 IS 
FLOWN! 

W^RITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 

Thus is it with life's fitful fever: 
We madly smile when we should groan ; 

Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 
Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 

And he that acts as wise men ought. 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 

in Albania. The " Florence " alluded to was Mrs. Spencer 
Smith of the two pre\ious poems and in Childe Harold. 

429 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
SESTOS TO ABYBOS^ 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was iiightlj'^ wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember ?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, nothing loth. 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

For 77? e, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial month of May, 

My dripping limbs I faintly stretch. 
And think I 've done a feat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 

According to the donbtful story. 
To woo, and — Lord knows what beside, 

And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

'T were hard to say who fared tb.e best : 
Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plague yon ! 

He lost his labor, I my jest ; 
For he w^as drown'd, and I 've the agne. 

[May 9, 1810. | 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRA VELLERS' 
BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :— 

" Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE 
FOLLOWING :— 

The modest bard, like many a bard unknown. 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than his verse. 

U8lo.^ 



MAIB OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 

Ttixi-q y.ov, <Ta.<; ayanij}. 

Maid of Athens,! ere we part. 
Give, oh, give me back my heart ; 
Or, since that has left my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 

Z067J fJioi), era? a7a7ra). 

By those tresses unconfined, 
Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; 
By those"^lids whose jetty fringe 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 

ZuLiT) fJ^ov, ffd? ayaTTO). 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist ; 



By all the token-flowers that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 

Zuirj fjiov, <ras ayaTrai. 

Maid of Athens ! I am gone : 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 
Athens holds my heart and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 

Zwr; fJiOVy <rdi ayanu). 

lAthens. 1810. \ 



SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. 

Kind Reader ! take your choice to cry or laugh : 
Here Harold lies — but where 's his Epitaph V 
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view 
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you. 

lAthens.l 



* On the 3d of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain 
Bathurst) was lying- in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Eken- 
head of that frigrate and the writer of these rhj'mes swam 
from the European shore to the Asiatic— by the by, from 
Abydos to Sestos would have been more con-ect. The whole 
distance from the place whence we started to our landing on 
the other side, including- the length we were carried by the 
current, was computed by those on board the frigate at up- 
wards of four English miles. 

430 



TRANSLATION 

OF THE nurse's DOLE IN THE MEDEA OF 
EURIPIDES. 

Oh, how I wish that an embargo 

Had kept in port the good ship Argo ! 

Who, still unlaunch'd from Grecian docks, 

Had never pass'd the Azure rocks ; 

But now I fear her trip will be a 

Damn'd business for my Miss Medea, etc., etc. 

IJune, 1810.^ 

MY EPITAPH. 

Youth, Nature, and relenting Jove, 
To keep my lamp iu strongly strove; 
But Romanelli was so stout. 
He beat all three— and bleiu it out. 

lOdober, 1810.-] 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE 

Dear object of defeated care! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair. 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'T is said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true ; 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 

[Athens, Jamui7ij, 1811.1 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS 
GREEK WAR SONG, 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour 's gone forth. 
And. worthy of such ties. 

Display who gave us birth. 

■V Theresa, the "Maid of Athens," was the daughter of the 
English vice-consul. See ante. Life of Byron and her por- 
trait. 

* The song was written by Riga, who perished in the at^ 
tempt to revolutionize Greece. This translation is as literal 
as the author could make it in verse. It is of the same meas- 
ure as that of the original— AVhile at the Capuchin convent. 
Lord Byron devoted some hours daily to the study t)f the 
Romaic. See Appendix, Note 48. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



CHORUS. 

Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 

Then manfully despising 

The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
Let your country see you rising, 

And all her chains are broke. 
Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Beliold the coming strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And, the seven-hiil'd^ city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally ! 
Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Wlio made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood.' 
And like a lion raging. 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, etc. 



TJIANSLATION OF THE BOMAIC SONG, 

'QpaioTarri XarjSTj," etc. 

I ENTER thy garden of roses. 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes. 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
Winch utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, througli her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers : 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee 

My heart from these horrors to save : 
Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 

Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances. 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel V 

* Constantinople. 



Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me 
cherish. 

For torture repay me too well ? 
ISTow sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



ON PABTING. 

The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from m.ine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see : 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast. 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write— to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oil ! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak ? ■ 

By day or night, in weal or woe, 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 



[March. ISll. 



EPITAPH FOB JOSEPH BLACKETT, 

LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER. 

Stranger ! behold, interr'd together, 

The souls of learning and of leather. 

Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: 

You '11 find his relics in a stall. 

His works were neat, and often found 

Well stitch 'd, and with morocco bound. 

Tread lightly — where the bard is laid 

He cannot mend the shoe he made ; 

Yet is he happy in his hole, 

With verse immortal as his sole. 

But still to business he held fast, 

And stuck to Phoebus to the last. 

Then wiio shall say so good a fellow 

Was only " leather and prunella " ? 

For character — he did not lack it ; 

And if he did, 't wTre shame to "Black-it." 

[Malta, May 16. 1811.] 



FABEWELL TO MALTA. 

Adieu, ye joys of La Yalette! 
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! 
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! 
Adieu, ye mansions w^here — I 've ventured! 
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs ! 
(How surely he who mounts you swears !) 
Adieu, ye merchants often failing ! 
Adieu, thou mob forever railing! 
Adieu, ye packets — without letters ! 
Adieu, ye fools— who ape your betters ! 
Adieu, thou damn'dest quarantine, 
That gave me fever, and the spleen ! 
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sire, 
Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 
431 



CCA SIOKA L PIECES. 



Adieu to Peter — whom no fault's in, 
But could not teach a colonel waltzing ; 
Adieu, 5'e females fraught with graces ! 
Adieu red coats, and redder faces ! 
Adieu the supercilious air 
Of ail that strut '' en militaire! " 
I go — but God knows when, or why, 
To smoky towns and cloudy sky, 
To things (the honest trutli to say) 
As bad— but in a different way. 

Farewell to these, but not adieu, 

Triumphant sons of truest blue ! 

Wl)ile either Adriatic shore. 

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, 

And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, 

Proclaim you war and women's winners. 

Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is. 

And take my rhyme — ^because 'tis " gratis." 

And now T 've got to Mrs. Fraser, 
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her — 
And were I vain enough to think 
My praise was worth this drop of ink, 
A line— or two— were no hard matter, 
As here, indeed, I need not flatter: 
But she must be content to shine 
In better praises than in mine, 
With lively air, and open heart. 
And fashion's ease, without its art 
Her hours can gayly glide along, 
Nor ask the aid of idle song. 

And now, oh, Malta ! since thou 'st got us, 
Thou little military hothouse ! 
I '11 not offend with words uncivil, 
And wish thee rudely at the devil. 
But only stare from out my casement. 
And ask, for what is such a place meant ? 
Then, in my solitary nook, 
Return to scribbling, or a book. 
Or take my physic while I 'm able 
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label). 
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver. 
And bless the gods — I 've got a fever. 

[May 26, IS 11. First published , 1832. \ 



TO DIVES. 

A FRAGMENT. 

UxiTAPPY Dives ! in an evil hour 

'Gainst oS'ature's voice seduced to deeds accurst ! 

Or.ce Fortune's minion, now tliou feel'st her power ; 

Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. 

In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, 

How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose ! 

But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd tliirst 

Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close 

In scorn, and solitude unsouglit, the worst of woes. 

lis 11. Firsf. published, 1S32.] 



OX 



MOOBE'S LAST OPEBATIC FABCE, 
OB FABCICAL OPEBA. 

Good plays are scarce, 

So Moore writes farce : 
Tlie poet's fame grows brittle — 

We knew before 

That Little 's Moore, 
But now 'tis Moore that's little. 

[September lU, 1811. First published. 1830.] 



* Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See ante, 
p. 427, and also Life of Byron. 

+ Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing- the exact 
date of these lines, viz., October 11, 1811, writes as follows:— 
432 



EPISTLE TO A FlilEND,'' 

IX ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AU- 
THOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH 
CARE." 

Oh ! " banish care "—such ever be 
Tlte motto of thy revelry ! 
Perchance of r}ime, when wassail nigli 
Benew those riotous delights, 
Wherewith the children of Despair 
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care." 
But not in morn's reflecting hour. 
When present, past, and future lower. 
When all I loved is changed or gone. 
Mock with such taunts the woes of one. 
Whose every thought— but let them pass — 
Thou know'st I am not what I was. 
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold 
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold. 
By all the powers tliat men revere. 
By all unto thy bosom dear. 
Thy joys below, tliy hopes above. 
Speak— speak of anytliing but love. 

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear 
The tale of one who scorns a tear ; 
And there is little in that tale 
Which better bosoms would bewail. 
But mine has suffered more than well 
'T would suit philosophy to tell. 
I 've seen my bride another's bride, — 
Have seen her seated by his side, — 
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 
Wear the sweet smile the motlier wore, 
When she and I in youth have smiled. 
As fond and faultless as her child ; — 
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain. 
Ask if I felt no secret pain ; 
And /have acted well my part. 
And made my cheek belie my heart, 
Return 'd the freezing glance she gave, 
^Tet felt the while that woman's slave ; — 
Have kiss'd, as if without design. 
The babe which ought to have been mine, 
And show'd, alas ! in each caress 
Time had not made me love the less. 

But let this pass — I '11 whine no more. 
Nor seek again an eastern shore ; 
The world befits a busy brain,— 
I '11 hie me to its haunts again. 
But if, in some succeeding year, 
When Britain's " May is in the sere," 
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes 
Suit with the sablest of the times; 
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, 
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ; 
One, who in stern ambition's pride. 
Perchance not blood shall turn aside ; 
One rank'd in some recording page 
With the worst anarchs of the age, 
Him wilt thou know — and knowing/ pause, 
Nor with the effect forget the cause. 

INeustead Abbey, Oct. 11 1811. 
First published. 1830. \ 



TO THYBZAA 

Without a stone to mark the spot. 
And say, what Trutli might well have said. 



" I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one 
verj- dear to me in happier times : but * I have almost forgot 
the taste of g-rief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' till I have 
become callous ; nor have I a tear left for an event which. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
All ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain ; 
The past, tlie future lied to thee, 
To bid us meet^no — ne'er again. 

Could this have been— a w^ord, a look, 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 

Oh ! who like him had watch 'd thee here 
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing ej'e. 

In that dread hour ere death appear. 
When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 

Till all was past I But when no more 
'T was thine to reck of human woe. 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had flow'd as fast— as now they flow. 

Shall they not flow, wdien many a day 

In these, to me, deserted towers, 
Ere call'd but for a time away, 

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 

The smile none else might understand ; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied. 

The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 

The kiss, so guiltless and refined, 
That Love each warmer wash forbore ; 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind. 
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught me to rejoice. 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; 

The song, celestial from thy voice. 
But sweet to me from none but thine ; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still. 
But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou ? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till now ! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 

The cup of woe for me to drain. 
If rest alone be in the tomb, 

I would not wish thee here again ; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere. 
Impart some portion of thy bliss. 

To wean me from mine anguish here. 

Teach me— too early taught by thee ! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 

lOctober 11, i5ii.] 



AWAT, AWAY, YE JS'OTES OF WOE."" 

Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 
Be silent, thou once soothing strain. 



five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." 
Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were writ- 
ten, Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by 
a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to confide, re- 
fused to answer, with marks of painful agitation, such as 
28 



Or I must flee from hence — ^for, oh ! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas ! 
I must not think, I may not gaze, 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more sweet 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are tied ; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart ! 

'T is silent all ! — ^but on my ear 

The well-remember 'd echoes thrill; 
I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still : 
Yet oft my doubting soul 't v,dll shake ; 

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
Till consciousness will vainly wake 

To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep. 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep. 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish 'd ray 

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 

IDeceinber 6, 1S11.1 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free • 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
One last long sigh to love and thee. 

Then back to busy life again. 
It suits me well to mingle now 

With things that never pleased before : 
Though every joy is fled below. 

What future grief can touch me more ? 

Tlien bring me wine, the banquet bring; 

Man w^as not form'd to live alone : 
I '11 be that light, unmeaning thing 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never w^ould have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 

Thou 'rt nothing— all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 

The smile that sorrow fain w^ould wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath. 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill : 
, Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
Eor then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noonv 

When sailing o'er the ^gean wav&„ 
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon " — 

Alas, it gleam 'd upon her grave I 



rendered any further recurrence to the subject impossible. 
The reader must be left to form his own conclusion. The- 
five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza. 

* " 1 wrote this a day or two ago, on hearing a song of 
former days."— iord Byronto Mr. Hodfifson,. December 8, ISIL 

4aa 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



When stretch 'd on fever's sleepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my tlirobbing veins, 
" 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains : *" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave, 

A boon 'tis idle then to give. 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 

My Thyrza 's pledge in better days, 

When love and life alike were new ! 
How different now thou meet'st my gaze ! 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
Tliough cold as e'en the dead can be. 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd ! 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
Oh ! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead ? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! , 

Xo band of friends or heirs be there. 
To weep, or wish, the coming blow : 

;No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near : 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
'^OY startle friendship with a tear. 

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 

Might tlien exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

'T were sv/eet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see : 

Forgetful of its struggles past. 
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 

But vain the wish— for Beauty still 
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath 

And woman's tears, produced at will. 
Deceive in life, uimaan im death.. 

Til en lonely be my latest hour, 
Without regret, without a groan ; 

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

*' Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 

Where all have gone, and all must go ! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe ! 

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been, 
'T is something better not to be. 
434 



y AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 

i AND FAIR. 

\" Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 
meminisse!" 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth ; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare. 

Too soon return 'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed. 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There liowers or weeds at will may grow, 

So I behold them not : 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love. 

Like common eartli can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
'T is Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou. 
Who didst not change through all tlie past, 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal. 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal. 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, v\'hat were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers. 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away 
I might have watch 'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch 'd, 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf. 

Than see it pluck 'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow 'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extinguish'd, not decay 'd; 
As stars that shoot ?Jong the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep. 

My tears might well be shed. 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face. 
To fold thee in a faint embrace. 

Uphold thy drooping liead : 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain. 
Though thou hast left me free, 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity- 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears ' 
Than aught, except its living years. 

IFdM-uary, 1812.] 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF 

MEN. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely liour presents again 

Tlie semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And Sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile. 

Unfaithful to thy memory : 
Kor deem that memory less dear 

That then I seem not to repine ; 
I would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine. 

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd, 

It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
The cup must hold a deadlier draught. 

That brings a Lethe for despair. 
And could Oblivion set my soul 

From all her troubled visions free, 
I 'd dash to earth trie sweetest bowl 

That drown 'd a single thought of thee. 

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
And who would then remain behind 

To honor thine abandon 'd Urn ? 
Ko, no— it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfill : 
Though all the world forget beside, 

'T is meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou : 
And, oh ! I feel in thai was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 

[March U, 1812.-] 



Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since lie who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of Ms oion. 

[JIarch 16, 181i 



FROM THE FBENCIL 

^GLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; 
She makes her own face, and does not make her 
rhymes. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.f 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; 

Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep— for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
liepaid thee by thy people's smiles! 

IMarch, 1812.1 



THE CHAIN I GA YE. 

FROM THE TURKISH. 

The chain I gave was fair to view. 
The lute I added sweet in sound ; 

The heart that offer'd both was true. 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
Thy trutli in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their duty well,— 
Alas ! they could not teach thee tliine. 

That chain was firm in every link. 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet— till thou couldst think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

^VN^ien thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
The chain is broke, the music n:iute. 

'Tis past — to them and thee adieu- 
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. 



ON A COBNELIAN HEABT WHICH WAS 
BROKEN.'' 

Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be, 
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Alike been all employ 'd in vain ? 

* We know not whether the reader should understand the 
cornelian heart of these lines to be the same with that of 
which some notices are given at p. 333. 

+ This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late 
Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that 
the Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, 
at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. The ministerial prints 
raved for two months on end, in the most foul-mouthed 



LINES W BITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 
OF ''THE PLEASUBES OF MEMOBY.'' 

Absent or present, still to thee;- 
My friend, what magic spells belong I 

As all can tell, who share, like me. 
In turn thy converse and tliy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall com.e 
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh. 

And '• Memory " o'er her Druid's tombj 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die. 



vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him— the 
Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of 
Lords— "and all this," Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore, "as 
Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a 
cream tart with pepper: how odd, that eight lines should 
have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand !" 

% The reader will recall Co^lins's exquisite lines on the tomb 
of Thomson : "In yonder grave a Druid lies," etc. 

435 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



How fondly will slie then repay 
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 

A]-d hlend, while ages roll away, 
Her name immortally with thine I 

lApril 19, 1812.1 



ADDFESS, 

SPOKEX AT THE OPEXIXG OF DRURY LAXE THE- 
ATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 

Ix one dread night our city saw, and sigli'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ! 
In one short hour beheld tlie blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld (oh ! sight admired and mourn 'd, 
"Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd I) 
Tlirough clouds of lire the massy fragments riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its reel shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning 

dome, 
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home. 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly si j one 
The skies, with lightnings a^^'ful as their own. 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
Sa}^ — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favor which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you ? 

Yes — it shall be— the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene. 
And bids the Drama he where she hath been : 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
Indulge our honest pride, and say, Hoic tcell! 

As soars this fane to emulate the last. 
Oh ! might we draw our omens from tlie past, 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Xames such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
Overwhelm 'd the gentlest, storm xl the sternest heart. 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : 
But still for living wit the A\Teaths may bloom. 
That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
AVith garlands deck your o^\tli Menander's head, 
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead. 

Dear are the days which made our annals bright. 
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
Heirs to their labors, like ail high-born heirs, 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; 
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as tliey pass. 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause— ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and 
Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Wliose judging voice and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherisli or reject ; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And-made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
436 



All past reproach may present scenes refute. 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws. 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause ; 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
The Drama's liomage by lier herald paid. 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win youi 

ovm. 
The curtain rises— may our stage unfold 
Scenes ]iot unworthy Drury 's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Xature for our guide, 
Still may loe please — long, long may you preside ! 



PABJEXTHETICAL ADDBESS 

BY DR. PLAGIARY, 

Half stolen, -with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an in- 
articulate voice by Master P. at the opening- of the next 
new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted com- 
mas of quotation— thus " ." 

" Whex energizing objects men pursue," 

Then Lord Jinows what is writ by Lord knows who. 

" A modest monologue you here survey," 

HissYl from the theatre" the " other day," 

As if Sir Fretful wrote ''the slumberous " verse, 

And gave his son " the rubbish " to rehearse. 

" Yet at the thing you 'd never be amazed," 

Knew you the rumpus which the author raised : 

■' Xor even here your smiles would be represt," 

Knew you these lines— the badness of the best. 

" Flame I fire I and flame ! I " (words borrow'd from 

Lucretius), 
" Dread metaphors which open wounds " like issues ! 
" And sleeping pangs awake— and— but away" 
(Confound me if I know what next to say). 
" Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
And Master G— recites wliat Doctor Busby sings I— 
" If mighty things witli small we may compare," 
(Translated from the grammar for the fair I) 
Dramatic " spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
''This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
" Another Marlborough points toBlenheim's story," 
And George and I will dramatize it for ye. 

" In arts and sciences our isle hath shone " 

(Tliis deep discovery is mine alone). 

■■ Oh, British poesyj whose powers inspire " 

My verse — or I 'm a fool — and Fame 's a liar, 

" Thee we invoke, j'our sister arts implore" 

With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and 

much more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Bisy races, too ! " inseparable train! " 
" Three who have stolen their witching airs from 

Cupid " 
(You all know what I mean, unless you 're stupid) : 
" Harmonious throng " that I have kept in petto, 
Xow to produce in a " divine sestetto ! ! " 
" AVliile Poesy," with these delightful doxies, 
" Sustains her ]iart " in all the '* upper " boxes ! 
" Thus lifted gloriously, you 'U soar along. 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
" Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play " 
(For this last line George had a holiday). 
" Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so say I. 
" But liold, you say, this self-complacent boast ; " 
Is this the poem which the public lost ? 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



" True — true — that lowers at once our mounting 

pride ; " 
But lo !— the papers print what you deride. 
" 'T is ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'T is twenty guineas, as they advertise ! 
" A double blessing your rewards impart " — 
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 
" Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," 
AVhy son and I both beg for your applause. 
" When in your fostering beams you bid us live," 
My next subscription list shall say how much you 

give! 

iOdoher, 1812.-] 



YEBSES FOUND IN A SUMMER HOUSE 
AT HALES-OWEN.'' 



fool. 



unknowing what he 



When Dryden's 

sought," 
His hours in whistling spent, " for want of 

thought,"! 
This guiltless oaf liis vacancy of sense 
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; 
Did modern swains, possess 'd of Cymon's powers. 
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure liours, 
Th' offended guests would not, wdth blushing, see 
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas I 
When vice and folly mark them as they pass. 
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, 
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 



BEMEMBEB THEE I BEMEMBEB THEE. 

Eemember thee ! remember thee ! 

Till Letlie quench life's burning stream, 
Kemorse and shame shall cling to thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 

Eemember thee ! Ay, doubt it not. 

Thy husband too shall think of thee : 
By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

Thou false to him, ihou fiend to me ! % 



TO TIME. 



Time ! on w^hose arbitrary wing 
The varynig liours must flag or fly, 

AVhose tardy winter, fleeting spring. 
But drag or drive us on to die — 

Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow VI 
Those boons to all that know thee known ; 

Yet better I sustain thy load. 
For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since tliou couldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 
Thy future ills shall press in vain : 

I nothing owe but years to thee, 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief ; 

It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
The active agony of grief 

Retards, but never counts the hour. 



* In Warwickshire. t See Cymon and Iphigenia. 

* A lady actuated by jealousy called on Lord Byron. His 
lordship was from home; but finding "Vathek" on the 



In joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 

Thy cloud could overcast the light. 
But could not add a night to woe ; 

For then, however drear and dark, 
My soul was suited to thy sky ; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee— not Eternity. 

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
A blank; a thing to count and curse, 

Through each dull tedious trifling part. 
Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speed 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile to think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 

Wlien all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TBANSLATION OF A BOMAIC LOVE 

SONG. 

Ah ! Love w^as never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt. 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
W^hich Love around your haunts hath set ; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
But caught within the subtle snare 
I burn, and feebly flutter there. 

WTio ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power. 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 

That pouting lip, and alter 'd eye ? 

My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate ? 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
What wretch with me would barter woe ? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults— while mine is breaking. 



table, the lady wrote in the first page of the volume the 
words " Remember me !" Byron immediately wrote under 
the ominous warning- these two stanzas. 
437 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now 
I 've lived to curse my natal day, 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
Alas I too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



THOU ABT KOT FALSE, BUT THOU 
ART FICKLE. 

Tiiou art not false, but thou art fickle. 
To those thyself So fondly sought ; 

The tears that tliou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 

And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 
But she who not a thought disguises, 

AVliose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
When she can change who loved so truly, 
It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 

A]id if, when conscious on the morrow, 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely. 

What must they feel whom no false vision. 
But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd ? 

All I sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 



OX BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
''OBIGIN OF love:' 

The " Origin of Love ! " — Ah, why 

That cruel question ask of me. 
When thou mayst read in many an eye 

He starts to life on seeing thee ? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know: 
;My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, 

He 11 linger long in silent woe ; 
But live— until I cease to be. 



BEMEMBER HUI WHOM PASSION'S 
POWER. 

EEME3IBER him whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
Bemember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both were loved. 

That yielding breast, that melting eye. 

Too much invited to be bless 'd : 
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh. 

The" wilder wish reproved, repress 'd. 

Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue. 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong. 
And brand a nearlv blighted name. 
"438 



Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: 

I bless thy purer soul even now. 
Even now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God! that we had met in time. 
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; 

When thou hadst loved without a crime. 
And I been less unworthy thee ! 

Far may thy days, as heretofore. 
From this our gaudy world be past ! 

And that too bitter moment o'er. 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last. 

This heart, alas ! perverted long. 
Itself destroy 'd might there destroy; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe. 
Like mine, is Avild and worthless all, 

That world resign— such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath pass'd, may guess 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear. 
Since not by Yirtue shed in vain. 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
For me they shaU not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet ; 

Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
And almost deem the sentence sweet. 

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 

It felt not half so much to part. 
As if its guilt had made thee mine 



ON LORD THUBLOW'S POEMS. 

When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent 

(I hope I am not violent), 

Xor men nor gods knew what he meant. 

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise 

To common sense his thoughts could raise — 

AVhy icoidd they let him print his lays ? 



¥r * * ^ * * 

* * -x- * * * 

To me, divine Apollo, grant — oh ! 
Hermilda's first and second canto, 
I 'm fitting up a new portmanteau ; 

And thus to furnish decent lining, 

My own and otliers' bays I 'm twining— 

So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in. 



TO LOBD THUBLOW, 

" I lay my branch of laurel down. 
Then thus to form ApoUo's crown 
Let everj' other bring his own." 

Lord Uiurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers, 

" I lay my branch of laurel down."" 

Thotj " lay thy branch of laurel down !" 
Why, what tliou 'st stole is not enow ; 

And, were it la^^'fully thine owti. 
Does Rogers want it most, or thou ? 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough, 
Or send it back to Doctor Donne : 

Were justice done to both, I trow. 
He 'd have but little, and thou— none. 

*' Then thus to form ApolWs crown.'''' 

A crown ! why, twist it how you will, 
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. 
When next you visit Delphi's town. 

Inquire amongst your fellow lodgers, 
They '11 tell you Phoebus gave liis crown, 

Some years before your birth, to Kogers. 

" Let every other bring his oion.'''' 

When coals to Newcastle are carried. 

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, 
From his spouse when the Regent 's umnarried. 

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ; 
AVhen Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel. 

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir. 
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, 

x\nd tliou Shalt have plenty to spare. 



TO THOMAS 3100 BE. 

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFOKE IIIS VISIT TO 
MR. LEIGH HUNT IN PlORSEMONGEIl-LANE 
GAOL, MAY 19, 1813. 

On, you, who in all names can tickle tlie town, 
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom 

Brown, — 
For hang me if I know of which you may most 

brag. 
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post 
. Bag; 

75- * * * * -X- * * 

But now to my letter— to yours 't is an answer- 
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir. 
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to sponge on 
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon — 
Pray Plioebus at length our political malice 
May not get us lodgings within the same palace ! 
I suppose tliat to-night you 're engaged with some 

codgers. 
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers ; 
A)id I, though with cold I have nearly my death 

got. 
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heath- 
cote ; 
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the 

Scurrd, 
And you '11 be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 

IFin-t published, 1830.] 



IMPBOMFTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, 

Her dusky shadow inounts too high. 
And o'er the changing aspect Hits, 

And clouds tlie brow, or fills the eye ; 
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 

My thoughts their dungeon know too well; 
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink. 

And droop within their silent cell. 

ISeplemher, 1813.1 



SONNET, TO GENEVRA. 

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the wan lustre of thy features— caught 
From contemplation— where serenely wrought. 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm 'd from its despair- 



Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
Tliat— but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 

1 should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 

With such an aspect, by his colors blent. 
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born 

(Except that thou liast nothing to repent). 
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Sucli seem'st thou— but how much more excellent ! 
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue 

scorn. [Becember 17, 1813.] 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, 
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could thish 
Its rose of wliiteness with the brightest blush. 

My heart would wish away that ruder glow: 

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oli ! 
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
And into mine my mother's weakness rush. 

Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 

For, through tliy long dark lashes low depending, 
The soul of melancholy Gentleness 

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending. 
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 

At once such majesty with sweetness Dlending, 
I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 

[December 17, 1813.] 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 
"tu mi chamas." 

In moments to delight devoted, 
" My life ! " with tenderest tone, you cry; 

Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 
If youth could neitlier fade nor die. 

To death even hours like these must roll, 
Ah ! then repeat those accents never; 

Or change " my life ! " into " my soul ! " 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life. — Oh ! change the word- 
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh : 

Say rather I 'm your soul ; more just that name, 
For, like the soul, my love can never die. 



THE DEVIL'S DRIVE; 

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. 

The devil return 'd to hell by two. 

And he stay'd at home till five ; 
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, 

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew. 
And sausages made of a self -slain Jew— 
And bethought himself what next to do, 

" And," quoth he, " I '11 take a drive. 
I walk'd in tlie morning, I '11 ride to-night ; 
In darkness my children take most delight, 

And I '11 see how my favorites tlirive. 

"And what shall I ride in ? " quoth Lucifer then— 

" If I follow 'd my taste, indeed, 
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men. 

And smile to see them bleed. 
But these will be furnish 'd again and again, 

And at present my purpose is speed ; 
To see my manor as much as I may, 
And watch that no souls shall be poach 'd away. 
439 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



" I have a state-coach at Carlton House, 

A cliariot in Seymour Place ; 
But they 're lent to two friends, who make me 
amends, 

By driving my favorite pace : 
And they handle their reins with such a grace, 
I have something for both at the end of their race. 

" So now for the eartli to take my chance : " 

Then up to the earth sprung lie ; 
And making a jump from Moscow to France, 

He stepp'd across the sea, 
And rested liis lioof on a turnpike road, 
No very great way from a bishop's abode. 

But first as he flew, I forgot to say, 
That he hover'd a moment upon his way, 

To look upon Leipsic plain ; 
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare. 
And so soft to his ear was the cry of de&pair, 

That he perch 'd on a mountain of slain ; 
And he gazed with delight from its growing height, 
Xor often on earth had he seen sucli a sight, 

Nor his work done half as well : 
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead. 

That it blush 'd like the waves of hell ! 
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh 'd he : 
" Methinks they have here little need of me I " 
***** -^ -x- 

But the softest note that soothed his ear 

Was the sound of a widow sighing ; 
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear. 
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear 

Of a maid by her lover lying— 
As round her fell her long fair hair ; 
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air, 
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there ! 
And, stretch 'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut, 
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut, 

A child of famine dying : 
And the carnage begun, v/hen resistance is done. 

And the fall of the vainly flying ! 
******* 

But the devil h.a^ reach'd our cliffs so white, 

And what did he there, I pray ? 
If his eyes were good, he but saw by night 

What we see every day : 
But he made a tour, and kept a journal 
Of all the wondrous sights noctin-nal. 
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Mow, 
Who bid pretty well— but they cheated him, though ! 

Tlie devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail^ 

Its coachman and his coat ; 
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail. 

And seized him by the throat : 
" Aha ! " quoth he, " what have we here ? 
'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer! " 

So he sat him on his box again, 

And bade him have no fear, 
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein, 

His brothel, and his beert 
" Next to seeing a lord at the council board, 
I w^ould rather see him here." 
******* 

The devil gat next to Westminster, 

And he turn'd to " the room " of the Commons ; 
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, 
That '' the Lords " had received a summons ; 
And he thought, as a " quondam aristocrat," 
He might peep at the peers, though to hear them 

were flat ; 
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our 

own. 
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 
440 



He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise. 

The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly, 
And Johnny of Norfolk— a man of some size— 

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy ; 
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, 
Because the Catholics would not rise. 
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ; 
And he heard— which set Satan himself a staring— 
A certain Chief Justice say something like siceariiuj. 
And the devil was shock'd — and quoth he, "I 

must go. 
For I find we have mucli better manners below : 
If thus he harangues wlien he passes my border, 
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." 

[18 IP..] 



WINDS OB POETICS. 

Lines composed on the occasion of his royal highness the 
Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of 
Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor. 

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
By lieadless Charles see heartless Henry lies : 
Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
It moves, it reigns— in all but name, a king : 

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
—In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 
Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
Ah, what can tombs avail !— since these disgorge 
The blood and dust of both — to mould a George. 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name. 
There is grief inthesound, there is guilt in the fame : 
But the tear w^hich now burns on my cheek may 

impart 
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of 

heart. 

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace 
Were those hours— can their joy or their bitterness 

cease ? 
We repent— we abjure — we will break from our 

chain, — 
We will part,— we will fly to— unite it again ! 

Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
Forgive me, adored one I — forsake, if thou wilt ; — 
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased. 
And tnayi shall not break it— whatever thou mayst. 

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee. 
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; 
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more 

sweet. 
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love. 
Shall turn me or fix, shalt reward or reprove ; 
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign — 
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to niine. 

[May, 18U.\ 



ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED 
AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. 

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame 
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name ; 
The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, 
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand 
No foe could tame— no tyrant could command ? 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



That race is gone — ^but still their children breathe, 
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
The blood which flowxl with Wallace flows as free, 
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee ! 
Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim. 
But give support— the world hath given him fame ! 

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
While cheerly following wdiere the mighty led — 
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod 
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
To us bequeath— 't is all their fate allows— 
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : 
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze, 
Or view, while shado^^-j^ auguries disclose 
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
The bleeding phantom of each martial form 
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
While, sad, she chants the solitary song, 
The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 

'Tis Heaven — not man— must charm away the 
w^oe. 
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow ; 
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
Of half its bitterness for one so dear ; 
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head ; 
May lighten well her heart's maternal care, 
And w^ean from penury the soldier's heir. 

[May, ISlk.} 

FBAGMENT OF AJSr EPISTLE TO THOMAS 
MOOBE. 

"What say I ? " — not a syllable further in prose ; 
I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom— so 

here goes ! 
Here goes, for a svvim on the stream of old Time, 
On those buoj^ant supporters, tlie bladders of rhyme. 
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the 

flood, 
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud. 
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown 'd in a heap. 
And Southey's last Paean has pillow 'd his sleep ; 
That " Felo de se "who, half drunk with his malm- 
sey, 
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, 
Singing "Glory to God " in a spick and span stanza. 
The like (since Tom Steruhold was choked) never 
man saw. 

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses. 
The fetes, and thegapings to get at these Busses, — 
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het- 

man, — 
And w^hat dignity decks the flat face of the great 

man. 
I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — 
For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. 
You know, im are used to quite different graces, 

•55- * -^ ■)!• -X- * 7^ 

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and 

brisker, 
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; 
And w^ore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey- 
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the 

Jersey, 
AVho. lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted 
With Majesty's presence as those she invited. 

* * * ^ ^ -H- ^ 

IJune, 181k.'\ 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, OX THE PRTXCE 
regent's returning her picture TO MRS. 
MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd. 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face that wondering air ? 
The thought of Brutus— for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth, — ^that absence fix"d 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd ; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness. 
Bright though they be, thine o^w\ had render'd 

less : 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart. 
Could with thy gentle image bear to part ; 
That tasteless shame be /us, and ours the grief 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? 
A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — ■- 
A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair. 
Which shades, yet shoAvs that forehead more than 

fair ! 
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew^ 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen 'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone, 
To please the paltry heart that pleases none ;— 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly ej'e 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom^s loveliness, and thine. 

lAugust, 181U.'\ 



TO BELSHAZZAR, 

Belshazzar ! from the banquet turn, 
j^or in thy sensual fullness fall ; 

Behold ! while yet before thee burn 
The graven words, the glowing wall. 

Many a despot men miscall 
Cro\\Ti'd and anointed from on high ; 

But thou, the weakest, worst of kil- 
ls it not written, thou must die ? 

Go ! dash the roses from thy brow- 
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them ; 

Youth's garlands misbecome thee now. 
More than thy very diadem, 

Where thou hast tarnish 'd every gem : — 
Then throw che worthless bauble by, 
441 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn; 
And learn like better men to die ! 

Oh ! early in the balance weigh 'd, 

And ever light of word and worth, 
Whose soul expired ere youth decay 'd, 

And left thee but a mass of earth. 
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: 

But tears in Hope's averted eye 
Lament that even thou hadst birth — 

Unfit to govern, live, or die. 



ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF 
SIB PETEB PABKER, BABT^ 

There is a tear for all that die, 
A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations swell the funeral cry. 
And Triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 

In vain their bones unburied lie, 
All earth becomes their monument ! 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitapli on every tongue : 
The present hours, the future age. 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 
Grows hush'd, tlieir name the only sound; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot ? 

Who would not die the death they chose ? 

And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 

And early valor, glowing, find 
A model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
In woe, that glory cannot quell; 

And shuddering hear of victory, 
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness. 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas! for them, though not for thee. 
They cannot choose but weep the more ; 

Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 

[October, 181k]. 



1 



STANZAS FOB 3IUSIC. 

" O Lachrymarum f ons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium oi'tus ex a-nimo : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poemata. 

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it 

takes away. 
When the glow^ of early thought declines in feeling's 

dull decay ; 

* This gallant oflBcer fell in Aug-ust, 1814, in his twenty- 
ninth year, whilst commanding-, on shore, a party belongino- 
to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating- them in storming- I 
442 



'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, 

which fades sp fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth 

itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of 
happiness 

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of ex- 
cess: 

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points 
in vain 

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never 
stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 

itself comes down ; 
It cannot feel for others' v;oes, it dare not dream 

its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our 

tears. 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where 

the ice appears. 

Though v/it may flash from fluent lips, and mirth 

distract the breast. 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their 

former hope of rest ; 
'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret 

wreathe, 
xlll green and wildly fresh without, but worn and 

gray beneath. 

Oh, could I feel as I have felt,— or be what I have 

been. 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a 

vanish 'd scene; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish 

though they be, 
So 'midst the wither'd w^aste of life, those tears 

would flow to me. 

[March, 1815.] 



STANZAS FOB MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing. 
The waves lie still and gleaming,^ 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep : 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



ON NAPOLEONS ESCAPE FBOM ELBA, 

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure. 
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, 
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, 
Making balls for the ladies, and boics to his foes. 

[March 27, 1815.] 



the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's 
first cousin ; but they had never met since boyhood. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



QBE FROM THE FRENCH. 

I. 

"We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
There 't was shed, but is not sunk^— 
Eising from each gory trunk. 
Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion- 
It soars, and mingles in the air. 
With that of lost Labedoyere— 
With that of him whose honor'd grave 
Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return to whence it rose ; 
When 't is full 't will burst asunder— 
Never yet was heard such thunder, 
As then shall shake the world with wonder - 
Never yet was seen such lightning 
As o'er heaven shall then be bright 'ning ! 
Like tlie Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 
Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood. 

11. 

The Chief has fallen, but not by you, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo I 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow men — 

Save in deeds that led them on 

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son — 

Wlio, of all the despots banded, 

AVith that youthful chief competed ? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated. 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King ? 
Then he fell :— so perish all. 
Who would men by man enthrall ! 

III. 

And thou, too, of the snov/-white plume,'^ 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; f 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name ; 
Such as he of Naples wears. 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dashing 
On thy war-horse through the ranks, 
Like a stream which burst its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres 61ashing, 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee— 
Of the fate at last which found thee : 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
Once— as the Moon sways o'er the tide. 
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight. 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendency — 
And as it onward rolling rose, 
go moved his heart upon our foes. 



* " Poor dear Murat, what an end ! His white plume used 
to be a rallying-point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He 
refused a confessor and a bandage ; so would neither suffer 
his soul nor body to be bandaged."— Byron Letters. 

t Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the 
grave and burnt. 

% "Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at 
the conclusion of my ' Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 
1815, and, comparing It with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe 
in 1830, tell me if I have not as good a right to the character 



There, where death's brief pang was quickest, 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest— 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 
Who could then her wing arrest- 
Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 
There he ne'er shall charge again ! 

IV. 

O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice ; 

But, her hand on her sword, 

Doubly shall she be adored ; 

France hath twice too well been taught 

Tlie " moral lesson " dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven. 

With their breath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 

V. 

But the heart and the mind. 
And the voice of mankind. 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union ? 
The time is past when swords subdued- 
Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble— 
^mile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears Avill follow yet.| 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief, g 

Sever 'd from thy faithful few ? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel, 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

Idol of the soldier's soul ! 

First in fight, but mightiest now : 
Many could a world control ; 

Thee alone no doom can bow. 



of ' Votes,' in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and 
Coleridge ?— 

' Ci'imson tears will follow yet ;' 

and have they not ?" — Byron Letters, 1830. 

§ " All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer 
who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He 
clung to his master's knees ; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, 
entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most 
menial capacity, which could not be admitted." 
443 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



By thy side for years I dared 
Death ; ami eiivied those who fell, 

When their dying shout was heard, 
Blessing him they served so well. 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of cow^ard foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me, 

Gazmg on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

^ow so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share ? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign. 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ? 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Xever did I droop before ; 
^ever to my sovereign sue. 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave. 



G:^ THE STAB OF " THE LEGION OF 
HONOB.'' 

FROM THE FREXCH. 

Star of the brave 1— w^hose beam hath shed 

Such glory o'er the quick and dead— 

Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 

Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, — 

Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 

Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays : 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze ; 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honor here ; ^ 
And thy light broke on human eyes. 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, 
And swept down empires with its flood ; 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base. 
As thou didst lighten through all space ; • 
And the shorn Sim grew dim in air. 
And set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 

A rainbow of the loveliest hue 

Of three bright colors,* each divine. 

And fit for that celestial sign ; 

Eor Freedom's hand had blended them, 

Xike tints m an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's ej-es ; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed in radiance of its light : 
The three so mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ! 
. But oh, thou Rainbow of the free ! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 

♦ The tricolor. 

444 



When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead ; 
For beautiful in death are they 
AYho proudly fall in her array ; 
And soon, oh. Goddess ! may we be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



NAPOLEON'S FABEWELL. 

FROM THE FREXCH. 

Farew^ell to the Land where the gloom of my 

Glory 
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name- 
She abandons me now— but the page of her story. 
The brightest or blackest, is fiird with my fame. 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me 

only 
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus 

lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farew^ell to thee, France ! wdien thy diadem crown'd 

me, 
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found 

thee, 
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
Oh I for the veteran liearts that Were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battles were 

won — 
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was 

blasted. 
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 

Farewell to thee, France !— but when Liberty rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
Though withered, thy tear will unfold it again— 
Yet, yet, I may baflle the hosts that surround us. 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
There are links wliich must break in the chain that 

has bound us. 
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 



ENDOBSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEP- 
ABATION, IN THE APBIL OF 1816. 

A YEAR, ago you swore, fond she ! 

" To love, to honor," and so forth : 
Such was the vow^ you pledged to me, 

And here 's exactly what 'tis worth. 



BABKNESS. 



I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Bay less and pathless, and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 

Morn came and went — and came, and brouglkt no 

day. 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
And they did live by watchfires— and the thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings— the huts. 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed. 
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes 
To look once more into each other's face ; 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Happy were those who dwelt w^ithin tlie eye 
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain torch : 
A fearful hope w^as all the w^orld contain'd ; 
Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded— and the crackling trunks 
Extinguish'd with a crash— and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and w^pt ; and some did rest 
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled ; 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky. 
The pall of a past world ,- and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the dust. 
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild birds 

shriek 'd. 
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wangs ; the wildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl 'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude. 
Hissing, but stingless— they were slain for food : 
And War, w^hich for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again : — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Gorging himself in gloom : no love w^as left ; 
All earth was but one tliought — and that w^as death 
Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails— men 
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd : 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds and beasts and famish 'd men at bay, 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan. 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not watli a caress — he died. 
The crowd w^as famish'd by degrees ; but two 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies ; they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been lieap'd a mass of lioly things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up. 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; tlien tliey lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects— saw, and shriek'd, and died— 
Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
Famine had written Fiend. The w^orld was void, 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— 
A lump of death— a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell dow^n piecemeal; as they 

dropp'd, 
They slept on the abyss without a surge— 
The waves w^ere dead ; the tides were in their grave. 
The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
The winds w^ere wither'd in the stagnant air. 
And the clouds perish 'd ! Darkness had no need 
Of aid from them— She w^as the Universe. 

[modati, July, 1816.] 



CHUBGHILL'S GRAVE: 

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED. 

I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
The comet of a season, and I saw 



The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone. 
With name no clearer than the names imknown. 
Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardener of that ground, wiiy it might be 
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 
Through the thick deaths of half a century. 
And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do not know 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
He died before my day of Sextonship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality, and crave 
I know not what of honor and of light 
Through miborn ages, to endure this blight, 
So soon, and so successless ? As I said. 
The Architect of all on which we tread, 
For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minglings might confuse a ^N'ewton's 
thought. 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of wiiich w^e are but dreamers ; — as he caught 

As 't were the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he,—" I believe the man of whom 
You wot, w^ho lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day, 
And therefore travellers step from out tlieir way 
To pay him honor, — and myself wdiate'er 

Your lionor pleases ; "—then most pleased I shook 

From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, wdiich as 't were 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I— for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd ej'e, 
On that Old Sexton's natural homily. 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 

IDiodali, 1816^ 

FROMETBEUS. 

Titan! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as tilings that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense ? 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show, 
The suffocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness. 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Should have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is eclioless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 

Between the suffering and the will. 
Which torture wdiere they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
The things it may annihilate, 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine— and thou hast borne it w-ell. 
All that the Tlumderer WTung from thee 
Was but the menace which flung back 
On him the torments of thy rack ; 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
445 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
And evil dread so ill dissembled, 
That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 

Thy godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts less 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
But baffled as thou wert from high. 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, 

A mighty lesson we inherit : 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence: 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
"Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concentred recompense. 
Triumphant where it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory. 

[BiodaH, July, 1816.'] 

A FRAGMENT. 

Could I remount the river of my years 

To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 

I would not trace again the stream of hours 

Between their outworn banks of wither 'd flowers. 

But bid it flow as now— until it glides 

Into the number of the nameless tides. ^ * * ^ 

What is this Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
The w^hole of that of which we are a part ? 
For life is but a vision — w^hat I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me. 
And being so— the absent are the dead. 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrances our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are cold. 
And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
And they are changed, and cheerless,— or if yet 
The unforgotten do not all forget. 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In t)ie dark union of insensate dust. 

The under-earth inhabitants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
Or do thej; in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
Of breathless being ? — darken 'cl and intense 
As midnight in her solitude ? — Oh, Earth ! 
Where are the past V — and wherefore had tliey 

birth ? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave, 
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold. 
And fathom hidden w^onders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. * ^- * * 

IDiodaU, July, 1S16.\ 

446 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau— Voltaire— our Gibbon— and De Stael— 
Leman ! these names are w^orthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no 
more. 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all. 
But they have made them lovelier, for the loi'e 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and W'Ondrous ; but by thee 

How much more. Lake of Beauty ! do w^e feel. 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea. 

The wild giow^ of that not ungentle zeal. 
Which of the heirs of immortality 

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 

[Diodati, July, 1816. ] 



A VEEY MOURNFUL BALLAD 

ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OF ALIIAMA,* 

IVliich, in the Arabic language, is to the following purpoi^t. 

The Moorish King rides up and down, 
Through Granada's royal town ; 
From Elvira's gates to those 
Of Bivarambla on he goes. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Letters to the monarch tell 
How Alhama 's city fell : 
In the fire the scroll he threw, 
And the messenger he slew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

He quits his mule, and mounts his horse. 
And through the street directs his course ; 
Through the street of Zacatin 
To the Alhambra spurring in. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

When the Alhambra walls he gain'd. 
On the moment he ordain 'd 
That the trumpet straight should sound 
With the silver clarion round. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And when the hollow drums of war 
Beat the loud alarm afar. 
That the Moors of town and plain 
Might answer to the martial strain. 

Woe is me, Alhama! 

Then the Moors, by this aware 
That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
One by one', and two by two, 
To a mighty squadron grew. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake an aged Moor 
In these words the king before, 
" Wherefore call on us, oh, King ? 
What may mean this gathering ? " 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"Friends ! ye have, alas! to know 
Of a most disastrous blow. 
That the Christians, stern and bold, 
Have obtain'd Alhama 's hold." 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
AVith his beard so white to see. 



* The effect of the oi'iginal ballad— which existed both in 
i Spanish and Arabic— was such that it was forbidden to be 
sung by the Moors, on pain of death, within Granada. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



" Good King ! thou art justly served, 
Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower; 
And strangers were received by thee 
Of Cordova the Chivalry. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"And for this, oh, King ! is sent 
On thee a double chastisement : 
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
One last wreck shall overwhelm. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" He who holds no laws in awe. 
He must perish by the law; 
And Granada must be won. 
And thyself with her undone." 

Woe is me, Alhama I 

Fire flash 'd from out the old Moor's eyes, 
The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
Because he answer 'd, and because 
He spake exceeding well of laws. 

Woe is me, xVlhama ! 

." There is no law to say such things 
As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
Woe is me, Alhama ' 

Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
Though thy beard so hoary be, 
The Kuig hath sent to have thee seized, 
For Alhama's loss displeased. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And to fix thy head upon 
High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
That this for thee should be the law, 
And others tremble when they saw. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
Let these words of mine go forth ; 
Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
That to him I nothing owe. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

"But on my soul Alhama weighs. 
And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
And if the King his land hath lost, 
Yet others may have lost the most. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" Sires have lost their children, wives 
Their lords, and valiant men their lives; 
One what best his love might claim 
Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

" I lost a damsel in that hour. 
Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
Doubloons a hundred I would pay. 
And think her ransom cheap that day." 
Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And as these things the old Moor said. 
They severed from the trunk his head : 
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
'Twas carried, as the King decreed. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 

And men and infants therein weep 
Their loss, so heavy and so deep: 
Granada's ladies, all she rears 
Within her Avails, burst into tears. 

Woewis me, Alhama! 



And from the windows o'er the walls 
The sable web of mourning falls ; 
The King weeps as a woman o'er 
His loss, for it is much and sore. 

Woe is me, Alhama ! 



TBANSLATION FEOIf VITTOEELLL 

ON A NUN. 

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter 
had recently died shortly after her marriage ; and addressed 
to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. 

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired. 
Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires ; 
Heaven for a nobler doom tlieir worth desires, 
And gazing upon either, both required. 

Mine, while the torch of Hymen nevrly fired 
Becomes extinguish 'd, soon — too soon— expires : 
But thine, within the closing grate retired. 
Eternal captive, to her God aspires. 

But thou at least from out the jealous door, 
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes, 
Mayst hear her sweet and pious voice once more : 

I to the marble, where my daughter lies, 
Rush, — the swoln flood of bitterness I pour. 
And knock, and knock, and knock— but none 
replies. 



STAXZAS FOR 3WSIC. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 

Xo lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control. 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
On earth thou wert all but divine. 

As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
And our sorrow may cease to repine 

When we know that thy God is with thee. 

Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 

May its verdure like emeralds be ! 
There should not be the shadow of gloom, 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 
"Young flowers and an evergreen tree 

May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 

For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



STANZAS FOR IfUSIC. 

They say that Hope is happiness; 

But genuine Love must prize the past, 
And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless 

They rose the first— they set the last ; 

And all that Memory loves the most 

Was once our only Hope to be. 
And all that Hope adored and lost 

Hath melted into Memory. 

Alas ! it is delusion all : 
The future cheats us from afar. 

Nor can we be what we recall, 
Nor dare we think on what we are. 



TO THOMAS MOORE, 

My boat is on the shore. 
And my bark is on the sea ; 

But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
Here 's a double health to thee ! 
447 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 

And a smile to those who hate ; 
And, wliatever sky 's above me, 

Here 's a heart for every fate. 

Tliough the ocean roar around me, 

Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
Though a desert should surround me. 

It hath springs that may be won. 

Were 't the last drop in the well. 

As I gasp'd upon the brink. 
Ere my fainting spirit fell, 

'T is to thee that I would drink. 

With that water, as this wine, 

The libation I would pour 
Should be— peace witli thine and mine. 

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 

[July, 1817.] 



OA^ THE B UST OF HELEN B Y CANO VA: 

In tliis beloved marble view, 

Above the works and thoughts of man, 
Wliat nature could^ but luoidd not^ do, 

And beauty and Canova can ! 
Beyond imagination's power, 

Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
With immortality her dower, 

Behold the Helen of the heart !' 

[Kovember, 1816.] 



SOXG FOB THE LUDDITES. 

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea 
Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, 
So we, boys, we 
Will die fighting, or live free. 
And down with all kings but King Ludd ! 

When the web that we weave is complete. 
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword. 

We will fling the winding sheet 

O'er the despot at our feet, 
And dye it deep in the gore he has pour'd. 

Though black as his heart its hue. 
Since his veins are corrupted to mud, 

Yet this is the dew 

Which the tree sliall renew 
Of Liberty, planted by Ludd ! f 

[December, 1816.] 



TO THOMAS MOOEE. 

What are you doing now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ? 
What are you doing now, 

Oh, Thomas Moore '? 
Sighing or suing now, 
Ehyming or wooing now% 
Billing or cooing now. 
Which, Thomas Moore '? 

But the Carnival 's coming, 

Oh, Thomas Moore ! 



* "The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of 
Madame the Countess d' Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, " with- 
out exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of 
human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human exe- 
cution."— I/ord Byron to Mr. Murray, November 25, 1816. 

+ " Are you not near the Luddites? By the Lord ! if there's 

a row, but I '11 be among ye ! How g-o on the weavers— the 

breakers of frames— the Lutherans of politics— the reform- 

448 



The Carnival 's coming. 

Oh, Thomas Moore I 
Masking and humming. 
Fifing and drumming, 
Guitarring and strumming 
Oh, Thomas Moore ! 



SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A BOVING. 

So, Ave '11 go no more a roving 

So late into the night, 
Though the heart be still as loving, 

And the moon be still as bright. 

For the sword outwears its sheath, 
And the soul wears out the breast, 

And the heart must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest. 

Though the night was made for loving. 
And the day returns too soon. 

Yet we '11 go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon. iisi?.] 



VERSICLES. 



I READ the " Christabel ; " 

Very well : 
I read the " Missionary ; " _ 

Pretty— very : 
I tried at " Ilderim ; " 

Ahem ! 
I read a sheet of " Marg'ret of Anjou; "J 

Can you f 
1 turn'd a page of Scott's "Waterloo; " 

Pooh ! pooh ! 
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone 

Doe:" 

Hillo ! 

Etc., etc. [iMarch, 1817.] 



TO ME. MUEEAY. 

To hook the reader, you, John Murray, 
Have publish'd " Anjou's Margaret," 
Which won't be sold off in a hurry 
(At least, it has not been as yet) ; 
And then, still further to bewilder 'em. 
Without remorse you set up " Ilderim ; " 

So mind you don't get into debt, 
Because as how, if you should fail, 
These books w^ould be but baddish bail. 

And mind you do not let escape 
These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry, 
Which would be very treacherous— (.-ej-^/, 

And get me into such a scrape ! 
For, firstly, I should have to sally, ' 
All in my little boat, against a Galley, 
And, sliould I chance to slay the Assyrian 

wight. 
Have next to combat with the female knight. 

[JIarck25, 1817 .\ 



ers? There's an amiable chanson for you!— all 

impromptu. I have written it principally to shock your 
neighbor , who is all clergy and loyaltj-— mirth and inno- 
cence—milk and water."— Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, Decem- 
ber 24, 1816. 

:t The "Missionary" was written by Mr. Bowles; "Il- 
derim. " by Mr. Gaily Knight ; and " Margaret of Anjou " by 
Miss Holford. » 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



EPISTLE FBOM MB. MURE AY TO BR. 
FO LIDO EL 

Dear Doctor, I have read 3^0 iir play, 
Which is a good one in its way, — 
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, 
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels 
W'-ith tears, that, in a flux of grief, 
Afford hysterical relief 
To shatter 'd nerves and quicken 'd pulses, 
Which your catastrophe convulses. 

I like your moral and machinery ; 
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery; 
Your dialogue is apt and smart ; 
The play's concoction full of art ; 
Your hero raves, your heroine cries, 
All stab, and every body dies. 
In short, your tragedy would be 
The very thing to hear and see : 
And for a piece of publication, 
If I decline on this occasion, 
It is not that I am not sensible 
To merits in. themselves ostensible, 
But — and I grieve to speak it— plays 
Are drugs — mere drugs, sir — now-a-days. 
I had a heavy loss by "Manuel,"— 
Too lucky if it prove not annual,— 
And Sotheby, with his '' Orestes " 
(Which, by the by, the author's best is), 
Has lain so very long on hand, 
That I despair of all demand. 
I 've advertised, but see my books. 
Or only watch my shopman's looks ; — 
Still Ivan, Ina, and such lumber. 
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber. 

There 's Byron too, who once did better, 
Has sent me, folded in a letter, 
A sort of — it 's no more a drama 
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama ; 
So alter 'd since last year his pen is, 
I think he 's lost his wits at Venice. 
In short, sir, what with one and t'other, 
I dare not venture on anotlier. 
I write in haste ; excuse each blunder ; 
The coaches through the street so thunder ! 
My room 's so full — we 've Giftord here 
Beading MS., with Hookham Frere, 
Pronouncing on the nouns and particles 
Of some of our forthcoming Articles. 

The Quarterly— Ah, sir, if j^ou 
Had but the genius to review ! 
A smart critique upon St. Helena, 
Or if you only would but tell in a 

Short compass what but, to resume : 

As I was saying, sir, the room— 
The room "s'so full of wits and bards, 
Crabbes, Campbells, Crockers, Ereres, and 

Wards, 
And others, neither bards nor wits :—- 
My humble tenement admits . 
All persons in the dress of gent.. 
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent. 

A party dines with me to-day, 
All clever men, w^ho make their w^ay : 
Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Ciiantrey, 
Are all partakers of my pantry. 
They 're at this moment in discussion 
On poorDe Stael's late dissolution. 
Her book, they say, was in advance — 
Pray Heaven, she tell the truth of France ! 
Thus run our time and tongues away ;— 
But, to return, sir, to your play : 



* The fourth canto of " Childe Harold. 
29 



Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, 
Unless 't were acted by O'Keill. 
My hands so full, my head so busy, 
I 'm almost dead, and always dizzy ; 
And so, with endless truth and hurry, 
Dear Doctor, I am yours, 

John Murray. 

[Auffusf, 1817.] 

EPISTLE TO MR, MURRAY. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 
You're in a damn'd hurry 

To set up this ultimateCanto ;* 
But (if they don't rob us) 
You '11 see Mr. Hobhouse 

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau. 

For the Journal you liint of. 
As ready to print off, 

jSTo doubt 3^ou do right to commend it ; 
But as yet I have writ off 
The devil a bit of 

Our " Beppo : " — when copied, I '11 send it. 

Then you 've * * * *'s Tour,— 
No great things, to be sure, — 

You could hardly begin with a less work ; 
For the pompous rascallion, 
Who don't speak Italian 

Nor French, must have scribbled by guesswork. 

You can make any loss up 
With " Spence " and his gossip, 

A w^ork which must surely succeed ; 
Then Queen Mary's Epistle- craft. 
With the new " Fytte " of " Wliistlecraft," 

Must make people purchase and read. 

Then you 've General Gordon, 
Who girded his sword on, 

To serve with a Muscovite master. 
And help liim. to polish 
A nation so owlish, 

They thought shaving their beards a disaster. 

For the man, " poor and shrewd,"! 
With whom you 'd conclude 

A compact without more delay. 
Perhaps so^ne such pen is 
Still extant in Yenice ; 

But please, sir, to mention your pay. 

\_Venice, January 8, 1818.1 



TO MR. MURRAY. 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times. 
Patron and publisher of rhymes. 
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs. 
My Murray. 

To thee, v/ith hope and terror dumb, 
The unfledged MS. authors come ; 
Thou printest all— and sellest some — 
My Murray. 

Upon tliy table's baize so green 
The last new Quarterly isseen,— 
But where is thy new Magazine, 
My Murray ? 

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine 
Tiie works thou deemest most divine — 
The " Art of Cookery," and mine. 
My Murray. 

t Vide your letter. 

449 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Tours, Travels, Essay's too, I wist. 
And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist ; 
And tlien thou hast the " Navy List," 
My Murray. 

And Heaven forbid I should conclude 
Without '' the Board of Longitude," 
Altliough this narrow paper would, 
My Murray. 

[ Venice, March 25, 181S | 



ON THE BIB Til OF JOHN WILLIAM 
EIZZO HOP P NEB. 

His father's sense, his mother's grace, 
In him, I hope, will alwaj^s fit so ; 

With — still to keep him in good case — 
The health and appetite of Rizzo.* 

[February, ISlS.] 



STANZAS TO THE PO.f 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls, J 
Where dwells the lady of my love, when she 

AValks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls 
A faint and fleeting memory of me ; 

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 
A mirror of my heart, where slie may read 

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, 
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed ! 

Wliat do I say— a mirror of my heart ? 

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong ? 
Such as my feelings were and are, thou art ; 

And such as thou art were my passions long. 

Time may have somewhat tamed them,— not for 
ever ; 

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye 
Tliy bosom overboils, congenial river ! 

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away. 

But left long wrecks behind, and now again. 
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move ; 

Thou tendest wildly onwards to tlie main, 
And I — to loving one I should not love. 

The current I behold will sweep beneath 
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet ; 

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe 
The twilight air, miharm'd by summer's heat. 

She will look on thee,— I have look'd on thee, 
Full of that thought: and, from that moment, 
ne'er 

Tliy waters could I dream of, name, or see, 
Without the inseparable sigh for her ! 

Her bright eyes will.be imaged in thy stream.— 
Yes ! they will meet the Avave I gaze on now : 

Mine cannot witness, even in a dream. 
That happy wave repass me in its flow ! 

* On the birth of this child, the son of the British vice- 
consul at Venice, Lord Byron wrote these lines. They are 
in no other respect remarkable, than that they were thought 
worthy of being- metrically translated into no less than ten 
different lang-uages ; namely, Greek, Latin, Italian (also in 
the Venetian dialect), German, French, Spanish, Illyrian, 
Hebrew, Armenian, and Samaritan. 

+ About the middle of April, 1819, Lord Byron travelled 
from Venice to Ravenna, at which last city he expected to 
find the Countess Guiccioli. The above stanzas, which have 
been as much admired as any thing' of the kind he ever 
wrote, were composed, according- to Madame Guiccioli, 
during- this journey, and while Lord Byron was actually sail- 
450 



The wave that bears my tears returns no more : 
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?— 

Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, 
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. 

But that which keepeth us apart is not 
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth, 

But the distraction of a various lot, 
As various as the climates of our birth. 

A stranger loves the lady of the land. 
Born far beyond the niountains, btit his blood 

Is all meridian, as if never fann'd 
By the black wind that chills the polar flood. 

My blood is all meridian ; were it not\ 
i had not left my clime, nor should I be, 

In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot, 
A slave again of love,— at least of thee. 

'T is vain to struggle— let me perish young — 
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved ; 

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung, 
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. 

lApril, 1819.'] 



SONNET TO GEOBGE THE FOUBTH, 

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDAVARD FITZGER- 
ALD'S FORFEITURE. 

To be the father of the fatherless, 

To stretch tlie hand from the throne's height, 
and raise 

His offspring, who expired in other days 
To make th}^ sire's sway by a kingdom less, — 
This is to be a monarch, and repress 

Envy into unutterable praise. 

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits. 
For who would lift a hand, except to bless ? 

Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet 

To make thyself beloved ? and to be 
Omnipotent by mercy's means ? for thus 

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete ; 

A despot thou, and yet thy people free. 
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us. 

IBologna, August 12, 1819.'] 



EPIGBAM. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF RTTLHI^RES. 

If. for silver or for gold, 

You could melt ten thousand pimples 

Into half a dozen dimples, 
Then your face we might behold. 

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly; 

Yet even then 't would be d d ugly. 

lAvrjud 12, 1819.'] 



' ing on the Po, Tn transmitting- them to England, in May, 

1820, he says,— "They must not be published: pray recollect 

this, as they are mere verses of society, and written upon 

private feeling-s and passions." They were first printed in 

1824. 

i i Ravenna— a city to which Lord Byron afterwards do- 

i Glared himself more attached than to any other place, except 

I Greece. He resided in it rather more than two 5-ears, " and 

j quitted it," says ]Madame Guiccioli, "with the deepest regret, 

1 and with a presentiment that his departure would be the 

j forerunner of a thousand e-sils. Tn the third canto of " Don 

Juan," Lord Byron has pictured the tranquil life which, at 

this time, he was leading-. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



STANZAS."" 


Your last embraces 




Leave no cold traces — 


Could Love forever 


The same fond faces 


Run like a river, 


As through the past : 


And Time's endeavor 


And eyes, the mirrors 


Be tried in vain— 


Of vour sweet errors. 


JsTo other pleasure- 


Reflect but rapture— not least though last. 


With this could measure ; 




And like a treasure 


True, separations 


We 'd hug the chain. 


Ask more than patience ; 


But since our sighing 


What desperations 


Ends not in dying, 


From such have risen 1 


And, forra'd for flying. 


But yet remaining, 


Love plumes his wing; 


What is 't but chaining 


Then for this reason 


Hearts which, once waning, 
Beat 'gainst their prison ? 


Let 's love a season ; 


But let that season be only Spring. 


Time can but cloy love, 




And use destroy love : 


When lovers parted 


The winged boy. Love, 


Feel broken-hearted. 


Is but for bo3^s— 


And, all hopes thwarted, 


You'll find it torture 


Expect to die ; 


Though sharper, shorter. 


A few years older, 


To wean, and not wear out your joys. 


Ah ! how much colder 


il8l9,^ 


They might beliold her 




For whom they sigh ! 




When link'd together, 




In every weather, 


ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 


They pluck Love's feather 

From out his wing- 
He '11 stay forever, 
But sadly shiver 
Without his plumage, when past the Spring. 


Here 's a happy new year ! but with reason 

I beg you '11 permit me to say- 
Wish me many returns of the season^ 


But as/eit- as you please of the day, 

[Januanj S, 1820.'] 


Like Chiefs of Faction, 






His life is action— 




A formal paction 


EPITAPH FOB WILLIAM PITT, 


That curbs his reign, 




Obscures his glory, 


With death doora'd to grapple, 


Despot no more, he 


Beneath this cold slab, he 


Such territory 


Who lied in the Chapel 


Quits with disdain. 


Now lies in the Abbey. 


Still, still advancing. 


[January, 1820,] 


With banners glancing, 
His power enhancing, 






He must move on — 


EPIGRAM, 


Eepose but cloys him, 




Retreat destroys him, 


I:n" digging up your bones, Tom Paine, 


Love brooks not a degraded throne. 


Will. Cobbett has done well : 




You visit him on earth again. 


Wait not, fond lover \ 


He '11 visit you in hell. 


Till years are over. 


iJanuary, 1820.^ 


And then recover, 






As from a dream. 




While each bewailing 


STANZAS. 


The other's failing, 




With wrath and railing, 
All hideous seem — 


When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home. 


Let him combat for that of his neighbors ; 


While first decreasing. 


Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, 


Yet not quite ceasing, 


And get knock'd on the head for his labors. 


Wait not till teasing 




All passion blight : 


To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, 


If once diminish'd 


And is always as nobly requited ; 


Love's reign is finish 'd — 


Then battle for freedom wherever you can. 


Then part in friendship— and bid good-night. 


And, if not shot or hang'd, you 'II get knighted. 




[November, 1820.] 


So shall Affection 




To recollection 




The dear connection 


EPIGRAM. 


Bring back with joy : 




You had not waited 


The world is a bundle of hay, 


Till, tired or hated, 


Mankind are the asses wdio pull ; 


Your passions sated 


Each tugs it a different way, 


Began to cloy. 


And the greatest of all is John Bull. 


* " Byron had been painfully excited by some circumstances 


diately quit Italy ; and in the day and the hour that he wrot6 


Avhich appeared to make it necessary that he should imrae- 


the song- was laboring- under an access of fever." 



451 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



THE CHABITY BALL. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and father, 
If his sorrows in exile be great or be sniail, 

So the Pharisee -s glories around her she gaiiier, 
And the saint patronizes her '' charity ball ! " 

What matters— a heart which, though faulty, was 
feeling. 
Be driven to excesses which once could appall — 
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, 
As the saint keeps her chariiy*^ back fox " tlie 
ball!"* 



EPIGBAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY. 

TO PENELOPE. 

Tpiis day, of all our days, has done 

The worst for me and you : — 
'Tis just 6ix years since we were ori<?. 

And Jiue since we were tiro. 

iJanuary 2, 1821.'] 



ON MY THIBTY-THIBD BIBTHDAY. 

JAiq^UARY 22, 1821. 

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty 
I have dragg'd to three and thirty. 
What have tliese years left to me ? 
Nothing— except thirty-three. 



EPIGBAM, 

ON THE braziers' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED 
TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE. 

The Braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass 

An address, and present it themselves all in brass ; — 
A superfluous pageant — for, by the Lord Harry ! 
They '11 find where they 're going much more than 
they carry. 



MABTIAL, Lih.L Epig.l. 

"Hie est, quern leg-is, ille, quern requiris, 
Tota notus in orbe Martiaiis," etc. 

He unto whom thou art so partial. 
Oh, reader ! is the well-known Martial, 
The Epigrammatist : while living. 
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving : 
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it — 
Post -orbits rarely reach a poet. 



ANSAVER. 



BOWLES AND CAMPBELL, 

To the tune of " "Why, how now, saucy jade ? 

Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 

If you thus must ramble, 
I will publish some 

Eemarks on Mister Campbell. 



* These lines were written on reading in the newspapers 
that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some 
charity at Hinckley. 

452 



Wliy, how now, Billy Bowles ? 

Sure the priest is maudlin ! 
(2b tlie public) How can you, d — n your souls ! 

Listen to his twaddLng ? 

\_Fcbruary 22, 18J1. ] 



EPIGBAMS. 



Oh, Castlereagh ! thou art a patriot now, 
Cato died tor his country, so didst thou : 
He perisli'd rather than 'see Home enslaved, 
Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be 
saved ! 

So Castlereagh has cut his throat I— The worst 
Of this is, — that his own was not the first. 



So He has cut liis tliroat at last !— He ! Who ? 
The man who cut his country's long ago. 



EPITAPH. 



Posterity will ne'er survey 
A nobler grave than this : 

Here lie the bones of Castlereagh : 
Stop, traveller, 



JOHN KEATS. 

Who kill'd John Keats ? 

'"I," says the Quarterly, 
So savage and Tartarly ; 

" 'T was one of my feats." 

Who shot the arrow^ ? 

'^ The poet-priest Milman 
(So ready to kill man). 

Or Southey, or Barrow." 



[July, 1821.] 



THE CONQUEST. 

This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's paper 
after his departure from Genoa for Greece. 

{March 8-9, 1823.'] 

The Son of Love and Lord of War I sing ; 

Him who bade England bow to Normandy, 
And left the name of conqueror more than king 

To his unconquerable dynasty. 
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing. 

He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high: 
The Bastard kept, like lions, his prey last. 
And Britain's bravest victor was the last. 



TO MB. MUBBAY. 

For Orford f and for Waldegrave t 
You gave much more than me you gave ; 
Which is not fairly to behave, 

My Murray. 



+ Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine Years of the 
Reign of George III. 

$ Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, governor of George 
III. when Prince of Wales. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Because if a live dog, 't is said, 
Be worth a lion fairly sped, 
A live lord must be worth two dead, 
My Murray. 

And if, as the opinion goes, 
Verse hath a better sale than prose, — 
Certes, I should have more than those, 
My Murray. 

But now this sheet is nearly crammVf, 
So, if you icill^ I sha'n't be shamm'd, 
And if you wonH, you may be damn'd, 
My Murray.* 



THE IBISH AVATAR. f 

" And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to re- 
ceive the paltry rider."— Curran. 

Ere the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave. 

And her ashes still float to their home o'er the 

tide, 

Lo ! George the triumphant speeds over the wave. 

To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his 

—bride ! 

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, 
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could 
pause 
For the few little years, out of centuries won. 
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not 
her cause. 

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, 
The castle still stands, and the senate 's no more, 

And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless 
crags 
Is extending its steps to her desolate shore. 

To her desolate shore— where the emigrant stands 
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth ; 

Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his 
hands, 
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth. 

But he comes ! the Messiah of royalty comes ! 

Like a goodly Leviathan roird from the waves ; 
Tiien receive him as best such an advent becomes, 

With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves ! 

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore. 

To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part — 

But long live the shamrock which shadows him 

o'er! 

Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his 

heart ! 

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again. 

And a new spring of noble aiiections arise — 
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy 
chain. 
And this shout of thy slavery w^hich saddens the 
skies. 

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? 
Were he God — as he is but the commonest clay, 

With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow- 
Such servile devotion might shame him away. 



* " Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must 
be arranged with Mi\ Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, 
and a man of honor. To him you can state all your mercan- 
tile reasons, which you might not like to state to me person- 
ally, such as 'heavy season' — 'flat public' — 'don't gooff' — 
' lordship writes too much '— ' won't take advice '— ' declining 
popularity '—' deduction lor the trade '—' make very little' — 
' generally lose by him '— ' pirated edition ' — ' foreign edition' 



Ay, roar in his train ! let thine orators lash 
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride— 

jSTot thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash 
His soul o'er the freedom imiDlored and denied. 

Ever-glorious Grattan ! the best of the good ! 

So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest ! 
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, 

And his rival or victor in all he possess 'd. 

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, 
Though unequaird, preceded, the task was be- 
gun— 

But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb 
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one! 

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute ; 

With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; 
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute. 

And corruption shrunk scorch 'd from the glance 
of his mind. 

But back to our theme ! Back to despots and slaves ! 

Feasts f urnish'd by Famine ! rejoicings by Pain ! 
True freedom but icelcomes, while slavery still raves, 

When a week's saturnalia hath loosen 'd her chain. 

Let the poor squalid splendor thy wreck can afford 
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) 

Gild over the i)alace, Lo ! Erin, thy lord ! 
Kiss liis foot with thy blessing, his blessings 
denied ! 

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, 
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, 

Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd 
With what monarclis ne'er give, but as wolves 
yield their prey ? 

Each brute hath its nature ; a king's is to reign, — 
To reign ! in that word see, ye ages, comprised 

The cause of the curses all annals contain, 
From Caesar the dreaded to George the despised! 

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping ! O'Connell, proclaim 
His accomplishments ! His ! I ! and thy country 
convince 
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, 
And that " Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young 
prince!" 

Will thy yard of blue ribbon, poor Fingal, recall 
Tlie fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? 

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all 
The slaves, who now liail their betrayer with 
hymns ? 

Ay! "Build him a dwelling! 
mite ! 



let each give his 



Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen ! 
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite — 
And a palace bestow for a poor-no use and prison ! 

Spread— spread, for Yitellius, the royal repast, 
Till the gluttonous despot be stuff 'd to the gorge ! 

And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at last 
The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd 
"George!" 

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan ! 
Till they groan lii^e thy people, through ages of 
woe ! 



—'severe criticisms,' etc., with other hints and howls for an 
oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer." 
—Lord Byro)t to Mr. Murray, August 23, 1821. 
+ "The enclosed lines, as you will directlij perceive, are 

written by the Rev. W. L. B . Of course it is for him to 

deny them if they are not."— Lord Byron to Mr. Moore., Sep- 
tember 17, 1821. 



453 



OC CASIO WA L PIE CES. 



Let the wine flow around tlie old Bacchanars tJirone, 
Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet 
has to flow. 

But let not Ms name be thine idol alone— 
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! 

Thine own Castlereagh I let him still be thine own ! 
A wretch never named but with curses and jeers ! 

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his 

birth, 

Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil, 

Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her 

earth. 

And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile. 

Without one single ray of her genius, without 
The fancy, the manhood, the Are of her race— 

The miscreant wlio well might plunge Erin in doubt 
If she ever gave birth to a being so base. 

If she did— let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, 
AVhich proclaims that from Erin no reptile can 
spring — 

See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush'd, 
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king ! 

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh, Erin I how 
low 

Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till 
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below 

The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still. 

My voice, though but humble, w\as raised for thy 
right. 
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free. 
This hand, thougli but feeble, would arm in thy fight, 
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still 
for thee ! 

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my 
land, 
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy 
sons. 
And I v;ept with the world, o'er the patriot band 
AVho are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. 

For happy are they now reposing afar, — 
Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all 

Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war, 
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall. 

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves ! 

Tlieir shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day — 
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves 

Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. 

Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore. 
Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties 
fled ; 
There was something so warm and sublime in the 
core 
Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy— thy dead. 

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour 
iSly contempt for a nation so servile, though sore. 
Which though trod like the worm v/ill not turn 

upon power, 
'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore ! 

[September, 1821.] 

* " I composed these stanzas (except the fourth, added now) 
a few days ag-o, on the road from Florence to Pisa."— Syron 
Diary, Pisa, 6th November, 1821. 

t " With a view of inducing- Lord and Lady Blessington to 
prolong their stay at Genoa, Lord Byron suggested their tak- 
ing a pretty \alla called ' II Paradiso.' in the neighborhood of 
his own, and accompanied them to look at it. Upon that oc- 
casion it was that, on the Jady expressing some intentions of 
454 



STAIfZAS 

WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE 
AND PISA.* 

Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is 

wrinkled ? 
'T is but as a dead flow^er with May-dew besprinkled. 
Then away with all such from the head that is 

hoary ! 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

Oh, Fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was iiot unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround 

thee ; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my 

story, 
I knew it was love, and I feel it was glory. 

lAvvember, 1821.'\ 



STANZAS 

TO A HINDOO AIR. 

Oh ! — my lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow ! 
Where is my lover ? where is my lover '? 
Is it his bark whicli my dreary dreams discover? 

Far— far away I and alone along the billow V 

Oh ! my lonely— lonely— lonely— Pillow ! 
Why must iny head ache where his gentle brow lay ? 
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, 

And my head droops over thee like the wiiiovv I 

Oh ! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow ! 
Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from 

breaking, 
In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking ; 

Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. 

Then if thou wilt— no more my lonely Pillow, 
In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, 
And then expire of the joy— but to behold him ! 

Oh ! my lone bosom ! — oh ! my lonely Pillow ! 



IMFBOMPTUA 

Beneath Blessington 's eyes 

The reclaim 'd Paradise 
Should be free as the former from evil; 

But, if the new Eve 

For an Api)le should grieve. 
What mortal would not play the devil V t 



?5.] 



residing there, he produced this impromptu." A portrait of 
Lady Blessington will be seen avtc, " Life of Byron." 

$ "The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare 
jest to himself. Taking it into their heads that this villa 
(which was also, I believe, a Casa Sahizzo) had been the one 
fixed on for his own residence, they said, ' II Diavolo h an- 
cora entrato in Paradise' "— Mooke. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES, 



TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. 

You have ask'd for a verse : — the request 
In a rhymer 't were strange to deny; 

But my Hippocrene was but my breast, 
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. 

V/ere I now as I was, I had sung 
What Lawrence has painted so well ; 

But the strain would expire on my tongue, 
And the theme is too soft for my shell. 

I am ashes where once I was fire, 
And the bard in my bosom is dead : 

What I loved I now merely admire. 
And my heart is as gray as my head. 

My life is not dated by years — 

There are moments which act as a plough ; 
And there is not a furrow appears 

But is deep in my soul as my brow. 

Let the young and the brilliant aspire 

To sing what I gaze on in vain ; 
For sorrow has torn from my lyre 

The string which was worthy the strain. 



ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIR- 
TY-SIXTH YEAB. 

MissOLONGHi, January 22, 1824,* 

'T IS time this heart should be unmoved. 

Since others it hath ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
Still let me love ! 

My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone ! 



* " This morning- Lord Byron came from his bedroom into 
the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends 
were assembled, and said with a smile—' You were complain- 
ing, the other day, that I never w^rite any poetry now. This 



The fire that on my bosom preys 

Is lone as some volcanic isle ; 
Ko torch is kindled at its blaze — 
A funeral pile. 

The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 

The exalted portion of the pain 
And power of love, I cannot share, 
But wear the chain. 

But 't is not thus — and 't is not here— 

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now^ 
Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
Or binds his brow. 

The sword, the banner, and the field, 
Glory and Greece, around me see ! 
The Spartan, borne upon his shield, 
Was not more free. 

Awake ! (not Greece— she is awake !) 

Awake, my spirit ! Think through whom. 
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake. 
And then strike home ! 

Tread those reviving passions down. 

Unworthy manhood !— unto thee 
Indifferent should the smile or frown 
Of beauty be. 

If thou regrett'st thy youth, n^liij live f 

The land of honorable death 
Is here :— up to the field, and give 
Away thy breath ! 

Seek out— less often sought than found — 

A soldier's grave, for thee the best ; 
Then look around, and choose thy ground, 
And take thv rest. 



is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I 
think, is better than what I usually write.' He then pro- 
duced these noble and affecting verses."— Count Gamba. 




ANCIENT GREEK COIN OF SYRACUSE. 

The chariots on the elegant coins of the city are supposed to sjmbolize its victories in the famous Olympic games. The head is that of Ceres or Proserpii 



455 



DON JUAN. 



" DifiBcile est proprie communia dicere."— Horace. 

"Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?— Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger 
shall be hot i' the mouth, too!"— Shakspeare, Twelfth Night, or What You Will. 



DEDICATION: 



I. 



Bob Southey ! You 're a poet — Poet-laureate, 

And representative of all the race, 
Although 't is true that you turn'd out a Tory at 

Last, — yours has lately been a common case ; 
And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at? 

With all the Lakers, in and out of place ? 
A nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 
Like " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 

II. 

" Which pye being open'd they began to sing " 
(This old song and new simile holds good), 

" A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food ; — 

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 

But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood, — 

Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his " Explanation."! 

III. 

You, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
At being disappointed in your wish 

To supersede all warblers here below. 
And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 

And then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
And tumble downward like the flying fish 

Gasping on deck, because you soar too high. Bob, 

And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry. Bob ! 

IV. 

A nd Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion " 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 

'T is poetry — at least by his assertion. 

And may appear so when the dog-star rages— 

And he who understands it would be able 

To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



* This "Dedication" was suppressed, in 1819, with Lord 
Byron's reluctant consent; but, shortly after his death, its 
existence became notorious, in consequence of an article ia 
the Westminster Review, generally ascribed to Sir John Hob- 
house. 

+ Coleridge's "Biographia Literaria" appeared in 1817. 
456 



You — Gentlemen ! by dint of long seclusion 

From better company, have kept your own 
At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 

Of one another's minds, at last have grown 
To deem as a most logical conclusion. 

That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 
There is a narrowness in such a notion, 
Which makes me wish you 'd change* your lakes for 
ocean. 

VL 
I would not imitate the petty thought, 

Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice. 
For all the glory your conversion brought. 

Since gold alone should not have been its price. 
You have your salary ; was 't for that you wrought ? 

And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.J 
You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 
And duly seated on the immortal hill. 

VII. 

Your bays may hide the baldness of your brows — 
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ; — let them go — 

To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs — 
And for the fame you Avould engross below, 

The field is universal, and allows 

Sco]3e to all such as feel the inherent glow : 

Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe, will try 

'Gainst you the question with posterity. 

VIII. 

For me, who, wandering with pedestrian INIuses, 
Contend not with you on the Avinged steed, 

I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses, 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need : 

And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 

Of merit, and complaint of present days 

Is not the certain path to future praise. 



$ Wordsworth's place may be in the Customs— it is, T think, 
in that or the Excise— besides another at Lord Lonsdale's 
table, where this poetical charlatan and political parasite licks 
up the crumbs with a hardened alacrity; the converted Jaco- 
bin ha\ang long subsided into the clownish sycophant of the 
worst prejudices of the aristocracy. 



DON JUAK 



IX. 

He that reserves his laurels for posterity 

(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion ; 

And although here and there some glorious rarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To— God knows where — for no one else can know. 

X. 

If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 

Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Tirrve, 
If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 

And makes the word " Miltonic" mean " sy^blime,'' 
He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs. 

Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 
He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 

XI. 

Think'st thou, could he— the blind Old Man — arise 
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more 

The blood of monai-chs with his prophecies, 
Or be alive again - again all hoar 

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 

And heartless daughters — worn — and pale- — and 
poor ; 

Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? 

XII. 
Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

AVith just enough of talent, and no more. 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd, 
And offer poison long already mix'd. 

XIII. 
An orator of such set trash of phrase, 

Ineffably — legitimately vile. 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to smile, — 



* "Pale, but not cadaverous : "—Milton's two elder daugh- 
ters are said to have robbed him of his books, besides cheat- 
ing- and plaguing him in the economy of his house, etc., etc. 
His feelings on such an outrage, both as a parent and a 
scholar, must have been singularly painful. Hayley for- 
cibly as well as aptly compares him to Lear. See part third, 



Nor even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze 

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil. 
That turns and turns to give the world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 

XIV. 

A bungler even in its disgusting trade. 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid, 

States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains. 

XV. 

If we may judge of matter by the mind. 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, 

Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, 
Eutropius of its many masters,! — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit. 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 

XVI. 

Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 

For I will never /ee/ them; — Italy! 
Thy late reviving Eoman soul desponds 

Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee — 
Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, 

Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me. 
Europe has slaves — allies — kings— armies still, 
And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime— Sir Laureate— I proceed to dedicate, 
In honest simple verse, this song to you. 

And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 
'T is that I still retain my " bufi" and blue ; " 

My politics as yet are all to educate : 
Apostasy 's so fashionable, too. 

To keep one creed 's a task grown quite herculean ; 

Is it not so, my Tory, ultra- Julian ? J 

Venice, September 16, 1818. 

Life of Milton, by W. Hayley (or Hailey, as spelt in the edi- 
tion before me). 

t For the character of Eutropius, the eunuch and minister 
at the court of Arcadius, see Gibbon. 

t T allude not to my friend Landor's hero, the traitor Count 
Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept " The Apostate." 




457 



CAXTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



T.-TIT. 




ion Juan/ 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



I. 

I WANT a hero : an uncommon want, 

When every year and month sends forth a new 
one, 
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant, 

The age discovers he is not the true one ; 
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt, 

I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan^ 
We all have seen him, in the pantomime. 
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 



^ Beg-un at Venice. September 6; finished November 1, 
1818. 

' Admiral Vernon, who served with considerable distinc- 
tion in the navy, particularl3' in the capture of Porto Bello, 
died in 1757. 

3 Second son of George II., disting-uished himself at the 
battles of Dettingen and Fontenoy, and still more so at that 
of Culloden, where he defeated the Chevalier, in 1746. The 
duke, however, obscured his fame by the cruel abuse which 
he made, or suffered his soldiers to make, of the victory. He 
died in 1765. 

* General Wolfe, the brave commander of the expedition 
against Quebec, terminated his career in the moment of vic- 
tory, whilst fighting against the French in 1759. 

5 In 1759, Admiral Lord Hawke totally defeated the French 
fleet equipped at Brest for the invasion of England. In 1765 
he was appointed First Lord of the Admiraltj^ ; and died, full 
of honors, in 1781. 

6 Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, who gained the victory 
of iMinden. In 1763, he drove the French out of Hesse. He 
died in 1792. 

^ Son of the third duke of Rutland— signalized himself in 
1745, on the invasion by Prince Charles; and was constituted, 
in 1759, commander of the British forces in Germany. He 
died in 1770. 

8 An English general ofiicer and dramatist, who distin- 
guished himself in the defence of Portugal, in 1763, against 
the Spaniards, and also in America by the capture of Ticon- 
deroga ; but was at last obliged to surrender, with his army, 
to General Gates. Died in 1792. 

^ Second son of the Earl of Albemarle. Placed at the head 
of the Channel fleet, he partially engaged, in 1778, the French 
fleet oflC Ushant, which conti'ived to escape : he was, in conse- 
quence, tried by a court-martial, and honorably acquitted. 
He died in 1786. 

^0 Lord Howe distinguished himself on many occasions dur- 
ing the American war. On the brealiing ont of the French 
war, he took the command of the English fleet, and, bringing 
the enemy to an action on the 1st of June, 1794, obtained 
a splendid victory. He died in 1799. 

" Barnave, one of the most active promoters of the French 
revolution, was in 1791 appointed president of the Constit- 
uent Assembly. On the flight of the royal family, he was 
sent to conduct them to Paris. He was guillotined, Novem- 
ber, 1793. 

1- Brissot de Warville, at the age of twenty, published sev- 
eral tracts, for one of which he was, in 1784, thrown into the 
Bastile. He was one of the principal instigators of the revolt 
of the Champ de Mars, in July, 1789. He was led to the guil- 
lotine, October, 1793. 

^^ Condorcet was, in 1792, appointed president of the Legis- 
lative Assembly. Having, in 1793, attacked the new Consti- 
tution, he was denounced. Being thrown into prison, he was 
on the following morning found dead, apparentl}' from poi- 
son. His works are collected in twenty-one volumes. 
458 



II. 

Yernon,2 ^\-^q butcher Cumberland,^ Wolfe,* 
Hawke,^ 
Prince Ferdinand,^ Granby,^ Burgoyne,^ Keppel,^ 
Howe,^'' 
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk. 
And fill'd their sign-posts .then, like Wellesley 
now ; 
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk, 
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that 
sow : 
France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 
Recorded in the Moaiteur and Courier. 



III. 

Barnave,^^ Brissot ,^^ Condorcet ,^^ Mirabeau,'* 
Petion,!^ Clootz,^6 Danton,^' Marat ,^8 La Fayette,^' 

Were French, and famous people, as we know ; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert,'''' Ploche,^' Marceau," Laiines,'"^^ JJesaix,'^* 
Moreau,^' 
With many of the military set, 

Exceedingly remarkable at times. 

But not at all adapted to my rhymes. 



^* Mirabeau, so well known as one of the chief promoters 
of, and actors in, the French revolution, died in 1791. 

^^ Petion, ma3'or of Pans in 1791, took an active part in the 
imprisonment of the king. Becoming, in 1793, an object of 
suspicion to Robespierre, he took refuge in the department 
of the Calvados; Avhere his body was found in a field, half 
devoured by wolves. 

16 John Baptiste (better known under the appellation of 
Anacharsis) Clootz. In 1790, at the bar of the National Con- 
vention, he described himself as "the orator of the human 
race." Being suspected by Robespierre, he was, in 1794, con- 
demned to death. On the scaffold he begged to be decapitated 
the last, as he wished to make some observations essential to 
the establishment of certain principles, while the heads of 
the others Avere falling ; a request obligingly complied with. 

1' Danton played a verj' important part during the first 
years of the French revolution. After the fall of the king, 
he was made Minister of Justice. His violent measures led 
to the bloody scenes of September, 1793. Being denounced 
to the Committee of Safety, he ended his career on the guil- 
lotine, in 1794. 

13 This wretch figured among the actors of the 10th of 
August, and in the assassination of September, 1792, In May, 
1793, he was denounced, and delivered over to the revolution- 
ary tribunal, which acquitted him ; but his bloody career was 
arrested by the knife of an assassin, in the person of Char- 
lotte Corde. 

'9 Of all these "famous people," the general was the last 
survivor. He died in 1834. 

2'5Joubert distinguished himself at the engagements of 
Laono, Montenotte, Millesimo, Cava, Montebello, Rivoli, and 
especially in the Tj-rol. He was afterwards opposed to Su- 
warrow, and was killed, in 1799, at Novi. 

21 In 1796, Hoche was appointed to the command of the ex- 
pedition against Ireland, and sailed in December from Brest; 
i)ut, a storm dispersing the fleet, the plan failed. After his 
return, he received the command of the army of the Sambre 
and Meuse; but died suddenly, in September, 1797, it was 
supposed of poison. 

2- General Marceau first distinguished himself in La Ven- 
dee. He was killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen. See ante, 
p.2r. 

2^ Lannes, Duke of Montebello, distinguished himself at 
Millesimo, Lodi, Aboukir, Acre, Montebello, Austerlitz. Jena, 
Pultusk, Preuss, Eylau, Friedland, Tudela, Saragossa, Eeh- 
muhl, and, lastly, at Esling; where, in Maj% 1809, he was 
killed bj- a cannon-shot. 

24 At the taking of Malta, and at the battles of Chebreiss 
and of the Pj-ramids, Desaix displa.ved the greatest bravery. 
He was mortally Avounded by a cannon-ball at Marengo, just 
as Aietory declared for the French. 

25 One of the most distinguished of the republican gen- 
erals. In 1813. on hearing of the rcA^erses of Napoleon in 
Russia, he joined the allied armies. He was struck by a can- 

. non-ball at the battle of Dresden, in 1813. 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



IV.-XV 



IV. 

Kelson was once Britannia's .s^od of war, 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There 's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army 's grown more popular, 
At which the naval people are concern'd ; 

Besides, the prince is all for the land-service, 

Forgetting Duncan, Kelson, Howe, and Jervis. 

Y. 

Brave men were living before Agamemnon 
And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none ; 
But then they shone not on the poet's page, 

And so have been forgotten: — I condemn none. 
But can't find any in the present age 

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one) ; 

So, as I said, 1 11 take my friend Don Juan. 

YI. 

Most epic poets plunge " in medias res " 
(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road). 

And then j^our hero tells, whene'er you please. 
What went before— by way of episode, 

AYhile seated after dinner at his ease, 
Beside his mistress in some soft abode. 

Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, 

Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 

YII. 

That is the usual method, but not mine — 
My way is to begin with the beginning ; 

The regularity of my design 
Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning. 

And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Althougli it cost me half an hour in spinning) 

Karrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 

And also of his mother, if you 'd rather. 

YIII. 

In Seville was lie born, a pleasant city. 
Famous for oranges and women— he 

Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 
So says the proverb — and I quite agree ; 

Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 
Cadiz perhaps— but that you soon may see ; — 

Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 

A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir. 

IX. 

His father's name was Jose — Bon, of course, 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain ; 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again. 

Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 

Begot— but that 's to come Well, to renew : 

X. 

His mother was a learned lady, famed 
For every branch of every science known — 

♦Professor Feinag-le, of Baden, who, in 1812, under the 
especial patronag-e of the "jBlites," delivered a course of lec- 
tures at the Royal Institution, on Mnemonics. 

+ "Lady Byron had good ideas, but could never express 
them : wrote poetry also, but it was only good by accident. 
Her letters were always enigmatical, often unintelligible. 
She was g-overned by what she called fixed rules and princi- 
ples squared mathematically." — Byron Letters. 

% Sir Samuel Romilly lost his lady on the 29th of October, 
and committed suicide on the 2d of November, 1818.— "But 
there will come a day of reckoning-, even if I should not 
live to see it. I have at least seen Romilly shivered, who was 
one of my assassins. When that man was doing- his worst to 
uproot my whole family, tree, branch, and blossoms — when. 



In every Christian language ever named. 
With virtues equall'd by her wit alone : 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

In their own way by all the things that she did. 

XL 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

So that if any actor iPiiss'd his part. 
She could have served him for the prompter's 
copy ; 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art,* 
And he himself obliged to shut up shop— he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorn 'd the brain of Donna Inez.f 

XII. 

Her favorite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 

Her wit (she sometimes tried at wit) was Attic 
all. 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity; 

In short, in all things she was fairly what I call 
A prodigy— her morning dress was dimity, 

Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin. 

And other stuffs, with which I won't stay puzzliiig. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin— that is, "the Lord's prayer,'^ 
And Greek— the alphabet — I 'm nearly sure ; 

She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 

For native Spanish she had no great care. 
At least her conversation v/as obscure ; 

Her thoughts were theorems, her words a prob- 
lem, 

As if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 'em. 

XIY. 

She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 

And said there was analogy between 'em ; 
Slie proved it somehow out of sacred song. 
But I must leave the proofs to those who 've seen 
'em ; 
But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong. 
And all may think which way their judgments 
lean 'em, 
" 'T is strange— the Hebrew noun which means ' I 

am,' 
The English always use to govern d n." 

XY. 

Some women use their tongues— she loolc'd a lec- 
ture. 

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily, 
An all-in-all sufficient self-director. 

Like the lamented late Sir Samuel Romilly, $ 
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector, 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that "All is vanity " — 
(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity "). 



after taking- my retainer, he went over to them— when he 
was bring-ing- desolation on my household g-ods— did he think 
that, in less than three yeai'S, a natural event— a severe, 
domestic, but an expected and common calamity— would 
lay his carcass in a cross-road, or stamp his name in a verdict 
of lunacy! Did he (who in his sexag-enary * * *) reflect or 
consi&er what my feelings must have been, when wife, and 
child, and sister, and name, and fame, and country, were to 
be my sacrifice on his leg-al altar,— and this at a moment 
when my health was declining-, my fortune embarrassed, and 
my mind had been shaken by many kinds of disappointment 
— while I was yet young, and mig:ht have reformed what 
mig-ht be wrong- in my conduct, and retrieved what was per- 
plexing in my affairs ! ''—Byron Letters, June, 1819. 
459 



CAXTO I. 



DON JUAN, 



XVI.-XXVIT. 



XYI. 

In short, she was a walkinsr calculation, 
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their 
covers,* 

Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education,! 
Or " Coglebs' AVife " J set out in quest of lovers, 

Morality's prim personification. 
In wliich not Envy's self a flaw discovers ; 

To others' share let " female errors fall," 

For she had not even one — the worst of all. 

XYII. 

Oh ! she was perfect past all parallel— 
Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell, 
Her guardian angel had given up his garrison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 
As those of the best time-piece made by Harri- 
son : 

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 

Save thine " incomparable oil," Macassar ! 

XYIII. 

Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 

Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
Till they were exiled from their earlier bowers, 

Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss 
(I wonder how they got through the twelve 
hours), 

Don Jose, like a lineal son of Eve, 

Went plucking various fruit without her leave. 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind. 
With no great love for learning, or the learn'd. 

Who chose to go vvhere'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was coucern'd; 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper'd he had a mistress, some said ivoo; 

But for domestic quarrels on& will do. 

XX. 

l^ow Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities ; 

But then she had a devil of a spirit. 
And sometimes mix'd up fancies with realities, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 
Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 

And even the wisest, do tlie best they can, 
Have moments, hours, and days, so unprepared, 

* Maria Edgeworth, author of "Treatise on Practical Edu- 
cation," "Castle Rackrent," etc., etc., etc. 

+ "• Comparative View of the New Plan of Education," 
"Teacher's Assistant," etc., etc. 

* Hannah More's "Coelebs in Search of a Wife," etc. 

§ " The facts are :— I left London for Kirby Mallory, the 
residence of my father and mother, on the 15th of January, 
1816. Lord Byron had signified to me in writing (January 6) I 
his absolute desire that I should leave London on the earliest 
day that T could conveniently fix. Tt was not safe for me to 
undertake the fatigue of a journey sooner than the 15th. 
Previously to my departure, it had been strongly impressed 
on ray mind, that Lord Bj'ron was under the influence of 
irsanitij. This opinion was derived in a great measure from 
the communications made to me by his nearest relatives and 
personal attendant, who had more oppoi-tunities than mj'self 
of observing him during the latter part of my stay in town. 
It -was even represented to me that he was in danger of de- 
strojing himself. With the concurrence of his famih/, I had i 
consulted Dr. Baillie as a friend (January 8) respecting this , 
460 



That you might "brain them with their lady's fan ; " 

x\nd sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard. 
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands. 
And why and wherefore no one understands. 

XXII. 

'T is pity learned virgins ever wed 
With persons of no sort of education. 

Or gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, 
Grow tired of scientific conversation : 

I don't choose to say much upon this liead, 
I 'm a plain man, and in a single station. 

But — Oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual. 

Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck 'd you all ? 

XXIII. 

Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why, 

Not any of the many could divine. 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

'T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine; 
I loathe that low vice— curiosity; 

But if there 's anything in which I shine, 
'T is in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 
Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd. 
For neither of them could I ever find. 

Although tlieir porter afterwards confess'd — 
But that 's no matter, and the worst 's behind, 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 

XXY. 

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing. 
And mischief -making monkey from his birth ; 

His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
Upon the most unquiet imp on earth ; 

Instead of quarrelling, had they been but both in 
Their senses, they 'd have sent young master forth 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home, 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXYI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 
For some time an unhappy sort of life. 

Wishing each otlier, not divorced, but dead ; § 
They lived respectably as m.an and wife. 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred. 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXYII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists and physicians, 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad^W 



supposed malady. On acquainting him with the state of the 
case, and with Lord Byron's desire that I should leave Lon- 
don, Dr. Baillie thought that my absence might be adWsable 
as an experiment, assuming the fact of mental derangement; 
for Dr. Baillie, not having had access to Lord Bj'ron, could 
not pronounce a positive opinion on that point. He enjoined 
that in correspondence with Lord Byron I should avoid all 
but light and soothing topics. Under these impressions, I 
left London, determined to follow the ad\ace given by Di\ 
Baillie."— Lady Byron. 

II " I was surprised one day by a doctor (Dr. Baillie) and a 
lawyer (Dr. Lushington) almost forcing themselves at the 
same time into my room. I did not know till afterwards the 
real object of their visit. I thought their questions singular, 
frivolous, and somewhat importunate, if not impertinent, 
but what should I ha\-e thought, if I had known that they 
were sent to provide proofs of my insanity. I have no doubt 
that my answers to these emissaries were not very rational 
or consistent, for mj' imagination was heated with other 
things. But Dr. Baillie could not conscientiously make me 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



XXVIII.-XL. 



But as he had some lucid intermissions, 

She next decided he was only had ; 
Yet when they ask'd lier for her depositions, 

Xo sort of explanation could be had, 
Save that her duty both to man and God 
-Required this conduct— which seem'd very odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noted, 
And open'd certain trunks of books and letters-. 

All which might, if occasion served, be quoted; 
And then she had all Seville for abettors. 

Besides her good old grandmotlier (who doted) ; 
The hearers of her case became repeaters. 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Some for amusement, others for old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best and meekest w^oman bore 
'With such serenity her husband's woes. 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore. 
Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chose 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose. 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity. 

That all the world exclaim'd, "What magna- 
nimity! " 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world Is damning 
us, 

Is philosophic in oui former friends ; 
'T is also i^leasant to be deem'd magnanimous, 

Tlie more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyers call a "" malus animus " 

Conduct like this by no means comprehends : 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. 
But then 'tis not my fault, if others hurt you. 

XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
And help tliem with a lie or two additional, 

I'm. not to blame, as you wtII know — no more is 
Any one else — they Avere become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
By contrast, which is what we just were wishing 
all: 

And science profits by tliis resurrection — 

Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection. 

XXXII. 

Their friends* had tried at reconciliation. 
Then tlieir relations, who made matters w^orse. 

('Twere hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much for friend or yet relation) : 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died : and most unluckily, because, 
According to all hints I could collect 

From counsel learned iji those kinds of laws 
(Although their talk 's obscure and circumspect). 

His death contrived to spoil a ciiarming caute ; 
A thousand pities also witli respect 

To public feeling, which on this occasion 

Was manifested in a sfreat sensation. 



out a certificate for Bedlam ; and perhaps the lawyer gave a 
more favorable report to his emploj'ers. I do not, however, 
tax Lady BjTon with this transaction ; probably she was not 
privy to it. She was the tool of others. Her mother always 
detested me, and had not even the decency to conceal it in 
her house."— Lord Byron. " My mother always treated Lord 



xxxiy. 

But ah ! he died ; and buried with him lay 
Tlie public feeling and the lawyers' fees : 

His house was sold, his servants sent away, 
A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 

A priest the other— at least so they say : 
I ask'd the doctors after his disease — 

He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, 

And left his widow to her own aversion. 

xxxy. 

Yet Jose was an honorable man, 
That I must say, Avho knew him very well ; 

Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan. 
Indeed there were not many more to tell : 

And if his passions now and then outran 
Discretion, and were not so peaceable 

As Numa's (who was also named Pompilius), 

He had been ill brought up, and was born bilious. 

XXXYI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or wortli, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound liim. 

Let 's own — since it can do no good on earth — 
It was a trying moment that which found him 

Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 
Where all his household gods lay shiver'd round 
him : 

No choice was left his feelings or his pride. 

Save death or Doctors' Commons — so he died. 

XXXYII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 
To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, 

W^hich, with a long minority and'care, 
Promised to turn out well in proper hands : 

Inez became sole guardian, which v/as fair, 
And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 

An only son left with an only mother 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXYIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widov»^s, she 
Resolved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree : 
(His sire was of Castile, his dam from Aragon.) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry. 
In case our lord the king should go to war again, 

lie learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery. 

And how to scale a fortress— or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired, 
And saw into herself each day before all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hired. 
Was, that his breeding should be strictly moral : 

Much into all his studies she inquired. 
And so they were submitted first to her, all. 

Arts, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 

XL. 

The languages, especially the dead. 
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use, 

In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of anything that '"s loose, 

Or hints continuation of the species. 

Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vicious. 

Byron with an affectionate consideration and indulgence, 
which extended to every little peculiarity of his feelings. 
Never did an irritating word escape her lips in her whole 
intercourse with him."— Lady Byron. 
* Mr. Roger's, Mr. Hobhouse, etc., etc. 

461 



CANTO T. 



DON JUAK 



XLT.-LYI, 



XLI. 

His classic studies made a little puzzle. 
Because of filtliY loves of gods and goddesses, 

"Who in the earlier ages raised a bustle, 
But never put on pantaloons or bodices; 

His reverend tutors liad at times a tussle. 
And for their ^neids, Iliads, and Odysseys, 

Were forced to make an odd sort of apology, 

Por Donna Inez dreaded the Mythology. 

XLII. 

Ovid 's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
Anacreon's morals are a still Avorse sample, 

Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 
I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example. 

Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
Where the sublime soars forth on wings more 
ample ; 

But YirgiFs songs are pure, except that horrid one 

Beginning with ^' Formosum Pastor Cory don." 

XLIII. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food; 
I can't help thinking Juvenal was wrong. 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song. 

So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial ? 

XLIY. 
Juan was taught from out the best edition, 

Expurgated by learned men, who place, 
Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 

The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 
Too much their modest bard by this omission, 

And ])itying sore his mutilated case. 
They only add them all in an appendix,* 
Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome troop. 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 
To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring all together ; 

Like garden gods — and not so decent either. 

XLYI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 

Was ornamented in a sort of way 
Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 

Kinds of grotesques illumined ; and how they, 
Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all. 

Could turn their optics to the text and pray. 
Is more than I know — But Don Juan's mother 
Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 

XLYIL 

Sermons he read, and lectures he endured, 
And homilies, and lives of all the saints; 

To Jerome and to Chrysostom inured. 
He did not take such studies for restraints ; 

But how faith is acquired, and then insured. 
So well not one of the aforesaid paints 

As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 

Which make the reader envy his transgressions, f 



XLVIII. 

This, too, Avas a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education w^as the true one. 
She scarcely trusted him from out her sight ; 

Her maids were old, and if she took a new one. 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright : 

She did this during even her husband's life — 

I recommend as much to every wife. 

XLIX. 

IToung Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace ; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a face 

As e'er to man's maturer gro\Yth was given: 
He studied steadily, and grew apace. 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road to heaven, 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the other 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 

L. 

At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild. 
They tamed him down amongst them : to de- 
stroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
At least it seem'd so ; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady, 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 

LI. 

I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
But what I say is neither here nor there : 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill : 
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But scandal 's my aversion— I protest 

Against all evil-speaking, even in jest. 

LII. 

For my part I say nothing— nothing— but 

This I will say— my reasons are my own- 
That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as God be praised that I have none), 
'T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone ; 
Xo— no— I 'd send him out betimes to college. 
For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 

LIII. 

For there one learns— 't is not for me to boast, 
Though I acquired— but I pass over that^ 

As well as all the Greek I since have lost : 
I say that there 's the place — but " Verhum sat,'"' 

I think I pick'd up too, as well as most. 
Knowledge of matters— but no matter icJiat — 

I never married— but, I think. I know 

That sons should not be educated so. 

LIY. 
Y^oung Juan now was sixteen years of age, 

Tall, handsome, slender, but well knit: he seem'd 
Active, though not so sprightly, as a page; 

And everybody but his mother deem'd 
Him almost man ; but she flew in a rage 

And bit her lips (for else she might have scream'd) 
If any said so, for to be precocious 
Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

*Fact! There is, or was, such an edition, with all the oh- avoided the school as the plaj^ue; he loved nothing but 
noxious epigrams of Martial placed bj- themselves at the end. i gaming- and public shows; he robbed his father of every- 

+ See his Confessions, 1. i., c. ix. By the representation j thing he could find; he invented a thousand lies to escape 
which Saint Augustine gives of himself in his youth, it is : the rod, which they were obliged to make use of to punish 
easy to see that he was what we should call a rake. He j his irregularities. 
402 



CANTO r. 



DON JUAK 



LY.-LXYIT. 



LY. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
Selected for discretion and devotion, 

There was tlie Donna Jidia, whom to call 
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 

Of many charms in her as natural 
As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 

Her zone to Yenus, or his bow to Cupid 

(But this last simile is trite and stupid). 

LYI. 

The darkness of her Oriental eye 

Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 

In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 
When proud Granada fell, and, forced to flj% 

Boabdil wept,* of Donna Julia's kin 
Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 
Her great great grandmamma chose to remain. 

LYII. 

She married (T forget the pedigree) 
With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be ; 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 

In that point so precise in each degree 
That they bred in and in, as might be shown. 

Marrying their cousins, — nay, their aunts, and 
nieces, 

■\Vhich always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

LYIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its flesh ; 

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresh ; 

The sons no more were short, the daughters plain ; 
But there 's a rumor which I fain would hush, 

'Tis said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law. 

LIX. 

However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son. 
Who left an only daughter; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Julia (whom on this occasion 

I shall have much to speak about), and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 

Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
Until she spoke, tlien through its soft disguise 

Plash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
And love than either ; and there would arise 

A something in them which was not desire, 
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
Which struggled through and chasten'd down the 
whole. 

LXI. 
Her glossy hair was cluster 'd o'er a brow 

Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 
Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow. 

Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 

* " Having- surrendered the last symbol of power, the un- 
fortunate Boabdil continued on towards the Alpuxarras, that 
he might not behold the entrance of the Christians into his 
capital. His devoted band of cavaliers followed him in 
g-loomy silence. Having- ascended an eminence commanding 
the last view of Granada, they paused involuntarily to take 
a farewell gaze at their beloved city, which a few steps more 
would shut from their sight for ever. While they j'et looked, 
a light cloud of smoke broke forth from the citadel; and 



Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 

As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
Possess'd an air and grace by no means common: 
Her stature tall~I hate a dumpy woman. 

LXII. 

Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty ; 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one 
'T were better to have two of five-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 
And now I think on 't, " mi vien in mente," 

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty. 

LXIII. 

'T is a sad thing, I cannot choose but say, 
And all the fault of that indecent sun. 

Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 
But will keep baling, broiling, burning on, 

That howsoever people fast and pray, 
The flesli is frail, and so the soul undone : 

What men call gallantry, and gods adultery. 

Is much more common where the climate 's sultry. 

LXIY. 

Happy the nations of the moral jSTorth ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 

('Twas snow that brought Saint Antlionyf to 
reason ) ; 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please on 
The lover, who must pay a handsome price. 
Because it is a marketable vice. 

LXY. 

Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 
A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abliorr'd: 
They lived together as most people do. 

Suffering each other's foibles by accord. 
And not exactly either one or tico ; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know it. 

LXYI. 

Julia was— yet I never could see why— 

. With Donna Inez quite a favorite friend ; 
Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 

For not a line had Julia ever penn'd : 
Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, 

For malice still imputes some private end) 
That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage. 
Forgot with him her very prudent carriage ; 

LXYII. 

And that still keeping up the old connection. 
Which time had lately render 'd much more 
chaste. 

She took his lady also in affection. 
And certainly this course was much the best : 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection. 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste; 

And if she could not (who can ?) silence scandal, 

At least she left it a more slender handle. 



presently a peal of artillery, faintly heai'd, told that the city 
was taken possession of, and the throne of the Moslem kings 
was lost for ever. The heart of Boabdil, softened by misfor- 
tunes, and overcharged with grief, could no longer contain 
itself. ' Allah achbar ! God is great ! ' said he ; but the words 
of resignation died upon his lips, and he burst into a flood of 
tears."— Washington Irving. 

+ For the particulai'S of Saint Anthony's recipe for hot blood 
in cold weather, see Mr. Alban Butler's " Lives of the Saints." 
463 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



LXVriT.-LXXXIII. 



LXYIII. 
I can't tell Avhether Julia saw the affair 

Vv ith other people's eyes, or if her own 
Discoveries made, but none could be aware 

Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown ; 
Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 

Indifferent from the first, or callous grown: 
I 'm really puzzled what to think or say, 
Slie kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
Caress'd him often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, 
AVhen she had twenty years, and thirteen he ; 

But I am not so sure I should have smiled 
AVhen he Avas sixteen, Julia twenty-three ; 

These few short years make wondrous alterations. 

Particularly amongst sunburnt nations. 

LXX. • 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had become 
Changed ; for the dame grew^ distant, the youth shy, 

Th.eir looks cast downi, their greetings almost dumb, 
And much embarrassment in either eye ; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna Julia knew the reason why, 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean. 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind. 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew^ itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
'Twas but a doubt ; but ne'er magician's wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fairy art 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart. 

LXXII. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more. 
She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile. 

As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store ' 
She must not own, but cherish'd more the while 

For that compression in its burning core ; 
Even innocence itself has many a wile, 

And will not dare to trust itself with truth, 

And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 
But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 

Even by its darkness : as the blackest sky 
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye, 
And in whatever aspect it arrays 

Itself, 't is still the same hypocrisy ; 
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate. 
Are masks it often Avears, and still too late. 

Lxxiy. 

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression. 
And stolen glances, sw^eeter for the theft, 

And burning blushes, though for no transgression. 
Tremblings when met, and restlessness w^ien left ; 

All these are little preludes to possession. 
Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 

And merely tend to show^ how^ greatly love is 

Em,barrass'd at first starting with a novice. 

LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart w^as in an aw^kward state ; 

She felt it going, and resolved to make 
The noblest efforts for herself and mate. 

For honor's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake. 
Her resolutions w^re most truly great, 

And almost might have made a Tarquin quake : 
464 



She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother. 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
AVhich, by the Virgin's grace, let in another; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore- 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

'T is surely Juan now— Xo ! I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. - 

LXXVII. 

She now^ determined that a virtuous w^oman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation, 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever give her heart the least sensation ; 

That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, 

For people wiio are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell ? 

The devil 's so very sly— she should discover 
That all within was not so very well. 

And, if still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perha])S, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're 
over ; 
And if the man should ask, 'tis but denial: 
1 recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love, divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very fine. 
And matrons, wdio would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine; " 
Thus Julia said— and thought so, to be sure; 

And so I xl have her think, were I the man 

On W'hom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 
Between young persons without any danger. 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kiss'd; 
For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger, 

But lieav these freedoms form the utmost list 
Of all o'er which such love may be a ranger : 

If people go beyond, 'tis quite a crime, 

But not my fault— I tell them all in time. 

LXXXI. 

Love, then, but love within its proper limits, 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favor, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion ; 
And, lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethereal lustre, with what sw^et persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together— 
I really don't know w^hat, nor Julia either. 

LXXXII. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
In mail of proof— her purity of soul, 

She, for the future of her strength convinced, 
And that her honor was a rock, or mole. 

Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
With any kind of troublesome control ; 

But wiiether Julia to the task was equal 

Is that wdiich must be mention 'd in the sequel. 

LXXXIIL 

Her plan she deem'd both innocent and feasible. 
And, surely, with a stripling of sixteen 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXIV.-XCVI. 



Not scandal's fangs conld fix on much that 's seiz- 
able, 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
Nothing but what was good, her breast was peace- 
able— 
A quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded 
That all the Apostles would have done as they did. 

Lxxxiy. 

And if in the mean time her husband died, 
But Heaven forbid that such a thought should 
cross 

Her brain, though in a dream ! (and then she sigh'd) 
Never could she survive that common loss ; 

But just suppose that moment should betide, 
I only say suppose it — inUr nos. 

(This should be entre nous, for Julia thought 

In French, but then the rhyme would go for nought) . 

LXXXY. 

I only say, suppose this supposition : 
Juan being then grown up to man's estate 

"Would fully suit a widow of condition, 
Even seven years hence it would not be too late ; 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn the rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph way of those above. 

LXXXVI. 

So much for Julia. 'Now we '11 turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow ! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea ,'^ 
He puzzled over what he found a new one. 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow charming. 

LXXXYII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tormented with a wound he could not know. 
His, like all deep grief , plunged in solitude: 

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so. 
But then,! beg it may be understood, 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a harem for a grot. 

LXXXYIII. 

Oh, Love ! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss. 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss,t 
With the exception of the second line. 

For that same twining " trajisport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 

The very thing which everybody feels, 
As all have found on trial, or may find. 

That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 
Or love. — I won't say more about " entwined " 

Or " transport," as we knew all that before. 

But beg " Security " will bolt the door. 

* See Ovid, de Art. Amand., 1. ii. 

+ Campbell's Gertrude of Wyoming-— (I think)— the opening 
of canto second— but quote from memory. 

$ Juan Bbscan Almogavd, of Barcelona, died about the 
year 1543. In concert with his friend Garcilasso, he intro- 
duced the Italian style into Castilian poetry, and com- 
30 



xc. 

Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 
Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 

Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
Where the wild branch of tlie cork forest grew ; 

There poets find materials for their books. 
And every now and then we read them through. 

So that their plan and prosody are eligible. 

Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 

XCI. 

He, Juan (and not Wordsworth), so pursued 
His self-communion with his own high soul, 

Until his mighty heart, in its great mood. 
Had mitigated part, though not the whole 

Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
With things not very subject to control. 

And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 

Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

XCII. 

He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 

And how the deuce they ever could have birth; 
And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars, 

How many miles the moon might have in girth. 
Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 

To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ;— 

And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

XCIII. 

In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
Longings sublime, and aspirations high. 

Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
To plague themselves withal, they know not 
why : 

'T was strange that one so young should thus con- 
cern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 

If you think 'twas pliilosophy that this did, 

I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 

XCIY. 

He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 

He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
And how the goddesses came down to men : 

He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours. 
And when he look'd upon his watch again. 

He found how much old Time had been a winner — 

He also found that he had lost his dinner. 

XCY. 

Sonietimes he turned to gaze upon his book, 
Boscan,J or Garcilasso ; ^ — by the wind 

Even as the page is rustled while we look. 
So by the poesy of his own mind 

Over the mj^stic leaf his soul was shook, 
As if 't were one whereon magicians bind 

Their spells, and give them to the passing gale. 

According to some good old v/oman's tale. 

XCYI. 

Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he wanted; 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay. 
Could yield his spirit that for which it panted^ 

A bosom whereon he his head might lay, 
And hear the heart beat with the love it granted,. 

menced his labors by writing- sonnets in the manner of Pe- 
trarch. 

§ Garcilasso de la Vega, of a noble family at Toledo, was 
a warrior as well as a poet. After serving with distinction 
in Germany, Africa, and Provence, he was killed, in 1536, by 
a stone thrown from a tower, which fell upou his head as he 
was leading on his battalion. 

465 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



XCVII.-CXI. 



AVith several other things, which I forget, 

Or which, at least, I need not mention yet. 

XCYII. 

Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, 
Could not escape the gentle Jnlia's eyes ; 

She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 
But that which cliiefly may, and must surprise, 

Is. that the Donna Inez did iiot tease 
Her only son with question or surmise ; 

"Whether it was she did not see, or would not. 

Or, like aU very clever people, could not. 

XCYIII. 

This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very common ; 

For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of women. 

And break the Which commandment is 't they 

break ? 
(I have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 
I say, when these same gentlemen are jealous, 
They make some blunder, which their ladies tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 
But still no less suspects in the wrong place. 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes. 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace, 

By harboring some dear friend extremely vicious ; 
"The last indeed 's infallibly the case : 

And when the spouse and friend are gone off 
wholly. 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

Nl C. 

Thus parents also are at times short-sighted : 

Though watchfid. as the lynx, they ne'er dis- 
cover, 
The w^hile the wicked w^orld beholds delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's lover, 
Till some confounded escapade lias blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

CI. 
But Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion. 
She had some other motive much more near 

For leaving Juan to this new temptation. 
But what that motive was, I sha'n't say here ; 

Perhaps to finish Juan's education. 
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes. 
In case he thought his wife too great a prize. 

CII. 
It was upon a day, a summer's day :— 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous season. 
And so is spring about the end of May ; 

The sun, no doubt, is the prevailing reason ; 
But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 
And stand convicted of more truth than trea- 
son , 
That tiiere are saomths which nature grows more 

merry in, — 
March has its hares, and May must have its heroine. 

CIII. 

'T was on a summer^s-day— the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Xot only of the age, and year, -but moon ; 

They are a sort of post-house, where tlie Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune. 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology, 
466 



CIY. 
'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 

Of half -past six — perhaps still nearer seven — , 
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 

As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
Described by Mahomet, and Anacreon Moore, 

To whom the lyre and laurels have been given, 
With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
He won them well, and may he wear them long ! 

CY. 

She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 
How this same interview had taken place. 

And even if I knew, I should not tell — 
People should hold their tongues in any case ; 

!Xo matter how or why the thing befell, 
But there were she and Juan, face to face — 

When two such faces are so, 't would be wise, 

But very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

CYI. 

How beautiful she look'd ! her conscious heart 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt no wrong. 

Oh, Love ! how perfect is thy mystic art. 
Strengthening the weak, and trampling on the 
strong ! 

How self -deceitful is the sagest part 
Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along ! — 

The precipice she stood on was immense, 

So was her creed in her own innocence. 

CYII. 

She thought of her own strength, and .Juan's youth, 
And of the folly of all prudish fears, 

Yictorious virtue, and domestic truth. 
And then of Don Alfonso's fifty years : 

I wish these last had not occurr'd, in sooth, 
Because that number rarely much endears. 

And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 

Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CYIII. 

When people say, " I 've told you fifty times," 
They mean to scold, and very often do ; 

When poets say, '' I 've written //i^ rhymes," 
They make you dread that they 'li recite them too ; 

In gangs of fifty ^ thieves commit their crimes; 
At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true. 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought for fifty Louis. 

CIX. 

Julia had honor, virtue, truth, and love 
For Don Alfonso ; and she inly swore, 

By all the vows below to powers above. 
She never would disgrace the riug she wore, 

Xor leave a wish which wisdom miglit reprove ; 
And while she ponder'd this, besides much more, 

One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown. 

Quite by mistake — she thought it was her ow]i ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other. 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not 
smother 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

'T was surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair. 

She who for many years had watcli'd her son so — 

I 'm very certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp, 

As if it said, " Detain me, if 3^ou please ;" 
Yet there 's no doubt she only meant to clasp 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



cxii.-cxxvr. 



His fingers with a pure Platonic squeeze ; 

She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, 
Had she imagined such a thing could rouse 
A feeling dangerous to a prudent spouse. 

CXII. 

I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
But what he did, is much what you would do ; 

His young lip thank'd it with a grateful kiss, 
And then, abash 'd at its own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
Love is so very timid when 't is new : 

She blush'd, and frown'd not, but she strove to 
speak, 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown so weak. 

CXIII. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 
The devil 's in the moon for mischief ; tliey 

Who call'd her chaste, methinks, began too soon 
Their nomenclature ; there is not a day, 

The longest, not the twenty-first of June, 
Sees half the business in a wicked way. 

On which three single hours of moonshine smile — 

And then she looks so modest all the while ! 

CXIY. 

There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 
A stillness, which leaves room for the full soul 

To open all itself, without the power 
Of calling wholly back its self-control ; 

The silver light which, liallowing tree and tower. 
Sheds beauty and deep softness o'er the whole. 

Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 

A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 

And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 

And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
Wliich trembled like the bosom where 't was placed ; 
Yet still she must have thought there was no 
harm. 
Or else 't were easy to withdraw her waist ; 
But then the situation had its charm. 

And then God knows what next — I can't go 

on; 
I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 

CXVI. 

Oh, Plato ! Plato ! you have paved the way. 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 
Your system feigns o'er the controlless core 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore, 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between. 

CXVII. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs. 
Until too late for useful conversation ; 

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
I wish, indeed, they had not had occasion ; 

But who, alas ! can love, and then be wise ? 
I^ot that remorse did not oppose temptation ; 

A little still she strove, and much repented. 

And whispering " I will ne'er consent " — consented. 

CXYIII. 

'T is said that Xerxes offer'd a reward 
To those who could invent him a new pleasure : 

Methinks the requisition 's rather hard, 
And must have cost his majesty a treasure : 

For my part, I 'm a moderate-minded bard. 
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure) ; - 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quite enough for me, so they but hold. 



CXIX. 

Oh, Pleasure! you 're indeed a pleasant thing. 
Although one must be damn'd for you, no doubt : 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation, ere the year run out. 

But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing. 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed. 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim'd. 

cxx. 

Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take- 
Start not ! still chaster reader— she '11 be nice 
hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 

This liberty is a poetic license. 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

This license is to hope the reader will 
Suppose from June the sixth (the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
For want of facts would all be thrown away), 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 
In sight, that several months have pass'd; we '11 
say 

'T was in Xovember, but I 'm not so sure 

About the day— the era 's more obscure. 

CXXII. 

We '11 talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 

The song and oar of Adria's gondolier. 
By distance mellow 'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 

'T is sweet to see the evening star appear ; 
'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

From leaf to leaf ; 't is sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 

CXXIII. 

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near 
home; 

'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 

'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark. 
Or Inll'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words. 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, ' 

Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 
From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 

Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps. 
Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 

Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 

Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

CXXY. 

Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
The unexpected death of some old lady. 

Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
Who've made "us youth" wait too — too long 
already. 

For an estate, or cash, or country seat, 
Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 

That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 

Kext o^Tier for their double-damn'd post-obits. 

CXXYI. 

'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels. 
By blood or ink ; 't is sweet to put an end 
467 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN, 



CXXVIT.-CXL. 



To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels, 

Particularly with a tiresome friend : 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 

Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
Ag'ainst the world ; and dear the schoolboj^ spot 
We ne'er forget, though tliere we are forgot. 

CXXYII. 

But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
Is first and passionate love— it stands alone, 

Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd— airs 
known — 

And life yields nothing further to recall 
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 

No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 

Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 

CXXVIII. 

]Man \s a strange animal, and makes strange use 
Of his own nature, and the various arts, 

And likes particularly to produce 
Some new experiment to show his parts ; 

This is the age of oddities let loose. 
Where different talents find their different marts : 

You 'd best begin with truth, and when you 've lost 
your 

Labor, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine. 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in their 
sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets. 
With which the Doctor paid oif an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

CXXX. 

Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes ; 

And galvanism has set some corpses grinning. 
But has not answer'd like the apparatus 

Of the Humane Society's beginning. 
By which men are unsuffocated gratis : 

What wondrous new machines have late been 
spinning ! 
I said the small-pox has gone out of late ; 
Perhaps it may be folio w'd by the great. 

CXXXI. 

'T is said the great came from America ; 

Peril aps it may set out on its return, — 
The population tliere so spreads, they say 

'T is grown high time to thin it in its turn, 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilization they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil is — 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis V 

CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 
For kilUiig bodies, and for saving souls, 

A.11 propagated with the best intentions ; 
Sir Humphry Davy's lantern,- by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, 

Are Avays to benefit mankind, as true. 

Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

Man 's a phenomenon, one knows not what. 
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure ; 

* The "Safetj' Lamp," after long- researches and innumer- 
able experiments, was at leng-th invented by the late Sir 
Humphry Davy, in 1815. 

4G8 



'T is pity though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure 's a sin, and sometimes sin 's a pleas- 
ure ; 

Few mortals know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, i)ower, or love, or treasure, 

The path is through perplexing ways, and when 

The goal is gain'd, we die, you know— and then 

CXXXIY. 

What then ?— I do not know, no more do you— 
And so good night.— Return we to our story : 

'Twas in November, when fine days are few. 
And the far mountains wax a little hoary. 

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue ; 
And the sea dashes round the promontory. 

And the loud breaker boils against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

CXXXY. 

'T was, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night ; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 
By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright 

With the piled wood, round which the family 
crowd ; 
There 's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer's sky without a cloud : 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat.f 

CXXXYI. 

'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 

Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 
Arose a clatter might awake the dead. 

If they had never been awoke before. 
And that they have been so we all have read. 

And are to be so, at the least, once more:— 
The door was fasten 'd, but with voice and fist 
First knocks were heard, then " Madam — Madam — 
hist ! 

CXXXYII. 
"For God's sake. Madam— Madam— here 's my 
master. 

With more than half the city at his back — 
Was ever heard of such a curst disaster ! 

'T is not my fault— I kept good watch— Alack ! 
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster— 

They 're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fiy— 
Surely the vdiidow 's not so vcrij high! " 

CXXXYIII. 

By this time Don Alfonso was arrived. 
With torches, friends, and servants in great 
number ; 

The major part of them had long been wived. 
And therefore paused not to disturb the slumber 

Of any wicked woman, who contrived 
By stealth her husband's temples to encumber : 

Examples of this kind are so contagious, 

Were one not punish'd, oil would be outrageous. 

CXXXIX. 

I can't tell how, or why, or wliat suspicion 
Could enter into Don Alfonso's head; 

But for a cavalier of his condition 
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred. 

Without a word of previous admonition, 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed. 

And summon lackeys, arm'd Avitli fire and sword, 

To prove himself the thing he most abhorr'd. 

CXL. 

Poor Donna Julia ! starting as from sleep 
(Mind— that I do not say— she had not slept), 

+ Lady Mar^W. Montag-u was an extraordinary woman: 
she could translate Epictetus, and yet write a sonj? worthy oi" 
Arlstippus. 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



CXLI.-CLiy. 



Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 

Her maid, Antonia, who was an adept, 
Contrived to fling the bed-clothes in a heap, 

As if she had just now from out them crept : 
I can't tell w^hy she should take all this trouble 
To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 
Appear 'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, but still more of men afraid, 
Had thought one man might be deterr'd by two, 

And therefore side by side were gently laid, 
Until the hours of absence should run through, 

And truant husband should return, and say, 

" My dear, I was the first who came away/" 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 
" In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d 'ye 
mean ? 

Has madness seized you ? w^ould that I had died 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been ! 

What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or sijleen ? 

Dare you suspect me, w^hom tlie thought would kill ? 

Search, then, the room ! " — Alfonso said, " I will." 

CXLIII. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged everj^- 
where. 

Closet and clothes-press, chest and window-seat, 
And found much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete, 
"With other articles of ladies fair. 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat : 
Arras they prick'd and curtains with their swords. 
And wounded several shutters, and som.e boards. 

CXLIY. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there they found — 
1^0 matter what — it w^as not that they sought ; 

They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth said nought; 

And then they stared each others' faces round : 
'T is odd, not one of all these seekers thought. 

And seems to me almost a sort of blunder. 

Of looking in the bed as well as under. 

CXLY. 

During this inquisition Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," she 
cried, 
" Insult on insult heap, and wTong on wrong ! 

It was for this that I became a bride ! 
For this in silence I have suffer'd long 

A husband like Alfonso at my side ; 
But now I '11 bear no more, nor here remain. 
If there be law or lawyers in all Spain. 

CXLYI. 

" Yes, Don Alfonso ! husband now no more. 

If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
Is 't worthy of your years ? — you have threescore- 
Fifty, or sixty, it is all the same- 
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame ? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so ? 

CXLYII. 

*' Is It for this I have disdain 'd to hold 
The common privileges of my sex ? 

♦The Spanish "Cortejo" is much the same as the Italian 
" Cavalier Servente." 
+ Donna Julia here made a mistake. Count O'Reilly did 



That I have chosen a confessor so old 

And deaf, that any other it w^ould vex, 
And never once he has had cause to scold, 

But found my very innocence perplex 
So much, he always doubted I was married- 
How sorry you will be when I 've miscarried ! 

CXLYIII. 

" Was it for this that no Cortejo* e'er 
I yet have chosen from out the youth of Seville ? 

Is it for this I scarce went anywhere. 
Except to bull-fights, mass, iplay, rout, and revel ? 

Is it for this, w^hate'er my suitors w^re, 
I favor'd none — nay, was almost uncivil ? 

Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 

Who took Algiers,! declares I used him vilely ? 

CXLIX. 

" Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
Sing at my heart six months at least in vain ? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wdfe in Spain ? 

Were there not also Russians, English, many ? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 

And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 

CL. 

" Have I not had two bishops at my feet ? 

The Duke of Ichar, and Don Fernan ;N"unez ; 
And is it thus a faithful wdfe you treat ? 

I wonder in wiiat quarter now the moon is : 
I praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man! with sword drawn and cock VI 

trigger, 
Now, tell me, don't j^ou cut a pretty figure ? 

CLI. 

" Was it for this you took your sudden journey. 
Under pretence of business indispensable 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
Whom I see standing there, and looking sensible 

Of having play'd the fool ? though both I spurn, he 
Deserves the worst, his conduct 's less defensible. 

Because, no doubt, 't was for his dirty fee, 

And not from any love to you nor me. 

CLII. 

"If he comes here to take a deposition. 

By all means let tlie gentleman proceed ; 
You 've made the apartment in a fit condition : — 

There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you need — 
Let everything be noted with precision, 

I would not you for nothing should be fee'd— 
But, as my maid 's undrest , pray turn your spies out. " 
"Oh!" sobb'd Antonia, "I could tear their ej^es 
out." 

CLIII. 
" There is the closet, there the toilet, there 

The antechamber — search them under, over; 
There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair. 

The chimnej^ — which would really hold a lover. 
I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 

And make no further noise, till you discover 
The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 
And wdien 't is found , let me, too, have that pleasure. 

CLIY. 

" And now, Hidalgo ! now that you have thrown 

Doubt upon me, confusion over all. 
Pray have the courtesy to make it known 

T17io is the man you search for ? how d 'j'e call 



not take Algiers— but Algiers very nearly took him : he and 
bis armj^ and fleet retreated with great loss, and not much 
credit, from before that city, in the year 1775. 
469 



CAI^TO T. 



DON JUAN. 



CLV.-CLXIX. 



Ilim ? what 's his lineage ? let liim but be sb.ovvii — 

I hope he 's young and handsome— is he tall y 
Tell me— and be assured, that since you stain 
My honor thus, it shall not be in vain. 

CLV. ^ 

*' At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears— 
(Antonia ! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter ; 

I^ry mother dream 'd not in my natal hour, 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLYI. 

'' Perhaps 't is of Antonia you are jealous. 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side, 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows : 
Look where you please— we 've nothing, sir, to 
hide. 

Only another time, I trust, you '11 tell us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Drest to receive so much good company. 

CLYII. 

*' And now, sir, I have done, and say no more ; 

The little I have said may serve to show 
Tiie guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The Avrongs to whose exposure it is slow :— 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

'T will one day ask you why you used me so ? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief ! — 
Antonia ! where 's my pocket-handkerchief ? " 

CLYIII. 
She ceased, and turned upon her pillow; pale 
She lay, her dark eyes flashing through their 
tears. 
Like skies that rain and lighten ; as a veil, 

Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, appears 
Her streaming hair; the black curls strive, but 
fail. 
To hide the glossy shoulder, which uproars 
Its snow through all ; — her soft lips lie apart, 
And louder than her breathing beats her heart. 

CLIX. 

The Senlior Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack 'd room, 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Her master, and his mj^rmidons, of whom 
Kot one, except the attorney, was amused ; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause. 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With prying snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there. 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputations he had little care ; 

So that a suit or action were made good. 
Small pity had he for the young and fair. 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

AVere proved by competent false witnesses. 

CLXI. 

Lut Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

Wiien, after searching in five hundred nooks. 
And treating a young wife with so much rigor. 

He gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigor 

Had pour'd upon him for the last half-hour. 

Quick, thick, and heavy— as a thunder-shower. 
470 



CLXII. 

At first he tried to hammer an excuse. 
To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs, 

And indications of hysterics, whose 
Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, 

Gasps, and whatever else the owners choose : 
Alfonso saw his wife, and thought of Job's ; 

He saw too, in perspective, her relations. 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 

He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 
But sage Antonia cut him short before 

The anvil of his speech received the hammer. 
With "" Pray, sir, leave the room, and say no more, 

Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter'd,"D nher," 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er ; 

He cast a rueful look or two, and did. 

He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIY. 
With him retired his '•'' yyosse comitatus,^^ 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 
Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 

Antonia let him— not a little sore 
At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus " 

In Don Alfonso's facts, which just now wore 
An awkward look ; as he revolved the case. 
The door was fasten 'd in his legal face. 

CLXY. 

Xo sooner was it bolted, than— Oh, shame ! 

Oh, sin! Oh, sorrow! and Oh, womankind! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame, 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Xothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind : 
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said. 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-smother'd, from the bed. 

CLXYI. 
He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where- 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay. 

No doubt, in little compass, round or square ; 
But pity him I neither must nor may 

His suffocation by that pretty pair ; 
'T were better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXYII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 

He had no business to commit a sin, 
Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws, 

At least 't was rather early to begin ; 
But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws 

So much as when we call our old debts in 
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, 
And find a deuced balance with the devil. 

CLXYIII. 

Of his position I can give no notion : 
'T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 

How the physicians, leaving pill and potion, 
Prescribed, by way of blister, a young belle, 

When old King David's blood grew dull in motion, 
And that the medicine answer'd very well ; ' 

Perhaps 't was in a different way applied. 

For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What 's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack. 
But no device could be brought into play- 

And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAN, 



CLXX.-CLXXXIV. 



Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak, 

But press 'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Call'd back the tangles of her wandering hair ; 

Even then their love they could not all command. 
And half forgot their danger and despair : 

Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
" Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling there," 

Slie whisper 'd, in great wrath — " I must deposit 

This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 
" Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier night — 

Who can have put my master in this mood ? 
What will become on 't— I 'm in such a fright. 

The devil 's in the urchin, and no good- 
Is this a time for giggling ? this a plight ? 

Why, don't you know that it may end in blood ? 
You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
My mistress all, for that half -girlish face. 

CLXXII. 

" Had it but been for a stout cavalier 
Of twentj'-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste— 

(Come, sir, get in)— my master must be near : 
There, for the present, at the least, he 's fast, • 

And if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel— (Juan, mind, you must not sleep)." 

CLXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone. 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loiter'd, and he told her to be gone. 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none. 
And no great good seem'd answer'd if she staid : 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view. 

She snuff 'd the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIY. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 
Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done. 
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding ; 

But there were ample reasons for it, none 
Of which he specified in this his pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole. 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole.''^ 

CLXXY. 

Julia said nought ; tliough all the while there rose 
A ready answer, which at once enables 

A matron, who her husband's foible knows, 
By a few timely words to turn the tables, 

Which, if it does not silence, still must pose,— 
Even if it sliould comprise a pack of fables ; 

'T is to retort with firmness, and when he 

Suspects with one, do you reproach with three. 

CLXXYI. 

Julia, in fact, had tolerable grounds, — 
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known ; 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt confounds — 
But that can't be, as has been often shown, 

A lady with apologies abounds ;— 
It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 

To whom she knew his mother's fame was dear. 

CLXXYII. 

There might be one more motive, which makes 
two ; 
Alfonso ne'er to Juan had alluded, — 



Mention'd his jealousy, but never who 
Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 

Conceal'd amongst his premises ; 'tis true. 
His mind the more o'er this its mystery brooded; 

To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 

Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXYIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best : besides, there is a tact — 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff. 

But it will serve to keep' my verse compact) — 
Which keeps,when push'd by questions rather rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact : 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace. 
There 's nothing so becoming to the face. 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 
Have always done so : 't is of no great use, 

In any case, attempting a reply. 
For then their eloquence grows quite profuse ; 

And when at length they're out of breath, they 
sigh, 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let loose 

A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 

xlnd then— and then— and then— sit down and sup. 

CLXXX. 

Alfonso closed his speech, and begg'd her pardon. 
Which Julia half withheld, and then half granted, 

And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 
Denying several little things he wanted : 

He stood like Adam lingering near his garden, 
With useless penitence perplex 'd and haunted, 

Beseeching she no further would refuse. 

When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair of shoes. 

CLXXXI. 

A pair of shoes! — what then ? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 

(Xo one can tell how much I grieve to say) 
Were masculine; to seize them, and to seize. 

Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze! 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion. 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish 'd sword, 

And Julia instant to the closet flew. 
" Fly, Juan, fly ! for heaven's sake— not a word— 

The door is open— you may yet slip through 
The passage you so often have explored — 

Here is the garden-key — Fly — ^y — Adieu ! 
Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 
Day has not broke — there 's no one in the street." 

CLXXXIII. 

Xone can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too late ; 

Of all experience 't is the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach 'd the room-door in a trice. 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressmg-gown, 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan kuock'd him do\Mi. 

CLXXXIY. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light ; 

Antonia cried out " Eape I" and Julia ^'- Fire !" 
But not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he 'd be revenged this night ; 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher; 
His blood was up : though young, he was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 
471 



CAXTO I. 



DON JUAN. 



CLxxxy.-cxcix. 



CLXXXV. 
Alfonso's sword had dropp'd ere he could draw it, 

And they continued battling hand to hand, 
For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 
If at that moment he had chanced to claw it, 

Alfonso's days had not been in the land 
Much longer. — Think of husbands', lovers' lives ! 
And how ye may be doubly widows— wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe, 
And Juan throttled him to get away. 

And blood ('t was from the nose) began to flow ; 
At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 

Juan contrived to give an awkward blow. 
And then his only garment quite gave way ; 

He fled, like Joseph, leaving it ; but there, 

I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXYII. 

Lights came at length, and men, and maids, who 
found 

An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 
Antonia in hysterics, Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground. 

Some blood, and several footsteps, but no more : 
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about. 
And, liking not the inside, lock'd the out. 

CLXXXVIII. 

Here ends this canto. — Xeed I sing, or say, 
How Juan, naked, favor'd by the night, 

"Who favors what she should not, found his way. 
And reach 'd his home in an unseemly plight ? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
The nine days' wonder which was brought to light. 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, o*f course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings, 
The depositions, and the cause at full, 

The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 
Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, 

There 's more than one edition, and the readings 
Are various, but they none of them are dull : 

The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney,* 

AVho to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

cxc. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since tlie retirement of the Vandals, 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain) 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles ; 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies. 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 

CXCI. 

She had resolved that he should travel through 
All European climes, by land or sea. 

To mend his former morals, and get new. 
Especially in France and Italy, 

(At least this is the thing most people do.) 
Julia was sent into a convent : she 

Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 

Shown in the following copy of her Letter : — 

CXCII. 

" They tell me 't is decided you depart : 
'T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain ; 



* William Brodie Gurney. Esq., the eminent short-haud 
writer to the houses of parliament. 
472 



I have no further claim on your young heart, 
Mine is the victim, and would be again : 

To love too much has been the only art 
I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 

Be on this sheet, 't is not what it appears ; 

My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

CXCIIL 

" I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 
State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem , 

And 5'et can not regret what it hath cost, 
So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 

Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast. 
None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 

I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 

I 've nothmg to reproach, or to request. 

CXCIV. 

"■ Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
'T is woman's whole existence ; man may range 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; 
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 

Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

, And few there are whom these can not estrange ; 

Men have all these resources, we but one, 

To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 

" You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 
Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 

For me on earth , except some years to hide 
My shame and sorrov/ deep in my heart's core ; 

These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 
The passion which still rages as before, — 

And so farewell — forgive me, love me— Xo, 

That word is idle now— but let it go. 

CXCVI. 

" My breast has been all weakness, is so ^-et ; 

But still I think I can collect my mind ; 
My blood still rushes where my spirit 's set. 

As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 
My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 

To all, except one image, madly blind; 
So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 
xls vibrates my fond heart to my flx'd soul. 

CXCVII. 

" I have no more to say, but linger still. 
And dare not set my seal upon this sheet. 

And yet I may as well the task fulfill, 
My misery can scarce be more complete; 

I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill ; 
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow would 
meet. 

And I must even survive this last adieu. 

And bear with life, to love and pray for you ! " 

CXCVIIL 

This note was WTitten upon gilt-edged paper 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; 

Her small white hand could hardly reach the taper. 
It trembled as magnetic needles do. 

And yet she did notlet one tear escape her ; 
The seal a sun-flower; '^Elle vous suit partout^''^ 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian ; 

The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; but whether 
I shall proceed with his adventures is 

Dependent on the public altogether ; 
A\^e '11 see, however, what they say to this. 

Their favor in an author's cap 's a feather. 
And no great mischief 's done by their caprice ; 

And if their approbation we experience, 
I Perhaps they '11 have some more about a year hence. 



CANTO I. 



DON JUAK 



CC.-CCXIV. 



cc. 

My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book containing, 
"With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 

A list of ships, and captains, and kmgs reign- 
ing, 
New^ characters; the episodes are three: 

A panoramic view of hell 's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Homer, 
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 

CCI. 

All these things will be specified in time, 
With strict regard to Aristotle's rules. 

The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, 
Which makes so many poets, and some fools : 

Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme. 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools ; 

I 've got new mythological machinery. 

And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 

There 's only one slight difference between 
Me and my epic brethren gone before, 

And here the advantage is my own, I ween ; 
(Xot that I have not several merits more, 

But this will more peculiarly be seen) ; 
They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 

Their labyrinth of fables to thread through, 

AVhereas this story 's actually true. 

CCIII. 

If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to facts. 
To newspapers, whose truth all know and feel. 

To plays in five, and operas in three acts; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 

CCIY. 
If ever I should condescend to prose, 

I '11 write poetical commandments, wiiich 
Shall supersede beyond all doubt all those 

That went before ; in these I shall enrich 
My text with many things that no one knows, 

And carry precept to the highest pitch : 
I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 
Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

CCY. 
Thou Shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope ; 
Thou Shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, 
Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
The second drunk, the third so quaint and 
mouthy ; 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope. 

And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy : 
Thou Shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 

CCYL 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 
His Pegasus, nor anything that 's his; 

Thou Shalt not bear false witness like "the 
Blues"— 
(There 's one, at least, is very fond of this) ; 

Thou Shalt not write, in short, but what I choose : 
This is true criticism, and you may kiss, — 

Exactly as you please, or not,— the rod ; 

But if you don't, I '11 lay it on, by G— d ! 

ccyii. 

If any person should presume to assert 
This story is not moral, first, I pray, 



Tliat they will not cry out before they 're hurt. 
Then that they '11 read it o'er again, and say 

(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert). 
That this is not a moral tale, though gay : 

Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 

The very place where wicked people go. 

CCYIII. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to despise, 

Led by some tortuosity of mind, 
Xot to believe my verse and their own eyes, 

And cry that they " the moral cannot find," 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; 

Should captains the remark, or critics, make, 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

CCIX. 

The public approbation I expect. 

And beg they '11 take my word about the moral. 
Which I with their amusement will ponnect 

(So children cutting teeth receive a coral) ; 
Meantime they '11 doubtless please to recollect 

My epical pretensions to the laurel : 
For fear some prudish readers should grow skit- 
tish, 
I 've bribed my grandmother's review— the British. 

CCX. 

I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 
Who thank'd me duly by return of post— 

I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 
Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast, 

And break a promise after having made it her, 
Denying the receipt of what it cost. 

And smear his page with gall instead of honey, 

All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy new alliance 

I may ensure the public, and defy 
All other magazines of art or science. 

Daily, or monthly, or three monthly ; I 
Have not essay 'd to multiply their clients. 

Because they tell me 't were in vain to try, 
And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly 
Treat a dissenting author very martyrly. 

CCXII. 

"A"o7i ego hocferrem calidus juventd 
Conside Planco,'''' Horace said, and so 

Say I ; by which quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago 

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta) 
I was most ready to return a blow. 

And would not brook at all this sort of thing 

In my hot youth — when George the Third was King. 

CCXIII. 

But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
(I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 

I thought of a peruke the other clay — ) 
My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, T 

Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas 
May, 
And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 

Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 

And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 

CCXIY. 

^0 more— no more— Oh ! never more on me 

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
Which out of all the lovely things we see 
Extracts emotions beautiful and new. 
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee. 
Think'st thou the honey with those objects 
grew ? 

473 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAK 



I.-YI. 



Alas ! 't was not in tliem, but in tlij" power 
To double eveu the sweetness of a flower. 

CCXY. 

1^0 more— no more— Oh ! never more, my heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 

Once all in all, but now a thing apart. 
Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 

The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 
Insensible, I trust, but none the worse. 

And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment, 

Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodg- 
ment. 

CCXVI. 

My days of love are over ; me no more 
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of 
widow, 

Can make the fool of which they made before, — 
In short, I must not lead the life I did do ; 

The credulous.hope of mutual minds is o'er, 
The copious use of claret is forbid too, 

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, 

I think I must take up with avarice. 

ccxyii. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; 

And the two last have left me many a token 
O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken, 
"Time is, Time was. Time's past:" — a chemic 
treasure 

Is glittering j'^outh, which I have spent betimes — 

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

CCXVIII. 

What is the end of Fame ? 't is but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper : 

Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor; 

For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill. 
And bards burn what they caU their ''midnight 
taper," 

To have, when the original is dust, 

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King 

Cheops erected the first pyramid 
And largest, thinking it was just the thing 

To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; 
But somebody or other rummaging 

Burglariously broke his cofiin's lid : 
Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 
Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

ccxx. 

But I, being fond of true philosophy, 

Say very often to myself, "Alas! 
All things that have been born were born to die. 

And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is 
grass ; 
You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly. 

And if you had it o'er again— 'twould pass — 
So thank your stars, that matters are no worse, 
And read your Bjble, sir, and mind your purse." 

ccxxi. 

But for the present, gentle reader! and 
Still gentler purchaser! the bard— that 's I — 

Must, with permission, shake you by the hand. 
And so your humble servant, and good-bye ! 

We meet again, if we should understand 
Each other; and if not, I shall not try 

Your patience further than by this short sample — 

'T were well if others follow'd my example. 
474 



CCXXII. 

"Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways ! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good. 

The world will find thee after many daj^s." 
AYhen Southey 's read, and Wordsworth understood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise— 
The four first rhymes are Southey 's, every line: 
For God's sake, reader ! take them not for mine. 




CANTO THE SECOND. 



I. 

Oh, ye ! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations, 
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain, 

I pray ye flog them upon all occasions^ 
It mends their morals, never mind the pain : 

TJie best of mothers and of educations 
In Juan's case were but employed in vain, 

Since, in a way that 's rather of the oddest, he 

Became divested of his native modesty. 

II. 

Had he but been placed at a public school, 
in the third form, or even in the fourtli, 

His daily task had kept his fancy cool, 
At least, had he been nurtured in the north ; 

I ; ain may prove an exception to the rule. 
But then exceptions always prove its worth — 

A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 

Fuzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

III. 

I can't say that it puzzles me at all. 
If all things be considered : first, there was 

His lady-mother, mathematical, 
A never mind ;— his tutor, an old ass ; 

A pretty woman — (that 's quite natural, 
Or else the thing liad hardly come to pass) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time, and opportunity. 

lY. 

Well— well; the world must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails. 

And live and die, make love and pay our taxes. 
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails ; 

The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust,— perhaps a name. . 

V. 

I said, that Juan had been sent to Cadiz— 

A pretty town, I recollect it well — 
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is 

(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel). 
And such sweet girls— I mean, such graceful ladies. 

Their very walk would make your bosom swell ; 
I can't describe it, though so much it strike. 
Nor liken it— I never saw the like : 

YI. 

An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 

Xew broke, a camelopard, a gazeile, 
Xo— none of these will do ;— and then their garb, 

Their veil and petticoat— Alas ! to dwell 



CANTO II. 



DON JTJAN. 



VII.-XXT. 



Upon such things would very near absorb 

A canto— then their feet and ankles, — well, 
Thank Heaven I 've got no metaphor quite ready, 
(And so, my sober Muse— come, let 's be steady— 

yii. 

Chaste Muse !— well, if you must, you must) — the 
veil 

Thrown back a moment with the glancing hand, 
While the o'erpowering eye, tliat turns you pale, 

Flashes into the heart : — All sunny land 
Of love ! when I forget you, may I fail 

To say my prayers — but never was there 

plann'd 
A dress through which the eyes give such a volley. 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzioli. 

YIII. 

But to our tale : the Donna Inez sent 

Her son to Cadiz only to embark ; 
To stay there had not answered her intent, 

But why ? — we leave tlie reader in the dark — 
'T was for a voyage the young man was meant. 

As if a Spanish ship were Noah's ark, 
To wean him from tlie wickedness of earth. 
And sent him like a dove of promise forth. 

IX. 

Don Juan bade his valet pack his things 
According to direction, then received 

A lecture and some money : for four springs 
He was to travel ; and though Inez grieved 

(As every kind of parting has its stings). 
She hoped he would improve— perhaps believed : 

A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 

Of good advice— and two or three of credit. 

X. 

In the mean time, to pass her hours away. 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday-school 

For naughty children, who woidd rather play 
(Like truant rogues) the devil, or tlie fool ; 

Infants of three years old were taught that day. 
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool : 

The great success of Juan's education 

Spurr'd her to teach another generation. 

XI. 

Juan embark'd— the ship got under way, 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough ; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, ' 
As I, who 've cross 'd it oft, know well enough ; 

And, standing on the deck, tlie dashing spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough : 

And there he stood to take, and take again. 

His first— perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 

XII. 

I can't but say it is an awkward sight 
To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters ; it unmans one quite, 
Especially wlien life is rather new : 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks white. 
But almost every other country 's blue, 

Wlien gazing on them, mystified' by distance. 

We enter on our nautical existence. 

XIII. 

So Juan stood, bewilder'd, on the deck: 
The wind sung, cordage strain 'd, and sailors 
swore, 

And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck. 
From which away so fair and fast they bore. 

The best of remedies is a beef-steak 
Against sea-sickness: try it, sir, before 

You sneer, and I assure you this is true, 

For I have found it answer— so may you. 



XIV. 

Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern. 
Beheld his native Spain receding far : 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to war ; 

There is a sort of unexprest concern, 
A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar : 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple. 

XV. 

But Juan had got many things to leave. 
His mother, and a mistress, and no wife. 

So that he had much better cause to grieve 
Than many persons more advanced in life ; 

And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

jSTo doubt we weep for those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 

xyi. 

So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : • 

I 'd weep, — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And such light griefs are not a thing to die on ; 

Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves; and the next time their servants 
tie on 

Behind their carriages their new portmanteau, 

Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much he sigh'd and thought. 
While his salt tears dropp'd into the salt sea, 

'' Sweets to the sweet " (I like so much to quote ; 
You must excuse this extract, — 't is where she, 

Tlie Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave) ; and, sobbing often, he 

Reflected on liis present situation. 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVIII. 

" Farewell, my Spain ! a long farewell !" he cried, 
" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more. 

But die, as many an exiled heart hath died. 
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 

Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide ! 
Farewell, my mother ! and, since all is o'er. 

Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he drew 

Her letter out again, and read it through). 

XIX. 

" And oh ! if e'er I should forget, I swear — 
But that 's impossible, and cannot be — 

Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air. 
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea. 

Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair ! 
Or tliink of anything, excepting thee ; 

A mind diseased no remedy can physic-^ 

(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea-sick). 

XX. 

"Sooner shall heaven kiss earth— (here he fell 
sicker) 

Oh, Julia ! what is every other woe ? — 
(For God's sake let me have a glass of liquor; 

Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) 
Julia, my love ! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker)— 

Oh, Jiilia !— (this curst vessel pitches so) — 
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching !" 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching.) 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends. 

Beyond the best apothecary's art, 
The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 
475 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAJSr. 



XXII.-XXXVI. 



Or death of those we dote on, when a part 

Of us dies within them as each fond hope ends : 
No doubt he would have been much more pa- 
thetic, 
But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 

XXII. 

Love 's a capricious power : I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat ; 

Against all noble maladies he 's bold, 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 

Kor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 

Nor inflammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 

But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 
About the lower region of the bowels ; 

Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 
Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 

And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 
Sea-sickness death : his love was perfect, how 
else 

Could Juan's passion, while the billows roar. 

Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before ? 

xxiy. 

The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 
Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born : 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXY. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor, the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his pillow. 
And, rocking in his hammock, long'd for land. 

His headache being increased by every billow ; 
And the waves oozing through the port-hole made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

'T w^as not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 

AiT,d tliough 't was not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen w^ould have look'd a little pale, 

For sailors are, in fact, a different kind: 
At sunset they began to take in sail, 

For the sky show'd it would come on to blow. 

And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXYII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea. 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift. 
Started the stern-post, also shatter'd the 

Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
Herself from out lier present jeopardy. 

The rudder tore away : 't was time to sound 

The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 

XXYIII. 

One gang of people instantly was put 
Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 

To get up part of the cargo, and what not ; 
But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 

At last they did get at it really, but 
Still their salvation was an even bet : 

The w^ater rush'd through in a way quite puzzling. 

While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of 
muslin, 

476 



XXIX. 

Into the opening ; hnt all such ingredients 
Would have been vain, and they must have gone 
down. 

Despite of all their efforts and expedients. 
But for the pumps : I 'm glad to make them knov/n 

To all the brother tars who may have need hence, 
For fifty tons of water were upthrown 

By them per hour, and they had all been undone 

But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 

XXX. 

As day advanced the v/eather seem'd to abate, 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce. 

And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
Kept two liand and one chain-pump still in use. 

The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
A squall cam,e on, and while some guns broke 
loose, 

A gust — which all descriptive power transcends — 

Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends. 

XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset; 

The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks. 
And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 

For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
Or any other thing that brings regret. 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or necks: 
Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers. 
And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away. 
Both main and mizzen; first the mizzen went. 

The main-mast follow 'd : but the ship still lay 
Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 

Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and tliey 
Eased her at last (although we never meant 

To part with all till every hope was blighted), 

And then with violence the old ship righted. 

XXXIII. 

It may be easily supposed, while this 
Was going on, some people were unquiet. 

That passengers would find it much amiss 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot. 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 

XXXI y. 

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms 
As rum and true religion : thus it was. 

Some plunder 'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
psalms. 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 

The hoarse harsh waves kept time; fright cured 
the qualms 
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws : 

Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 

Clamor 'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

XXXY. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years. 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It'wath a pair of pistols; and their fears, - 

As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
Of fire than w^ater, spite of oaths and tears. 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXYI. 

"Give us more grog," they cried 



All one an hour hence. 



for it will be 
Juan answer'd, " No ! 



CANTO IT. 



DON JUAK 



XXXVII.-LT. 



'T is true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes : " — and thus his dangerous post kept he, 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 

JSTothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
To quit his academic occupation, 

In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 

To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were 
gone, 
The leak increased; shoals round her, but noshore, 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
Tlie stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a sail. 

XXXIX. 

Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd. 
And for the moment it had some effect ; 

But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 
Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect ? 

But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 
'Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd: 

And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 

'T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 

XL. 

There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from 
thence, 

Without their will, they carried them away ; 
For they were forced with steering to dispense. 

And never had as yet a quiet day 
On which they might repose, or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good luck, 
Still swam— though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
But the ship labor 'd so, they scarce could hope 

To weather out much longer ; the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XLII. 

Again the weather threaten 'd, — again blew 
A gale, and in the fore and after hold 

Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and some bold. 

Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she rolFd, 

At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 

Like human beings during civil war. 

XLIII. 

Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 

Could do no more : he was a man in years. 
And long had voyaged through many a stormy 
sea, 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 



But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, — 
Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

XLIV. 

The ship was evidently settling now 
Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone. 

Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
Of candles to their saints — but there were none 

To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was one 

That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution. 

Who told him to be damn'd— in his confusion. 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on 
Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 

Some cursed the day on wliich they saw the sun, 
And gnash 'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their 
hair; 

And others went on as they had begun, 
Getting the boats out, being well aware 

That a tight boat will live in a rough sea. 

Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 

XL VI. 

The worst of all w^as, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'T was difficult to get out such provision 
As now might render their long suffering less: 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress : 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 

Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet ; 
Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 

Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 
A portion of their beef up from below, 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon- 
Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 

XL VIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail, 

And one oar for a mast, whicli a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail ; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil. 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frow^n 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 

And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 



Some trial had been making at a raft, 
AVitli little hope in such a rolling sea, 

A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
If any laughter at such times could be, 

Unless with people who too much liave quaff 'd. 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glee. 

Half epilepttcal, and half hysterical :— 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spars, 
'And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 

477 



CANTO 11. 



DON JUAK 



LTI.-LXVI. 



That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet the}^ strove, although of no great use: 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars, 
The boats put off o'ercrowtled with their crews 

She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head foremost— sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell— 
^n shriek 
brave, — 
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 

As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
And the sea yawn-d around her like a hell. 

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, 
Like one who grapples with his enemy. 
And strives to strangle him before he die. 

LIII. 

And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd. 
Save tlie wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows : but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 

LIY. 

The boats, as stated, had got off before. 
And in them crowded several of tlie crew; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore , 
And then they were too many, though so few — 

ISTine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were counted in them when they got afloat. 

LY. 

All the rest perish 'd ; near two hundred souls 

Had left their bodies ; and what 's worse, alas ! 
When over Catholics the ocean rolls. 

They must wait several weeks before a mass 
Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals. 

Because, till people know what 's come to pass. 
They won't lay out their money on the dead- 
It costs tlxree francs for every mass that 's said. 

LVI. 

Juan got into the long-boat, arid there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo 's pair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case : 

Battista, though (a name call'd shortly Tita), 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 

LYII. 
Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save. 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave,' 

As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross. 
And so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 

They could not rescue him although so close, 
Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
And for the boat— the crew kept crowding in it. 

LYIII. 

A small old spaniel,— which had been Don Jose's, 
His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think. 

For on such things the memory reposes 
With tenderness, — stood howling on the brink, 

Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses!), 
No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 

And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 

Off threw him in, then after him he leap"d. 
478 



LIX. 

He also stuff 'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo 's too. 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
Not knowing what himself to say, or do, 

As every rising wave his dread renew 'd; 
But Juan, trusting they might still get through, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 

Thus re-embark 'd his tutor and his spaniel. 

LX. 

' T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
That the sail was becalm'd between the seas, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet, 
And made them bale without a moment's ease, 

So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 

And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
Kept above water, with an oar for mast. 

Two blankets stitch 'd together, answ^ering ill 
Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 

Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill. 
And present peril all before surpass'd. 

They grieved for those who perish'd with the cut- 
ter. 

And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 

LXII. 

The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale : to run 

Before the sea until it should grow fine. 
Was all that for the present could be done : 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Were served out to the people, w^ho begun 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 

And most of them had little clothes but rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
Which left scarce room for motion or exertion ; 

They did their best to modify their case, 
One half sate up, though numb'd with the im- 
mersion. 

While t 'other half were laid down in their place, 
At watch and watch; thus, shivering like the 
tertian 

Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 

With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 

LXIY. 

'T is very certain the desire of life 
Prolongs it : this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends nor 
wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 

Because they still can h<5pe, nor shines the knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 

Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 

And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXY. 

'T is said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others,— God knows why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is, 
That some, I really think, do never die: 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 
And that 's their mode of furnishing supply : 

In my j'oung days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXYI. 

'Tis thus with people in an open boat. 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 



CANTO II. 



DON JTJAK 



LXVII.-LXXX. 



More than can be believed, or even thought, 
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and tear ; 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot. 
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there; 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

Lxyii. 

But man is a carnivorous production. 
And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 

He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction. 
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey ; 

Although his anatomical construction 
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 

Your laboring people think beyond all question 

Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXYIII. 

And thus it was Mdth this our hapless crew ; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it migiit renew. 

And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 

LXIX. 

The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their wine, 

In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men ! 
And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine. 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save their victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air. 
And Ocean slumber 'd like an unwean'd child: 

The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there, 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild — 

With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew 
wild : 

So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating. 

Was kill'd, and portion'd out for present eating. 

LXXI. 

On the sixth day they fed upon his hide. 
And Juan, who had still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died, 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws. 

With some remorse received (though first denied) 
As a great favor one of the fore-paws, 

Which lie divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour 'd it, longing for the other too. 

LXXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind— the burning sun 
Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the sea. 

They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none. 
Save in the breeze that came not : savagely 

They glared upon each other— all was done. 
Water, and wine, and food, — and you might see 

The longings of the cannibal arise 

(Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 

LXXIII. 

At length one whisper 'd his companion, who 
Whisper 'd another, and thus it went round. 
And then into a hoarser murmur grew. 

An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
And Avhen his comrade's thought each sufferer 
knew, 
'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he 
found : 



And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
And who should die to be his fellows' food. 

LXXIY. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain 'd of shoes ; 

And then they look'd around them, and despair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose ; 

At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, 
But of materials that must shock the Muse — 

Having no paper, for the want of better. 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXY. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, and 
handed. 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savage hunger which demanded. 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXYI. 

He but requested to be bled to death : 
The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb'd his breath. 
You hardly could perceive when he was dead. 

He died as born, a Catholic in faith, 
Like most in the belief in which they 're bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd. 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXYII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee. 
Had his first choice of morsels for his pains; 

But being thirstiest at the moment, he 
Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing veins : 

Part was divided, part thrown in the sea. 
And such things as the entrails and the brains 

Regaled two sharks, who follow 'd o'er the billow— 

The sailors ate the rest of poor Pedrillo. 

LXXYIII. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or four, 
Who were not quite so fond of animal food ; 

To these was added Juan, who, before 
Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 

Feel now his appetite increased much more ; 
'T was not to be expected that he should. 

Even in extremity of their disaster, 

Dine with them on his pastor and his master. 

LXXIX. 

'T was better that he did not ; for, in fact. 
The consequence was awful in the extreme ; 

For they, who were most ravenous in the act, 
Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did blas- 
pheme ! 

And foam, and roll, with strange convulsions rack 'd, 
Drinking salt water like a mountain stream, 

Tearing, and grinning, howdmg, screeching, swear- 
ing, 

And, with hyaena-laughter, died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this inflic- 
tion. 
And all the rest were thin enough. Heaven 
knows ; 
And some of them had lost their recollection. 

Happier than they who still perceived their woes ; 
But others ponder 'd on a new dissection. 

As if not warn'd sufliciently by those 
Who had already perish 'd, suffering madly, 
For having used their appetites so sadly. 
479 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAK 



LXXXI.-XCIV. 



LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
As fattest ; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was 

lie had been rather indisposed of late ; 
And that which chietl}' proved his saving clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

3^y general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain 'd, 
But was used sparingly, — some were afraid, 

And others still their appetites constrain'd. 
Or but at times a little supper made ; 

All except Juan, who throughout abstain 'd. 
Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead : 

At length they caught two boobies, and a noddy, 

And then they left off eating the dead body. 

LXXXIII. 

And if Pedrillo 's fate should shocking be, 

Remember Ugolino condescends 
To eat the head of his arch-enemy 

The moment after he politely ends 
His tale ; if foes be food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too 

scanty. 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 

LXXXIY. 

And the same night there fell a shower of rnin, 
Eor which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of 
earth 

When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
Or with a famish 'd boat's-crew had your berth. 

Or in the desert heard the camel's bell. 

You 'd wish yourself where Truth is— in a Avell. 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 

Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
And when they deem'd its moisture was com- 
plete. 

They wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught so 
sweet 

As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 

They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 

Lxxxyi. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 
Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar 
stream 'd ; 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues were 
black, 
As the rich man's in hell, who vainly scream 'd 

To beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven— If this be true, indeed. 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXYII. 

There were two fathers in this ghastlv crew. 
And with them their two sons, of whom the one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
But he died early ; and when he was gone. 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will be 
done ! 

* An instrument, invented by Sir David Brewster, which 
pleases the eye by an ever-vai'ying" succession ot splendid 
480 



I can do nothing," and he saw him thrown 
Into the deep without a tear or groan. 

LXXXYIII. 

The other father had a weaklier child. 

Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 

And patient spirit held aloof his fate ; 
Little lie said, and now and then he smiled, 

As if to win a part from off the weight 
He saw increasing on his father's heart. 
With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed. 
And when the wish'd-for shower at length was 
come, 

And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
Brighten 'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam. 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 

Into his dying child's mouth— but in vain. 

XC. 

The boy expired — the father held the clay. 
And looked upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 

He watch'd it wistfully, until away 
'T was borne by the rude wave wherem 't was cast ; 

Then he himself sunk down all dum.b and shivering. 

And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 

XCI. 

Xow^ overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark 
sea. 

Resting its bright base on the quivering blue; 
And all within its arch appear 'd to be 

Clearer than that w^ithout, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free. 

Then changed like to a bow that 's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 

XCII. 
It changed, Of course ; a heavenly chameleon. 

The airy child of vapor and the sun. 
Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion. 

Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun. 
Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion. 

And blending every color into one. 
Just like a black eye in a recent scuffie 
(For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 

XCIII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen — 
It is as w^ell to think so, now and then ; 

'T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
And may become of great advantage when 

Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
Had greater need to nerve themselves again 

Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like hope — 

Quite a celestial kaleidoscope.* 

XCIY. 

About this time a beautiful white bird, 
Web-footed, not unlike a dove in size 

And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes. 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and flutter'd round them till 

Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 

tints and sj^mmetrical forms, and has been of great service in 
suggesting patterns to our manufacturers. 



CANTO II. 



BON JTJAK 



XCV.-CIX. 



xcv. 

But in this case I also must remark, 
'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Keturning there from her successful search, 

Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 

xcyi. 

AYith twilight it again came on to blow. 
But not wdth violence ; the stars shone out. 

The boat made way; yet now they were so low. 
They knew not where nor what tliey were about ; 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said " No I" 
The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to 
doubt — 

Some swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 

And all mistook about the latter once. 

XCYII. 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
When he who had the watch sung out and swore, 

If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray. 
He wish'd that land he never might see more; 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay. 
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for 
shore ; 

Tor shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 

XCYIII. 

And then of these some part burst into tears, 
And otliers, looking with a stupid stare. 

Could not yet separate their hopes from fears. 
And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 

While a few pray 'd — (the first time for some years) — 
And at the bottom of the boat three were 

Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head. 

And tried to awaken them, but fomid them dead. 

XCIX. 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
Because it left encouragement behind : 

They thought that in sucli perils, more than chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 

C. 

The land appear 'd a high and rocky coast, 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 

Set by a current, toward it : they w^ere lost 
In various conjectures, for none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been tost. 
So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 

Some thought it was Mount ^tna, some the high- 
lands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Ehodes, or other islands. 

CI. 
Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore. 
Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 

Their living freight was now^ reduced to four, 
And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 

To heave into the deep with those before. 
Though the two sharks still foUow'd them, and 

dash'd 
The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

CII. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had done 
Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd them to 
31 



Such things a mother had not known her son 
Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew ; 

By night cnill'd, by day scorch 'd, thus one by one 
They perish 'd, until wither'd to these few. 

But chiefly by a species of self -slaughter. 

In washing down Pedrillo with salt water. 

cm. 

As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 

Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
They felt the freshness of its growing green. 

That waved in forest-tops, and smoothed the air. 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
Aw^ay the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

CIY. 

The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man. 
And girt by formidable waves ; but they 

Were mad for land, and thus their course they ran, 
Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 

A reef between them also now began 
To show its boiling surf and bounding spray. 

But finding no place for their landing better, 

They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. 

CY. 

But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 
Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 

And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, 
Had often turn'd the art to some account : 

A better swimmer you could scarce see ever. 
He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 

As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 

Leander, Mr. EkenHead, and I did. 

CYI. 

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark. 
The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 

The greatest danger here was from a shark. 
That carried off his neighbor by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

CYII. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
AYhich, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms could strike no more. 
And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'tw^as 
dash'd 

Within his grasp ; he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Uoll'd on the beach, half senseless, from the sea : 

CYIII. 

There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung 
Past to the sand, lest the returning wave. 

From whose reluctant roar his life lie wrung, 
Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 

And there he lay, full length, wiiere he was flung, 
Before the entrance of a cliii-worn cave. 

With just enough of life to feel its pain. 

And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 

CIX. 

With slow and staggering effort he arose. 
But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 

And quivering hand; and then he look'd for those 
Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 

But none of them appear'd to share his woes, 
Save one, a corpse, from out the famish 'd three. 

Who died two days before, and now had found 

An unknown barren beach for burial ground. 
481 



CANTO ir. 



DON JUAK 



cx.-cxxiy. 



ex. 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
And down he suidv ; and as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd : 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch 'd hand 

Droop 'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
And, like a wither'd lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay. 

As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 

He knew not, for the earth was gone for liim, 
And Time had nothing more of night nor day 

For liis congealing blood, and senses dim ; 
And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 

He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. 
And tingling vein, seeni'd throbbing back to life, 
For Death, though vanqiiish'd, still retired with 
strife. 

CXII. 
His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed. 

For all was doubt and dizziness ; he tiiought 
He still was in the boat, and had but dozeil. 

And felt again with liis despair o'erwrought, 
And wish'd it death in which he had reposed. 

And then once more his feelings back were 
brought. 
And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the small mouth 
Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 

And chafing him, the soft warjn hand of youth 
llecall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 

And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
Each pulse to animation, till beneath 

Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 

To these kind efforts made a low reply. 

CXIV. 

Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 

Kaised higlier the faint head which o'er it hung; 
And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she wrung 
His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm; 

And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 

A sigh from his heaved bosom— and hers, too. 

cxv. 

And lifting him with care into the cave. 
The gentle girl, and her attendant,— one 

Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 
And more robust of hgure, — then begun 

To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which the 
sun 

Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 

She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold. 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair. 

Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
In braids behind-; ;and tliough her stature were 

Even of the highest for a female mould. 
They nearly reach 'd her heel ; and in her air 

There was a something which bespoke command, 

As one who was a lady in the land. 

iCXVII. 
Her hair, I said, was auburn ; but her eyes 

Were black as deatli, their lashes the same hue, 
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
482 



Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies. 
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew; 
'T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, 
And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 

cxyiii. 

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 

Short upper lip— sweet lips ! that make us sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 

Fit for the model of a statuary 
(A race of mere impostors, when all 's done — 

I 've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 

Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 

CXIX. 

I '11 tell you why I say so, for 't is just 
One should not rail without a decent cause : 

There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 

A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinkling laws, 

They will destroy a face which mortal thought 

Ne'er compassed, nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

cxx. 

And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
Her dress Vv^as very different from the Spanish, 

Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 

Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 

The basquina and. the mantilla, they 

Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

CXXI. 

But with our damsel this was not the case : 
Her dress was many-color'd, finely spun; 

Her locks curl'd negligently round her face. 
But through them gold and gems profusely shone : 

Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 

Flash 'd on her little hand; but, what was shock- 
ing, 

Her small snow^ feet had slippers, but no stocking. 

CXXII. 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials : she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike. 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry; and her veil, in form alike, 

AVas coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

CXX III. 

And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
With food and raiment, and those soft atten- 
tions. 

Which are— (as I must own)— of female growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 

They made a most superior mess of broth, 
A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 

But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Ho- 
mer's 

Achilles order'd dinner for new comers. 

CXXIV. 

I '11 tell j^ou who they were, this female pair, 
Lest they should seem princesses in disguise; 

Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 
Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize ; 

And so, in short, the girls they really were 
They shall appear before your curious eyes. 

Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 

Of an old man, who lived upon the water. 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAK 



cxxv.-cxxxyrii. 



cxxy. 

A fisherman he had been in his youth, 
And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 

But other speculations were, in sooth, 
Added to his connection with tlie sea, 

Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 
A little smuggling, and some piracy, ' 

Left him, at last, the sole of many mastere 

Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

CXXVI. 

A fisher, therefore, was he,— though of men, 
Like Peter tlie Apostle,— and he fish'd 

For wandering merchant-vessels, now and then. 
And sometimes caught as many as he wish'd ; 

The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 
He sought in the slave-market too, and dish'd 

Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade. 

By which, no doubt, a good deal may be made. 

CXXVIL 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at ease ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got, or blood he spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; 

But this I know, it was a spacious building, 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of tlie Eastern Isles; 

Besides, so very beautiful was she. 
Her dowry was as nothing to lier smiles : 

Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree 
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

CXXIX. 

And walking out upon the beach, below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she found, 

Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 
Don .Juan, almost famish 'd, and half drown'd; 

But being naked, she was shock 'd, you know. 
Yet deem'd herself in common pity bound, 

As far as in her lay, '' to take him in, 

A stranger" dying, with so white a skin. 

CXXX. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save. 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse. 
Or people in a trance into their grave ; 

Because the good old man had so much "»'ot,j," 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave. 

He would liave hospitably cured the stranger, 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And therefore, with her maid, she thought it best 

(A virgin always on her maid relies) 
To place him in the cave for present rest: 

And when, at last, he openM his black eyes, 
Their charity increased about their guest ; 

And their comj)assion grew to such a size. 
It open'd half the turnpike-gates to heaven— 
(Saint Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be 
given). 



* Entitled "A Narrative of the Honorable John Byron 
(Commodore in a late expedition round the world), contain- 
ing an account of the great distresses suffered by himself and 
his companions on the coast of Patagonia, from the year H^O, 



CXXXII. 

They made a fire, — ^l:>ut sucli a fire as they 
Upon the moment could contrive with such 

Materials as were cast up round the bay,— 
Some broken planks, and oars, that to the touch 

Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 
A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 

But, by God's grace, here wa-ecks were in such 
plenty. 

That there was fuel to have furnish'd twenty. 

CXXXIII. 

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 
For Haidee stripped her sables oif to make 

His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should awake, 

They also gave a petticoat apiece, 
She and her maid, — and promised by daybreak 

To pay him a fresh visit, with a dish 

For breakfast, of eggs, coffee, bread, and fish. 

CXXXIV. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose : 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead, 

Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows). 
Just for the present ; and in his lull'd head 

Not eve]i a vision of his former woes 
ThrobbVl in accursed dreams, which sometimes 
spread 

Unwelcome visions of our former years. 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick witii tears. 

cxxxv. 

Young Juan slept all dreamless :— but the maid. 
Who smooth 'd his pillow, as she left the den 

Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd. 
And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumbered ; yet she thought, at least she said 
(The heart will slip, even as the tongue and pen). 

He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 

That at this moment Juan knew it not, 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went. 

Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 
Better thaii her knew what, in fact, she meant, 

She being wiser by a year or two : 
A year or two 's an age wlien rightly spent. 

And Zoe spent hers, as most women do. 
In gaining all tliat useful sort of knowledge 
AVhich is acquired in Nature's good old college. 

CXXXVII. 

The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering still 
Fast in his cave, and nothing clash 'd upon 

His rest ; tlie rushing of the neighboring rill. 
And the young beams of the excluded sun. 

Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill ; 
And need he had of slumber yet, for none 

Had suffer'd more — his hardships were comparative 

To those related in my grand-dad's "Narrative.'-* 

CXXXVIII. 

Not so Haidee : she sadly toss'd and tumbled. 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er. 

Dream 'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which sl.e 
stumbled. 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore ; 

And woke her maid so early that she grumbled. 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who swore 

till their arrival in England, 1746; written by himself." This 
narrative, one of the most interesting that ever appeared, 
was published in 1768. 

483 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAN. 



CXXXIX.-CLTI. 



In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and Greek — 
They knew not what to think of such a freak. 

CXXXIX. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 

With some pretence about the sun, that makes 
Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
. And 'tis, "no doubt, a sight to see when breaks 
Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are wet 

With mist, and every bird with him awakes, 
And night is Hung off like a mourning suit 
Worn for a husband,— or some other brute. 

CXL. 

I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of late 

I liave sat up on purpose all the night. 
Which hastens, as pliysicians say, one's fate ; 

And so all ye, who would be in the right 
In health and purse, * begin your day to date 

From daybreak, and when coffin 'd at fourscore, 

Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four. 

CXLI. 

And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish flush 
Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose race 

From heart to cheek is curb'd into a blush, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's base, 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread ; 
Or the Eed Sea— but the sea is not red. 

CXLII. 

And down the clitf the island virgin came. 
And near the cave her quick light footsteps 
drew, 

While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
Mistake you would have made on: seeing the 
two. 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 

Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 

CXLIII. 

And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 

All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 

And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe 
(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 

And Avrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as death 
Bent, with hush'd lips, that drank his scarce-drawn 
breath. 

CXLIY. 
And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 

Wlio die in rigliteousness, she lean'd ; and there 
All tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying. 

As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air : 
But Zoe the meantime some eggs was frying. 

Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 
Must breakfast, and betimes— lest they should ask 

it. 
She drew out her provision from the basket. 

CXLV. 

She knew that the best feelings must have victual. 
And that a shipwreck'd youth would hungry be ; 

Besides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little. 
And felt her veins cliill'dby the neighboring sea ; 

And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle ; 
I can't say that she gave them any tea. 



* " In the year 1784, Dr. Franklin published a most inge- 
nious essay on the advantag-es of early rising, as a mere piece 
of economy. He estimates the sa\'ing that inight be made in 

484 



But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish , honey, 
With Scio wine,— and all for love, not money. 

CXLYI. 

And Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
The coifee made, would fain have waken 'd Juan ; 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small hand, 
And without a word, a sign her finger drew on 

Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared anew one, 

Because her mistress would not let her break 

That sleep which seem'd as it would ne'er awake. 

CXLYII. 

For still he lay, and on his thin worn cheek 
A purple hectic play'd like dying day 

On the snow^-tops of distant liills ; the streak 
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay, 

Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, and 
Aveak ; 
And his black curls were dewy with the spray, 

Y>niich weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and salt, 

Mix'd with the stony vapors of the vault. 

CXLYIII. 

And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean wiien at rest. 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
Soft as the callow cj^gnet in its nest ; 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 

Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
Had further sleep a further pleasure made : 

For woman's face was never form'd in vain 
For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 

He turn'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 

To the sweet portraits of the Yirgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose. 
And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose, 
Although she told him, in good modern Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet. 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but cat. 

CLI. 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
Being no Grecian : but he had an ear. 

And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear. 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 

Whence Melody descends as from a throne. 

CLII. 

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
By a distant organ, doubting if he be 

Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
By the watchman, or some such reality, 

Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
At least it is a heavy sound to me. 

Who like a morning slumber— for the night 

Shows stars and women in a better light. 

Paris alone, by using- suixshine instead of candles, at ninety- 
six millions of French livres, or four millions sterling- per 
a?i?mm."— HllLi. 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAK 



CLIII.-CLXVI. 



CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream, 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was, by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite ; the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling. 

To stir her viands, made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef -steak. 

CLIY. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 

Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and 
mutton. 
And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 

For some of these are rocks with scarce a hut 
on; 
Others are fair and fertile, among which 
This, though not large, was one of the most rich. 

CLY. 

I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
That the old fable of the Minotaur— 

From which our modern morals, rightly shrinking. 
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 

A cow's shape for a mask— was only (sinking 
The allegory) a mere type, no more, 

That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 

To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLYI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer. 

Because 'tis liquor only, and being far 
From this my subject, has no business here ; 

We know, too, they are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures— rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans— from which I infer, 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 

CLYII. 

But to resume. The languid Juan raised 
His head upon his elbow, and he saw 

A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 

Three or four things, for which the Lord he praised, 
And, feeling still the famish 'd vulture gnaw. 

He fell upon whate'er was offer 'd, like 

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLYIII. 
He ate, and he was well supplied ; and she. 

Who watch'd him like a mother, would liave fed 
Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 

Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 
But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 
That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, 
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, 
Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose fate 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 



* When at Seville in 1809, Lord Byron lodged in the house 
of two unmarried ladies ; and in his diary he describes him- 
self as having made earnest love to the younger of them, 
with the help of a dictionary. " For some time," he says, " I 
went on prosperously, both as a linguist and a lover, till at 
length, the lady took a fancy to a ring which I wore, and set 
her heart on my giving it to her, as a pledge of my sincerity. 



She snatch 'd it, and refused another morsel. 
Saying, he had gorged enough to make a horse ill. 

CLX. 

Kext they— he being naked, save a tatter 'd 
Pair of scarce decent trowsers — went to work. 

And in the fire his recent rags they scatter-'d, 
And dress 'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 

Or Greek— that is, although it not much matter'd. 
Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They furnish 'd him, entire, except some stitches. 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches. 

CLXI. 

And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at speaking, 
But not a word could Juan comprehend, 

Although he listen 'd so that the j^oung Greek in 
Her earnestness would ne'er have made an end; 

And, as he interrupted not, went eking 
Her speech out to her protege and friend. 

Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 

She saw he did not understand Eouiaic. 

CLXII. 

And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy. 

The answer eloquent, where the soul shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw exprest 

A world of words, and things at which she guess 'd. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue ; but by surmise, 
Xo doubt, less of her language than her look : 

As he who studies fervently the skies 
Turns oftener to the stars than to his book, 

Thus Juan learn 'd his alpha beta better 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIY. 

'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
By female lips and eyes— that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young. 
As was the case, at least, where I have been ;* 

They smile so when one 's right, and when one 's 
wrong 
They smile still more, and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even a chaste kiss; — 

1 learn'd the little that I know by this : 

CLXY. 
That is, some words of Spanish, Turk, and Greek, 

Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers, 
Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
1 hate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXYI. 

As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 
A wanderer from the British world of fashion,! 

Where I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 
Like other men, too, may have had my passion — 



This, however, could not be ;— any thing but the ring, I de- 
clared, was at her service, and much more than its value,— 
but the ring itself I had made a vow never to give away." 

t " In 1813, 1 formed, in the fashionable world of London, 
an item, a fraction, the segment of a circle, the unit of a 
million, the nothing of something. I had been the lion of ^ 
mzr— Byron Diary, 1831. 

485 



CANTO IT. 



DON JUAJSr. 



CLXVII.-CLXXXI. 



But that, like other things, has pass'd awajs 

And all her fools whom I could Vaj the lash on : 
Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to me 
But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLxyii. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 
To hear new words, and to repeat them ; but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun. 
Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 
lie Avas in love,— as j-ou would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress,— so was she, 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLxyiii. 

And every day by daybreak — rather early 
Por Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 

Slie came into the cave, but it was merely 
To see her bird reposing in liis nest ; 

And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest, 

Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and moulh. 

As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every morn his color freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence ; 

'T was well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder ; and some good lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

AVithout whom Yenus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Yenus fills the heart (without heart really 
Love, though good always, is not quite so good), 

Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, — 
For love must be sustain'd like flesh and blood, — 

While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly : 
Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food; 

But Avho is their purveyor from above 

Heaven knows,— it may be Xeptune, Pan, or Jove. 

CLXXI. 

Wlien Juan woke he found some good things ready, 
A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 

That ever made a youthful heart less steady. 
Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size ; 

But I have spoken of all this already — 
And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 

Well— Juan, after bathing in the sea, 

Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent. 
That bathing pass'd for nothing ; Juan seem'd 

To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, 
6f whom these two years she had nightly 
dream 'd, 

A something to be loved, a creature meant 
To be her happiness, and whom slie deem'd 

To render happy ; all who joy would win 

Must share it, — Happiness was born a twin. 

CLXXIII. 

It was such pleasure to behold him, such 

Enlargement of existence to partake 
Mature with him, to thrill beneath liis touch, 
To watch him slumbering, and to see him 
wake : 
To live with him for ever were too much ; 
But then the thought of parting made her 
quake ; 
He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 
Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her last. 
486 



CLXXIY. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 

Such plentiful precautions, that still he 
Remain 'd unknown within his craggy nook; 

At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
For certain merchantmen upon the look, 

Not as of yore to carry off an lo. 

But three Ragusan vessels, bound for Scio. 

CLXXY. 

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother, 
So that, her father being at sea, she was 

Free as a married woman, or such otlier 
Female, as where she likes may freely pass. 

Without even the incumbrance of a brother. 
The freest she that ever gazed on glass : 

I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 

Where waves, at least, are seldom kept in garrison. 

CLXXYI. 

ISTow she prolong'd her visits and her talk 

(For they must talk), and he had learnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wander 'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd from the 
stalk. 
Drooping and dewy on the beacli he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon. 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXYII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 
With cliifs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host. 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore 

A better welcom^e to the tempest-tost ; 
And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which make 

The outstretch 'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

CLXXYIII. 

And the small ripple spilt upon the beach 
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your champagne, 

When o'er the brini the sparkling bumpers reach. 
That spring-dew of the spirit ! the heart's rain ! 

Few things surpass old wine ; and they may preach 
Who please,— the more because they preach in 
vain, — 

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, 

Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk. 

The best of life is but intoxication : 
Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 

The hopes of all men, and of eveiy nation ; 
Without their sap, how branchless were tlie trunk 

Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion ! 
But to return,— Get very drunk ; and W'hen 
You wake with headache, you shall see what then. 

CLXXX. 

Ring for your valet— bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king ; 
For not the best sherbet, sublimed with snow, 

iSTor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow. 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Yie with that draught of hock and soda-water. 

CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast that I 
Was just describing — Yes, it loas the coast — 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky. 
The sands untumbled, the blue 'waves untost, 



-C3 




They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 

Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight; 

They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low, 

And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — 

DON JUAN.— Page 487. 



*■ 



* 



CANTO II. 



DON JUAK 



CLXXXII.-CXCVI. 



And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost 
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 
Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 

As I have said, upon an expedition ; 
And mother, brother, guardian, she had none, 

Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 
She waited on her lady with the sun. 

Thought daily service was her only mission. 
Bringing warm v%^ater, wreathing her long tresses, 
And asking now and then for cast-off dresses. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just wlien the rounded 
Eed sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it bounded. 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still, 

With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky 

With one star sparkling through it like an eye. 

CLXXXIY. 

And thus they wander'd forth, and hand in hand, 
Over the shining pebbles and the shells. 

Glided along the smooth and harden 'd sand. 
And in the worn and wild receptacles 

Work'd by the storms, yet work'd as it were plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells. 

They turn'd to rest; and, each clasp'd by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm. 

CLxxxy. 

They look'd up to the sky, whose floating glow 
Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright ; 

They gazed upon the glittering sea below, 
Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight ; 

They heard the waves' splash, and the wind so low. 
And saw each other's dark eyes darting light 

Into each other — and, beholding this, 

Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss ; 

CLXXXYI. 

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love, 
And beauty, all concentrating like rays 

Into one focus, kindled from above ; 
Such kisses as belong to early days, 

Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert m.ove. 
And the blood 's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 

Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 

I think, it must be reckon'd by its length. 

CLXXXYII. 

By length I inean duration ; theirs endured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt they never 
reckoned ; 
And if they had, they could not have secured 

The sum of their sensations to a second : 
They had not spoken ; but they felt alhired, 

As if their souls and lips each other beckon 'd, 
Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they 

clung — 
Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey 
sprung. 

CLXXXYIII. 

Th.ey were alone, but not alone as they 
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness ; 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 
The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 

The voiceless sands, and dropping caves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press, 

As if there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 



CLXXXIX. 

They fear'd no eyes nor ears on that lone beach ; 

They felt no terrors from the night ; they were 
All in all to each other : though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language 
there,— 
And all the burning tongues the passions teach 

Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
Of nature's oracle— first love,— that all 
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fail. 

CXC. 

Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 
IS" or offer'd any ; she had never heard 

Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 

She was all which pure ignorance allows. 
And flew to her young mate like a young bird ; 

And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 

Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved— she adored. 
And she was worshipp'd ; after nature's fashion. 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd. 
If souls could die, had perish'd in that passion,— 

But by degrees their senses were restored. 
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 

CXCII. 

Alas! they were so young, so beautiful, 
So lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always full, 
And, having o'er itself no further power. 

Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, 
But pays oif moments in an endless shower 

Of hell-fire— all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII. 

Alas! for Juan and Plaidee ! they were 
So loving and so lovely— till then never. 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damn'd for ever : 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian river, 

And hell and purgatory— but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIY. 
They look upon each other, and their eyes 

Gleam in the moonlight ; and her white arm clasps 
Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 

Half buried in the tresses which it grasps; 
She sits upon his knee, and drinks his sighs, 

He hers, until they end in broken gasps; 
And thus they form a group that 's quite antique, 
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

CXCY. 

And when those deep and burning moments pass'd. 
And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms. 

She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast. 
Sustain 'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 

And now and then her eye to heaven is cast. 
And then on the pale cheek her breast now warms,, 

Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 

With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

CXCYI. 

An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the breast, 
A devotee when soars the Host in sight. 

An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
487 



CANTO IT. 



DON JUAK 



CXCVII.-CCX. 



A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded chest, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleep- 
ing. 

cxcyii. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living ; 

50 gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 'tis giving; 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 

Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's diving : 
There lies the thing we love with all its errors 
And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCYIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover— and that hour 
Of Love's, and Xight's, and Ocean's solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wave-worn love had made their bower, 
Where nought upon their passion could intrude, 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 

To be a lovely and a fearful thing ; 
For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 

And if 't is lost, life hath no more to bring 
To them but mockeries of the past alone. 

And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 
Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, as real 
Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 

CC. 

They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 
Is always so to women ; one sole bond 

Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts despond 

Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 
Buys them in marriage— and what rests beyond ? 

A thankless husband, next a faithless lover. 

Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all 's over. 

CCI. 

Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers. 
Some mind their household, others dissipation, 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares. 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write a novel.* 

ecu. 

Haidee was iSTature's bride, and knew not this ; 
Haidee was Passion's child, born where the sun 

51 lowers triple light, and scorches even the kiss 
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; slie was one 

Made but to love, to feel that she was his 

Who was her chosen : what was said or done 
Elsewhere was nothing. She had nought to fear, 
Hope, care, nor love, beyond,— her heart beat here, 

CCIII. 

And oh ! that quickening of the heart, that beat ! 

How mucli it costs us ! yet each rising throb 
Is in its cause as its effect so sweet. 

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 



* " Lady Caroline Lamb -was supposed by Lord Byron to 
have alluded to him in her novel of ' Glenarvon,' published 
In 1816.—' Madame de Stael once asked me,' said Lord Bj'ron, 
' if my real character was well drawn in that novel. She was 
only singular in putting the question in the dry way she did. 
488 



Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a tough job 
To make us understand each good old maxim, 
So good— I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. 

CCIY. 

And now 'twas done — on the lone shore were 
plighted 

Their hearts ; the stars, theirnuptial torches, shed 
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 

Ocean their* witness, and the cave their bed, 
By their own feelings h allow 'd and united. 

Their priest was Solitude, and they were wed : 
And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

COY. 

Oh , Love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 
Titus the master, Antony the slave, 

Horace, Catullus, scholars,' Ovid tutor, 
Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose grave 

All those may leap who rather would be neuter — 
(Leucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 

Oh, Love I thou art the very god of evil, 

For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

CCYI. 

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state precarious, 
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men : 

Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
Have much employed the muse of history's pen : 

Their lives and fortunes were extremely various. 
Such worthies Time will never see again ; 

Yet to these four in three things the same luck 
holds. 

They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds. 

CCYII. 

Thou mak'st philosophers ; there 's Epicurus 

And Aristippus, a material crew! 
Who to immoral courses would allure us 

By theories quite practicable too ; 
If only from the devil they would insure us. 

How pleasant were the maxim (not quite new), 
" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us ? " 
So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 

CCYIII. 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia ? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexing question ; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Strong palpitation rises, 'tis her boon. 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 

CCIX, 

I hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 

Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
^o permanent foundation can be laid ; 

Love, constant love, has been my constant guest, 
And yet last night, being at a masquerade, 

I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 

Which gave me some sensations like a villain. 

OCX. 

But soon Philosophy came to my aid. 
And whisper 'd, " Think of every sacred tie ! " 

There are many who pin their faith on that insincere pro- 
duction. I am made out a very amiable person in that 
work! The only thing belonging to me in it is part of a 
letter.' " See portrait of Lady Caroline Lamb, ante. Life of 
Byron. 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAK 



I.-YII. 



** I will, my dear Philosophy ! " I said, 
" But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven ! her 
eye! 

I '11 just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
Or neither— out of curiosity." 

" Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian 

(Though she was mask'd then as a fair. Venetian) ; 

CCXI. 

" stop ! " so I stopp'd.— But to return : that which 
Men call inconstancy is nothing more 

Than admiration due where nature's rich 
Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 

Some favor'd object; and as in the niche 
A lovely statue we almost adore. 

This sort of adoration of the real 

Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 

CCXII. 

'T is the perception of the beautiful, 

A fine extension of the faculties, 
Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

Drawn from the stars, and filter'd through the 
skies. 
Without which life would be extremely dull; 

In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 
With one or two small senses added, just 
To hint that tlesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

CCXIII. 

Yet 'tis a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As wlien she rose upon us like an Eve, 

'T would save us many a heartache, many a shil- 
ling 
(Por we must get them anyhow, or grieve), 

Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever. 

How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver ! 

ccxiy. 

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
But changes night and day, too, like the sky ; 

l^o\N o'er it clouds and tliunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction as on high : 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and 
riven, 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to 
tears. 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

CCXY. 

Tlie liver is the lazaret of bile. 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while. 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction. 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Eage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunc- 
tion, 
So that all mischiefs spring up from thisentrail. 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call'd " cen- 
tral." 

CCXYI. 
In the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 

That being about the number I '11 allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four ; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read. 



CANTO THE THIRD, 



I. 

Hail, Muse ! et cetera.— We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow'd upon a fair and happy breast, 

And watch 'd by eyes that never yet knew weeping, 
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest 

To feel the poison througli her spirit creeping, 
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest. 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to tears ! 

II. 

Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 
Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah, why 

With cypress branches hast thou wreathed tliy 
bowers. 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 

As those who dote on odors pluck the flowers. 
And place them on their breast — ^but place to die — 

Thus the frail beings we would fondly clierish 

Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

III. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
In all the others all she loves is love. 

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 
And fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 

As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her : 
One man alone at first her heart can move ; 

She then prefers him in the plural number, 

Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

lY. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

But one thing 's pretty sure : a woman planted 
(Unless at ouce she plunge for life in prayers) — 

After a decent time must be gallanted ; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted ; 
Yet there are some, they say, who have had none^ 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 



'T is melancholy, and a fearful sign 

Of human frailty, folly, also crime. 
That love and marriage rarely can combine. 

Although they are both born in the same clime ; 
Marriage from love, like vinegar from wipe — 

A sad, sour, sober beverage— by time 
Is sharpen'd from its high celestial flavor 
Down to a very homely household savor, 

YI. 

There 's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
Between their present and their future state ; 

A kind of flattery that 's hardly fair 
Is used until the truth arrives too late— 

Yet what can people do, except despair ? 
The same things change their names at such a 
' rate; 

For instance— passion in a lover 's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 

YII. 

Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 
They sometimes also get a little tired 
489 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAK 



VIII.-XXTI. 



(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond: 
The same thin^-s cannot always be adrnked, 

Yet 't is " so nominated in the bond," 
Tliat both are tied till one shall have expired. 

Sad tliought ! to lose the spouse that Avas adorning 

Our days, and put one's servants into mourning. 

VIII. 

There 's doubtless something in domestic doings 
Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; 

Eomances paint at full length people's wooings, 
But only give a bust of marriages ; 

For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 
There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss : 

Tliink you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, 

He would have written sonnets all his life ? 

IX. 

All tragedies are finish 'd by a death, 
All comedies are ended by a marriage ; 

The future states of both are left to faitli, 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath. 
And then both worlds would punish their mis- 
carriage ; 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book ready, 

They say no more of Death or of tlie Lady. 

X. 

Tlie only two that in my recollection - 
Have sung of heaven and hell, or marriage, are 

Dante and Milton, and of both the aifection 
Was hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 

Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection 
(Such things, in fact, it don't ask much to mar) ; 

But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 

Were not drawn from their spouses, you conceive. 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 

By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 
Although my opinion may require apology. 

Deem this a commentator's fantasy, 
Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge he 

Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 
I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 
Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
The fault was theirs, not mine : it is not fair. 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 
The blame on me, unless you wish they were ; 

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to sliut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful ; 

'T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy,— happy in the illicit 
Indulgence of their innocent desires; 

But more imprudent grown with every visit, 
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 

When we have what we like 't is hard to miss it. 
At least in the beginning, ere one tires; 

Thus she came often, not a moment losing. 

Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 

XIV. 

Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, 
Although he fleeced the flags of every natioh, 

For into a prime minister but change 
His title, and 't is nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

And merely practiced as a sea-attorney. 
490 



XV. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
By winds and waves, and some important captures; 

And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd. 
Although a squall or two had damp'd his raptures, 

By swamping one of the prizes ; he had chain 'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters 

In number'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 

And averaged each from ten to a hundred dollars. 

XVI. 

Some he disposed of off Cape Matapan, 
Among his friends the Mainots ; some he sold 

To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 
Toss'd overboard unsalable (being old) ; 

The rest — save here and there some richer one, 
Reserved for future ransom— in the hold, 

Were link'd alike, as for the common people he 

Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

XVII. 

The merchandise was served in the same way, 
Pieced out for different marts in the Levant, 

Except some certain portions of the prey. 
Light classic articles of female want, 

French stuffs, laces, tweezers, toothpicks, teapot, 
tray. 
Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 

All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 

Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

XVIII. 

A monkey, a Dutch mastiff, a macaw. 
Two parrots, with a Persiaii cat and kittens. 

He chose from several animals he saw — 
A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, 

Who d\ang on the coast of Ithaca, 
The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a pit- 
tance. 

These to secure in this strong blowing weather. 

He caged in one huge hamper all together. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs. 
Despatching single cruisers here and there, 

His vessel having need of some repairs, 
He shaped his course to where his daughter fair 

Contmued still her hospitable cares ; 
But that part of the coast being shoal and bare. 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a mile. 

His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

XX. 

And there he went ashore without delay. 
Having no custom-house nor quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the way, 
About the time and place where he had been : 

He left his ship to be hove down next day. 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

So that all hands were busy beyond measure, 

In getting out goods, ballast, guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill 

Which overlook 'd the white walls of his home. 
He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 

Their bosoms who have been induced to roam ! 
With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill— 

With love for many, and with fears for some ; 
All feelings which o'erleap the j^ars long lost, 
xVnd bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII, 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires. 
After long travelling by land or water. 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family 's a serious matter; 



CANTO III. 



DON JTJAK 



xxni.-xxxvi. 



(None trusts the sex more, or so much admires — 

But they hate flattery, so I never flatter;) 
Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler. 
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at liis return 
May not have the good fortune of Ulysses ; 

Kot all lone matrons for their liusbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 

The odds are that he finds a handsome urn 
To his memory — and two or three young misses 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and 
riches — 

And that his Argus bites him by— the breeches. 

XXIY. 

If single, probably his plighted fair 
Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 
May quarrel, and the lady growing wiser, 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise her; 

And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 

xxy. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen Avho have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind— I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady — 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connections the most steady. 
And the true Hymen (tlie first 's but a screen) — 

Yet for all that keep not too long away ; 

I 've known the absent wToug'd four times a day. 

XXYI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who liad 
Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 
Or that of any other strong emotion ; 

He loved his child, and would have w^ept the loss 
of her. 

But knew the cause no more than a philosopher. 

XXYII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun. 
His garden trees all shadowy and green ; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 
The distant dog-bark ; and perceived between 

The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun 
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various dyes 

Of color'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 

XXYIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

He hears— alas ! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling ! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears, 
The cause being past his guessing or unriddling ; 

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 

XXIX. 

And still more nearly to the place advancing. 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Through the waved branches, o'er the greensward 
glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity. 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 



Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance* so martial, 
To which the Levantines are very partial. 

XXX. 

And further on a troop of Grecian girls, 
The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 

Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each too 
having 

Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
(The least of which would set ten poets raving) ; 

Their leader sang—and bounded to her song. 

With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine. 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine ; 
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er, 
Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck 'd, their mellow 
store. 

XXXII. 
A band of children, round a snow-white ram. 

There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
While peaceful as if still an imwean'd lamb, 

The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
His sober head, majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 

Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks. 
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses. 

The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 

Made quite a picture of these little Greeks; 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sigh'd for their sakes— that they should e'er grow 
older. 

XXXIY. 
Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 

To a sedate gray circle of old smokers, 
Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 

Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers. 
Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails. 

Of rocks bewitch 'd that open to the knockers. 
Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 
Transform 'd their lords to beasts (but that 's a fact). 

XXXY. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 

For the imagination or the senses, 
Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the Persian, 

All pretty pastimes in which no olfence is _; 
But Lambro saw all these things with aversion. 

Perceiving in his absence such expenses. 
Dreading that climax of all human ills. 
The inflammation of his weekly bills. 

XXX YL 

Ah I what is man ? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner! 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner ; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) 's a siren, 
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner; 

* " This dance is still performed by young- men armed cap- 
a-pie, wlio execute, to the sound of instruments, all the 
proper movements of attack and defence." 
491 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAK 



XXXVII.-L. 



Lambro's reception at his people's banquet 
Was such as fire accords to a wet blanket. 

XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword) 
His daughter— had not sent before to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 
And long he paused to reassure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 

XXXYIII. 

He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
That a report (especially the Greeks) 

Avouch'd his death (such people never die), 
And put his house in mourning several weeks, — 

But now their eyes and also liyjs were dry ; 
The bloom, too, had returned to Haidee's cheeks. 

Her tears, too, being return-d into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and fid- 
dling, 

"Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure; 
The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 

A life which made them happy beyond measure. 
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 

Compared with what Haidee did with his treas- 
ure ; 
'T was wonderful how things went on improving, 
"While she had not one hour to spare from loving. 

XL. 

Perhaps you think, in stumbling on this feast, 

He flew hito.a passion, and in fact 
There was no mighty reason to be pleased ; 

Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act. 
The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least. 

To teach his people to be more exact, 
And that, proceeding at a very high rate. 
He show'd the royal xoenchants of a pirate. 

XLI. 

You're wrong.— He was the mildest manner'd 
man 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat ; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman. 

You never could divine his real thought ; 
Xo courtier could, and scarcely woman can 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat ; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety. 
He was so great a loss to good society. 

XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 
Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

Witli a peculiar smile, which, by the way. 
Boded no good, whatever it expressed. 

He ask'd the meaning of this holiday ; 
The vinous Greek to whom he had address 'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fiU'd up a glass of wine, 

XLIII. 

And without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air. 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
" Talking 's dry work, I have no time to spare." 

A second hiccup'd, '• Our old master 's dead, 
You 'd better ask our mistress, who 's his heir." 



* " The account of Lambro proceeding to the house is 

poetically imagined; and in his chai*acter may be traced a 

vivid likeness of All Pacha, and happy illustrative allusions 

492 



" Our mistress ! " quoth a third : " Our mistress !— 

pooh ! — 
You mean our master— not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not whom 
They thus addressed— and Lambro's visage fell — 

And o'er his eye a momentary gloom 
Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to quell 

The expression, and endeavoring to resume 
His smile, requested one of them to tell 

The name and quality of his new patron. 

Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a matron. 

XLY. 

" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or what 
He is, nor whence he came— and little care; 

But this I know, tliat this roast capon 's fat. 
And that good wine ne'er wash'd down better fare ; 

And if you are not satisfied with that. 
Direct your questions to my neighbor there ; 

He '11 answer all for better or for worse, 

For none likes more to hear himself converse." 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience. 
And certainly he show'd the best of breeding. 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of nations. 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding ; 

He bore these sneers against his near relations. 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton. 

Who all the time was eating up his mutton. 

XLYII. 

Xow in a person used to much command- 
To bid men come, and go, and come again — 

To see his orders done, too, out of hand— 
Whether the word was death, or but the chain — 

It may seem strange to find his manners bland ; 
Yet such things are, which I cannot explain, 

Though doubtless he who can command himself 

Is good to govern— almost as a Guelf. 

XLYIII. 

Xot that he was not sometimes rash or so. 
But never in his real and serious mood ; 

Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 
He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 

With him it never was a word and blow, 
His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 

But in his silence there was much to rue, 

And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way,* 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little they expected him that day ; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 
For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 

But certainly to one deem'd dead returning. 

This revel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 

L. 

If all the dead could now return to life 

(Which God forbid !), or some, or a great many, 
For instance, if a husband or his wife 

(Nuptial examples are as good as any), 
No doubt, whate'er might be their former strife, 

The present weather would be much more rainy- 
Tears shed into the grave of the connection 
Would share most probably its resurrection. 



to the adventures of that chief." -Galt. 
Life of Bj^ron. 



See portrait, a?ite, 



CANTO III. 



DON JTJAK 



LI.-LXV. 



LI, 

He enter 'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to liuman feelings the most trying, 

And liarder for the heart to overcome, 
Perhaps, tlian even the mental pangs of dying ; 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb. 
And roimd its once warm precincts palely lying 

The ashes of our hopes, is a deep grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter 'd in the house — his home no more. 
For without hearts there is no home ; — and felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 
AYithout a welcome : there he long had dwelt. 

There his few peaceful days Time had sw^ept o'er, 
There his worn bosom and keen eye would melt 

Over the innocence of that sweet child, 

His only shrine of feelings undefiled. 

LIII. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanor though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food. 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and meant 
For something better, if not wholly good ; 

His country's wrongs and his despair to save her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIY. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 

The hardness by long habitude produced. 
The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 

The mercy he had granted oft abused, 
The sights he was accustom'd to behold. 

The wild seas, and wild men with whom he 
cruised, 
Had cost his enemies a long repentance. 
And made him a good friend, but bad acquaint- 
ance. 

LV. 
But something of the spirit of old Greece 

Flash 'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 
Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 

His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 
'T is true he had no ardent love for peace — 

Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 
Hate to the world and war with every nation 
He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LYI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time,— 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music and of scenes sublime, 
A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers. 

Bedew 'd his spirit in his calriier hours. 

LYII. 

But whatsoe'er he had of love reposed 
On that beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and seen, 

A lonely pure aifection unopposed : 
There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness. 

And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blindness. 

LYIII. 

The cubless tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flock ; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 



But violent things will sooner bear assuaging. 

Their fury being spent by its own shock, 
Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 
Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is a hard although a common case 
To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves re-form 'd in finer clay, 

Just as old age is creeping on apace. 
And clouds come o'er tlie sunset of our day. 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, 

But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner) ; 
'T is beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin her) ; 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece' they cling 

To the fireside (a sight to touch a sinner). 
A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieces. 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
And stood within his hall at eventide ; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 
At wassail in their beauty and their pride : 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 
Before them, and fair slaves on every side; 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the service mostly, 

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio nuts— in short, all meats. 
And saffron soups, and sw^eetbreads ; and the fishes 

Were of the finest that e'er flounce^l in nets, 
Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper'd wishes; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice. 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it best for 
use. 

LXIII. 
These w^ere ranged round, each in its crystal ew^er. 

And fruits, and date-bread loaves closed the re- 
past, 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, 

In small fine china cups, came in at last; 
Gold cups of filigree made to secure 

Tlie hand from burning underneath them placed. 
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 

LXIY. 

The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet panels, each of different liue. 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid ; 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue. 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXY. 

These Oriental writings on the wall. 
Quite common in those countries, aje a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recall. 
Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall. 
And took his kingdom from him : You will find. 

Though sages. may pour out their wisdom's treas- 
ure, 

There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. 
493 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAJSr. 



LXYI.-LXXIX. 



LXVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk liimself to death, 

A rake turn'd metliodistic, or Eclectic — 
(For that 's the name they like to pray beneath) 

Bat most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
Are things that really take away the breath, — 

And show that late hours, wine, and love are able 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXYII. 

Ha idee and Juan carpeted their feet 
On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment— and appear 'd quite new; 

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) 
AVere scarlet, from whose glowing centre grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, wiiose rays of tissue, 

Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crj'stal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
Had done their w^ork of splendor; Indian mats 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain. 
Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cats. 

And dwarfs and blacks, and such light things, that 
gain 
Their bread as ministers and favorites — (that 's' 

To say, by degradation)— mingled there 

As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 

LXIX. 

There w^as no v/ant of lofty mirrors, and 

The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 

Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
Fretted with gold or silver ;— by command, 

The greater part of these w^ere ready spread 
"With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
Kept for all comers at all hours to dine. 

LXX. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
She wore two jelicks— one was of pale yellow; 

Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little bil- 
low ; 

With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas. 
All gold and crimson slione her jelick's fellow. 

And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her. 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without harm, 
The limb which it adorn 'd its only mould; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loth to lose its hold. 

The purest ore enclosed the whitest skin 

That e'er by precious metal w^as held in.* 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd f 
Announced her rank ; twelve rings w^ere on her 
hand ; 
Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine 
fold 



* This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are worn 
in the manner described. The reader will perceive here- 
after, that as the mother of Haidee was of Fez, her daughter 
wore the garb of the country. 

+ The bar of g"old above the instep is a mark of sovereign 
rank in the women of the families of the deys, and is worn as 
such by their female relatives. 
494 



Below her breast was fasten 'd with a band 
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be 
told ; 
Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
About the prettiest ankle in the w^orld. 

LXXIII. 

Her hair's long auburn waves dowTi to her heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 

Dyes with his morning light,— and would conceal 
Her person % if allow^'d at large to run, 

And still they seem'd resentfully to feel 
The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 

Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught began 

To offer his yomig pinion as her fan. 

LXXIY. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life. 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies. 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife— 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It w^ould not be idolatry to kneel. 

Lxxy. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged 
(It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 

For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed. 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 

And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails w^ere touch 'd with henna ; but again 

The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 

They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXYI. 

The henna should be deeply dj'^ed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white than her: 

The eye might doubt if it were well awake. 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Sbakspeare also says, 't is very silly 

" To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 

LXXYII. 
Juan had on a shawi of black and gold. 

But a white baracan, and so transparent 
The sparkling gems beneath you might behold. 

Like small stars through the milky way apparent ; 
His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold. 

An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 
Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent, 
Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. 

LXXYIII. 

And now they w^ere diverted by their suite. 
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a poet, 

Which made their new establishment complete ; 
The last w^as of great fame, and liked to show it ; 

His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 
And for his theme— he seldom sung below it, 

He being paid to satirize or flatter. 

As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

LXXTX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past. 
Reversing the good custom of old days. 



$ This is no exaggeration ; there were four women whom I 
remember to have seen, who possessed their hair in this pro- 
fusion ; of these, three were English, the other was a Levan- 
tine. Their hair was of that length and quantity, that, when 
let down, it almost entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to 
render dress a superfluity. Of these, only one had dark hair; 
the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest color of the four. 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAK 



LXXX.-LXXXVT. 



An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise — 
For some few years liis lot had been o'ercast 

By his seeming independent in his laj^s, 
But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha [shaw. 
"With truth like Southey, and with verse like Cra- 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes, 
And always changed as true as any needle ; 

His polar star being one which rather ranges. 
And not the fix'd — lie knew the way to wheedle : 

So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when fee 'd illj. 

He lied with such a fervor of intention — 

There was no doubt he earn-d his laureate pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius, — when a turncoat has it, 

The " Vates irritabilis " takes care 
That without notice few full moons shall pass it ; 

Even good men like to make the public stare : — 
But to my subject— let me see — what was it ? — 

Oh !— the third canto — and the pretty pair — 
Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, and 

mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 

In company a very pleasant fellow. 
Had been the favorite of full many a mess 

Of men, and made them speeches when half 
mellow ; 
And though his meaning they could rarely guess, 

Yet still they deign'd to hiccup or to bellow 
The glorious meed of popular applause, 
Of which the first ne'er knows the second cause. 

LXXXIII. 

But now being lifted into high society. 
And having pick'd up several odds and ends 

Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. 
He deem'd, being in a lone isle, among friends. 

That without any danger of a riot, he 
Might for long lying make himself amends ; 

And singing as he sung in his warm youth, 

Agree to a short armistice with truth. 

LXXXIV. 

He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, and 
Franks, 

And knew the self-loves of the different nations ; 
And having lived with people of all ranks. 

Had something ready upon most occasions — 
"Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 

He varied with some skill his adulations ; 
To " do at Rome as Romans do,'' a piece 
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 

LXXXY. 

Thus, usually, when he was asked to sing, 
He gave the different nations something na- 
tional ; 

'T was all the same to him—" God save the king," 
Or " Qa ira," according to the fashion all : 

His muse made increment of anything. 
From the high lyric down to the low rational ; 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a chanson ; 
In England a six-canto quarto tale ; 

* The poets of the fourteenth century— Dante, etc. 

+ Homer. % Anacreon. 



In Spain he 'd make a ballad or romance on 
The last war — much the same in Portugal ; 

In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 
Would be old Goethe's— (see what says De Stael) ; 

In Italy he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ; " * 

In Greece he 'd sing some sort of hymn like this t' ye : 

1. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace. 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung I 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 

2. 
The Scianf and the Teian muse,$ 

The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 
Have found the fame your shores refuse : 

Their place of birth alone is mute 
To sounds which echo further west 
Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest. "§ 

3. 
Tlie mountains look on Marathon— 

And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
And musing there an hour alone, 

I dream 'd that Greece might still be free; 
For standing on the Persians' grave, 
I could not deem myself a slave. 

4. 

A king sate on the rocky brow 
Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break cf day— 

And when the sun set where were they ? 

5. 

And where are they ? and where art thou, 
My country ? On thy voiceless shore 

Tlie heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 

6. 

'T is something, in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame. 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush— for Greece a tear. 

7. 
Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush V— Our fathers bled. 
Earth ! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

8. 
What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ;— the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall. 

And answer, " Let one living head. 
But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
'T is but the living who are dumb. 

9. 
In vain— in vain • strike other chords ; 
Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 

§ The KTjo-ot fiaKapcov of the Greek poets were supposed to 
have been the Cape de Verd Islands or the Canaries. 
495 



CANTO III. 



DON JTJAK 



LXXXVIT.-XCV. 



Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call- 
How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 

10. 
You have the PjTrhic dance as yet, 

Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone ? 
Of two such lessons, why forget 

Tiie nobler and the manlier one ? 
You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 

11. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served— but served Poly crates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
AVere still, at least, our countrymen. 

12. . 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 
Yv^as freedom's best and bravest friend; 

That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
Oh ! that the present hour would lend 

Another despot of the kind ! 

Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

13. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore. 
Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
And there, perhaps, some seed is sown. 
The Heracleidan blood might own. 

14. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells ; 

In native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud. 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade— 
I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves. 
To think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

16. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep. 

Where notliing, save the waves and I, 
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 

There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine- 
Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

LXXXYII. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have sung. 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 

If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was young, 
Yet in these times he might have done much worse : 

His strain display 'd some feeling— right or wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 

Of others' feeling ; but they are such liars. 

And take all colors— like the hands of dyers. 

LXXXYIIL 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink. 
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces 

* See Johnson's Life of Milton, 
f See Coleridg-e's Biographia Literaria, 1817. 
496 



That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, 
think ; 

'T is strange, the shortest letter which man uses 
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 

Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 
Frail man, when paper— even a rag like this. 
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that 's his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave a blank, 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank 
In chronological commemoration. 

Some dull MS. oblivion long has sank. 
Or graven stone found in a barrack's station 

In digging the foundation of a closet, 

May turn his name up, as a rare deposit. 

XC. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'T is something, nothing, words, illusion, wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's st3de 

Than on the name a person leaves behind : 
Troy owes to Homer wliat whist owes to Hoyle : 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, 
Until his late Life by Archdeacon Coxe. 

XCI. 

Milton 's the prince of poets— so we say; 

A little heavy, but no less divine : 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn d, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
But his life falling into Johnson's way, 

We 're told tliis great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college— a harsh sire— odd spouse. 
For the first Mrs. Milton left his house.* 

XCII. 

All these are, ceries, entertaining facts, 
Like Shakspeare's stealing deer. Lord Bacon's 
bribes ; 

Like Titus' youth, and Caesar's earliest acts ; 
Like Burns {whom Doctor Currie well describes) ; 

Like Cromwell's pranks;— but although trutli exacts 
These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 

As most essential to their hero's story. 

They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIII. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocracy ;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired, who then 
Season'd his peddler poems with democracy ; 

Or Coleridge,! long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its arif.tocracy ; 

W^hen he and Southey, following the same path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

XCIY. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 
The very Botany Bay in moral geography; 

Their loyal treason, renegade rigor. 
Are good manure for their more bare biography, 

Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography; 

A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excursion," 

AYrit in a manner which is my aversion. 

XCY. 

He there builds up a formidable dj^ke 

Between his own and others' intellect ; 
But Wordsworth's poem, and his followers, like 



% The followers of this fanatic are said, to have amounted, 
at one time, to a hundred thousand. She announced herself 



CANTO III. 



DON JUAN, 



XCVI.-CVIII. 



Are things which in this century don't strike 

The public mind— so few are the elect ; 
And the new births of both their stale virginities 
Have proved but dropsies, taken for divinities. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story: I must own, 

If I have any fault, it is digression, 
Leaving my people to proceed alone. 

While I soliloquize heyond expression : 
But these are my addresses from the throne, 

Which put off business to the ensuing session : 
Forgetting each omission is a loss to 
The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 

XCYII. 

I know that what our neighbors call " longueur s,^^ 
(We've not so good a word, but have the thing, 

In that complete perfection which insures 
An epic from Bob Southey every spring — ) . 

Form not the true temptation which allures 
The reader : but 't would not be hard to bring 

Some fine examples of the epopee, 

To prove its grand ingredient is ennui. 

XCYIII. 

We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes sleei)s ; " 
We feel without him, Wordsworth sometimes 
wakes,— 

To show with what complacency he creeps, 
With his dear " Wagoners,'''' around his lakes. 

He wishes for " a boat " to sail the deeps — 
Of ocean ? — No, of air ; and then he makes 

Another outcry for " a little boat," 

And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 
And Pegasus runs restive in his "Wagon," 

Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? 
Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 

Or if, too classic for his vulgar brain. 
He fear 'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 

And he must needs mount nearer to the moon, 

Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon ? 



C. 



Oh! 



" Peddlers," and " Boats," and " Wagons ! " 
ye shades 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this ? 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abj^ss 
Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack Cades 

Of sense and song above vour graves may hiss— 
The "little boatman " and his " Peter Bell " 
Can sneer at him who drew ''Achitophel! " * 

CI. 

T' our tale. — The feast was over, the slaves gone. 
The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 

The Arab lore and poet's song were done, 
And every sound of revelry expired ; 

The lady and her lover, left alone. 
The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired ;— 

Ave Maria ! o'er the earth and sea, 

That heavenliest hour of Heaven is worthiest 
thee! 



as the mother of a second ShiJoh, whose speedy advent she 
confidently predicted. A cradle of expensive materials was 
prepared for the expected prodigy. Dr. Reece and another 
medical man attested her dropsy ; and many were. her dupes 
down to the moment of her death, in 1814. 

* "The verses of Dryden, once highly celebrated, are for- 
gotten."— Mr. W. Wordsworth's Preface. 

t " The first time I had a conversation with Lord Byron on 

32 



CII. 

Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour ! 

The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 

Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft. 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air. 
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer. 

cm. 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of praj^er ! 

Ave Maria ! 't is the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above I 
Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almiglity 
dove — 
What though 't is but a pictured image ?— strike- 
That painting is no idol,— 't is too like. 

CIV. 

Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 

But set those persons down with me to pray, 
And you sliall see who has the properest notion 

Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
My altars are the mountains and the ocean. 

Earth, air, stars, — all that springs from the great 
Whole, 

Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

CY. 

Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 

Which bounds Ravemia's immemorial wood, 
Eooted v/here once the Adrian wave flow'd o^er,, 

To where the last C cesarean fortress stood. 
Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 

And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 

How have I loved the twilight hour and thee I f 

CYI. 

The shrill cicalas, people of the pine. 
Making their summer lives one ceaseless song. 

Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine. 
And vesper bell's, that rose the boughs along; 

The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line. 
His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 

Which learn 'd from this example not to fly 

From a true lover, — shadow'd my mind's eye. 

CYII. 

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good things — 
Llome to the weary, to the hungry cheer. 

To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
The welcome stall to the o'erlabor'd steer ; 

Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear. 

Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 

Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 

CYIII. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 



the subject of religion was at Ravenna, my native country^ 
in 1820, while we were riding on horseback in an extensive 
solitary wood of pines. The scene inA'ited to religious medi- 
tation. It was a fine day in spring. 'How,' he said, 'raising 
our eyes to heaven, or directing them to the earth, can we 
doubt of the existence of God? — or how, turning them to 
what is within us, can we doubt that there is something more 
noble and durable than the clay of which we are formed ? ' "— 
Count Gamba. 

497 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAK 



T.-X. 



As the far bell of vesper makes liiin start, 
Seemiiis^ to weep the dyhio- day's decay ; 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
Ah ! surely nothing dies but sometliin^- mourns ! 

CIX. 

When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroyed, 

Amidst the roar of liberated Eome, 
Of nations freed, and tlie world overjoyed, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb : * 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 

ex. 

But I 'm digressing ; what on earth has ISTero, 
Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 

To do with the transactions of my hero, 
More than such madmen's fellow man— the 
moon's? 

Sure my invention must be do\Mi at zero. 
And I grown one of many "wooden spoons " 

Of verse (tiie name with which we Cantabs please 

To dub the last of honors in degrees). 

CXI. 

I feel this tediousness will never do— 
'T is being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two ; 
They '11 never find it out, unless I own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown : 

I *11 ])rove that such the opinion of the critic is 

Prom Aristotle passim. — See notr^nvr/s. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



I. 

XoTHixG so difficult as a beginning 

In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 
Por oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 

The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend, 
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning : 

Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend. 
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far. 
Till our ovm weakness shows us what we are. 

II. 

But Time, which brings all beings to their level. 
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 

Man, — and, as we would hoi)e, perhaps the devil,— 
That neither of their intellects are vast : 

While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this — the blood flows on too fast ; 

But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 

We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

IIL 

As boy, I tliought myself a elever fellow, 
And wish'd that others held the ^me opinion; 



* See Suetonius for this fact.—" The public joy was so great 
upon the occasion of his death, that the common people ran 
up and down with caps upon their heads- And yet there were 
some who for a long time trimmed up his tomb with spring 
and summer flowers, and one while placed his imag-e upon 
498 



They took it up when my days grew more mellow, 
And other mhids acknowledged my dominion : 

Xow my sere fancy '' falls into the yellow 
Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion, 

And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk 

Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

lY. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

'T is that I may not weep ; and if I weep, 

'T is that our nature cannot always bring 
Itself to apathy, for we must steep 

Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring. 
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep : 

Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx ; 

A mortal mother would on Lethe fix. 

V. 

Some have accused me of a strange design 
Against the creed and morals of the land. 

And trace it in this poem every line : 
I don't pretend that I quite understand 

My own meaning when I would be veri/ fine ; 
But the fact is' that I have nothing plann'd, 

Unless it were to be a moment merry, 

A novel word in my vocabulary. 

YI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half -serious rhyme, 
Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings 
despotic ; 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet. 

YII. 

How I have treated it, I do not know; 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me, 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Xot what they saw, but what they wish'd to see ; 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so ; 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free ; 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

YIII. 
Young Juan and his lady-love were left 

To their own hearts' most s\veet society ; 
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he 
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft. 

Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring. 
Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 

The blank gray was not made to blast their hair. 
But like the climes that know nor snow nor Ijail, 

They were all summer ; lightning might assail 
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 

A long and snake-like life of dull decay 

Was not for them— they had too little clay. 

X. 

They were alone once more ; for them to be 
Thus was another Eden ; they were never 



his rostra dressed up in stiite robes, another while published 
proclamations in his name, as If he was yet alive, and would 
shortly come to Eome again, with a vengeance to all his 
enemies." 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAK 



XI.-XXIV. 



Weary, unless when separate ; the tree 
Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain— the child from the knee 
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever, — 

Would wither less than these two torn apart ; 

Alas ! there is no instinct like the heart— 

XI. 

Tlie heart— which may be broken : happy they ! 

Thrice fortunate ! who of that frftgiie "mould, 
The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the hrst fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must bo borne, and never \old ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

XII. 

" Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore, 
And many deaths do they escape by tiiis : 

The death of friends, and that which slays even 
more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 

Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 

The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead. 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for 
them : 
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to condemn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 

XIV. 

The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
Tlie least glance better understood than words, 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
A language, too, but like to that of birds, 

Known but to them, at least appearing such 
As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 

Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 



heard — 



XV. 



All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
And children still they should Jiave ever been ; 

They were not made in the real world to fill 
A busy character in the dull scene, 

But like two beings born from out a rill, 
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 

To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 

And never know the weight of human hours. 

XVI. 

Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 

As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 
And tliese were not of the vain kind which cloys, 

Eor theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 

Most love, possession, unto them appear 'd 

A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh, beautiful ! and rare as beautiful ! 

But theirs was love in which the mind delights 
To lose itself, when the old world grows dull'. 

And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 

Its petty passions, marriages, and fligiits, 



Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — ^re. [more, 

XVIII. 

Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many 
know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from care ? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

Which perish in the rest, but in them were 
Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 

XIX. 

This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream - of too much youth and reading, 
But was in them their nature or "their fate : 

No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding, 
For Haidee's knowledge was by no ]neans great, 

And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding ; 
So that there was no reason for their loves 
More than for those of nightingales or doves. 

XX. 

They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 

For it had made them wiiat they were : the power 
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such 
skies, 

When happiness had been their only dower. 
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties ; 

Charm 'd with each other, all things charm 'd that 
brought 

The past still welcome as the present thought. 

XXI. 

I know not wdiy, but in that hour to-night. 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame. 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight : 
And thus some boding flash 'd througii either 
frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate 
And follow far the disappearing sun, 

As if their last day of a happy date 
With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were 

Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate— [gone. 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none. 

His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 

For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse* 

XXIII. 

Slie turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master 'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too— it might be in sport— 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied— 

" If it should be so,— but— it cannot be— 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 

XXIV. 

Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this. 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, • 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

* The "Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," by De 
Quincey, had been published shortly before this canto was 
written. 

499 



CANTO IV. 



BON JUAK 



XXV.-XXXTX. 



And no doubt of all methods 't is the best : 
Some peoi^le prefer wine — 't is not amiss; 
I liave tried both ; so those who would a part take 
May choose between the headache andtheheartache. 

XXY. 

One of the two, according to j^our choice, 
Woman or wine. 3^ou '11 liave to undergo ; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys : 
But which to choose. I really hardly know; 

And if I had to give a casting voice, 
For both sides I could many reasons show, 

And then decide, without.great wrong to either, 

It were much better to have both than neither. 

XXYI. 

Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 

With swimming looks of speechless tenderness. 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, 
brother ; 
All that the best can mingle and express 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one anotlier, 
And love too much, and yet can not love less ; 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess 

By the immortal wish and power to bless. 

XXYII. 

Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
Why did they not then die?— they had lived too 
long 

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could but bring them cruel tilings or wrong ; 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXYIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 
Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Yice, and Care : 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 

XXIX. 

Xow pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 

Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep. 

For ever and anon a something shook 
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook 
A wordless music, and her face so fair 
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air ; 

XXX. 

Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The mystical usurper of the mind— 

O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem 
Good to the soul which we no more can bind ; 

Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be) 

Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see. 

XXXI. 

She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 

She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening 
her; 

And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour. 
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and liigli— 

Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 
500 



XXXII. 

Anon— she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made ; 
And something roU'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she must still pursu^howe'er afraid : 
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 

Andran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed :— in a cave she stood, its walls 

Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 
Where waves might wash, and seals might breed 
and lurk ; 
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and 
mirk 
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they 

caught, 
Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 

XXXIY. 

And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
Pale as the foam that froth 'd on his dead brow. 

Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now !), 

Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
Of his quencli'd heart : and the sea dirges low 

Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song. 

And that brief dream appear 'd a life too long. 

XXXY. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace ; 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view ? 

Oh ! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meets she 
there ? ' 

'T is— 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 

XXXYI. 

Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell, 
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 

Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell 
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 

Perchance the death of one she loved too w^ell : 
Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that a^^'f ul kind 

I have seen such— but must not call to mind. 

XXXYII. 

Up Juan sprang to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off the wall 

Snatch'd dowai his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Yengeance on him who was the cause of all : 

Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my call, 

A thousand scimitars await the word ; 

Put up, young man, put up your silly sword." 

XXXYIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
'T is Lambro — 't is my father ! Kneel with me — 

He will forgive us — yes— it must be — yes. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood. 
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye — 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAN. 



XL.-LIV 



Xot always signs with him of calmest mood : 
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply ; 

Then turu'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 

In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 

On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring. 

XL. 

" Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once more 
said: 

Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free." 
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread. 

And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Eeplied, " Your blood be then on your own head." 

Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
'T was fresh— for he had lately used the lock— 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 
It has- a strange quick jar upon the ear, 

That cocking of a pistol, when you knov/ 
A moment more will bring the sight to bear 

Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so ; 
A gentlemanly distance, not too near. 

If you have got a former friend for foe ; 
But after being fired at once or twice. 
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopp'dthis Canto, and Don Juan's breath. 

When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let death 

Descend— the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
He found— but sought not. I have pledged my 
faith ; 

I love him — I will die with him : I knew 

Your nature's firmness— know your daughter's too. " 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears. 
And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 

She stood as one who champion 'd human fears- 
Pale, statue-like, and slern, she woo'd the blow ; 

And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark ; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was strange 
How like they look'd! the expression was the 
same ; 

Serenely savage, with a little change 
In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame ; 

For she, too, was as one who could avenge, 
If cause should be — a lioness, though tame, 

Her father's blood before her father's face 

Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 

XLV. 

I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature, differing but in sex and years ; 

Even to the delicacy of their hand 
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed both, 

Show what the passions are in their full growth. 

XLYI. 
The father paused a moment, then withdrew 

His weapon, and replaced it ; but stood still, 
And looking on her. as to look her through, 

" Not J," he said, '' have sought this stranger's ill ; 
Not I have made this desolation : few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill •, 



But I must do my duty — how thou hast 
Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 

XLYII. 

" Let him disarm ; or, by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball !" 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew ; another answer'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led. 
And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank ; 

He gave the word,—" Arrest or slay the Frank." 

XLYIII. 

Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter ; while compress'd within his clasp, 

'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp— 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then flew 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp. 

The file of pirates : save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in ; so well, ere you could look, 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot. 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head. 

L. 

And then they bound him where he fell, and bore 
Juan from the apartment : with a sign 

Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine. 

They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
Until they reach 'd some galliots, placed in line ; 

On board of one of these, and under hatches, 

Theystow'd him, with strict orders to the watches. 

LI. 

The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant : 

A gentleman so rich in the world's goods. 
Handsome and young, enjoying all the present. 

Just at the very time when he least broods 
On such a thing, is suddenly to sea sent. 

Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 

And all because a lady fell in love. 

LII. 

Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green 
tea! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic : 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic. 
That I must have recourse to black Bohea : 

'T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious, 

LIII. 

Unless when qualified with thee, Cognac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill 
My mind and midnight beakers to the brim. 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 

LIY. 

I leave Don Juan for the present, safe — 
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded; 
501 



CANTO IV 



DON JUAK 



LV.-LXIX. 



Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded ! 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
And then give wa}^ subdued because surrounded ; 

Her mother was a Moorish maid from Fez, 

Vf here all is Eden, or a wilderness. 

LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 
In marble fonts ; there grain, and flower, and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er ; 
Bnt there, too, many a poison-tree has root, 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot, 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan ; 

And as the soil is, so the heart of man. 

LYI. 

Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 
Her human clay is kindled ; full of pow^r 

For good or evil, burning from its birth. 
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour. 

And like the sail beneath it will bring forth : 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower ; 

But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force, 

Tliough sleeping like a lion near a source. 

LVII. 

Her daughter, temper 'd with a milder ray, 
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair. 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to eartli, and tempest to the air, 

Had lield till now her soft and milky way ; 
But overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her JSTumidian veins. 

Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LYIII. 

The last sight which she sav/ was Juan's gore. 
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down; 

His blood w^as running on the very floor 
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no more, — 
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan ; 

On her sire's arm, which imtil now^ scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 

LIX. 

A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 

And her head droop'd, as when the lily lies 
O'ercharged with rain : her summon'd handmaids 
bore 

Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store. 

But she defied all means theV could employ, 

Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 

LX. 

Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill— 

With nothing livid, still her lips were red; 
She^had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 

Xo hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead ; 
Corruption came not, in each mind to kill 

All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul- 
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 

LXI. 

The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
Wlien exquisitely chisell'd, still lav there, 

But fix'd as marl)le's unchanoed aspect throws 
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 

O'er the Laocoon's ail-eternal throes, 
And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 

Their energy like life forms all their fame, 

Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. — 
502 



LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Batlier the dead, for life seem'd something new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache 
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 

Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 

LXIII. 

She look'd on many a face with vacant eye. 
On many a token without knowing what ; 

She saw them watch her without asking wdiy ; 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Xot speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
Believed her thoughts; dull silence and quick 
chat 

Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 

Xo sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIY. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 

Her father watch 'd, she turn'd her eyes away; 
She recognized no being, and no spot. 

However dear or cherish 'd in their day ; 
They changed from room to room, but all forgot. 

Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain be 

weaning 
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning. 

LXV. 

And then a slave bethought her of a harp; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument; 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp. 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- 
sent ; 
And he began a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 

And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through 
all 
Her recollection ; on her flash 'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being ; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 

LXVII. 

Short solace, vain relief !— thought came too quick, 
And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 

As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick. 
And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 

But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ; — 

Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave. 

Even when they smote her. in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet she betray 'd at times a gleam of sense ; 

Xothing could make her meet her father's face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 

Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep— the power seem'd gone for ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last, 
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 



CANTO IV. 



DON JUAK 



LXX.-LXXXIII. 



A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'cl : 
And they who watch 'd her nearest could not know 

The very instant, till the change that cast 
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 

Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black — 

Oh ! to possess such lustre— and then lack ! * 

LXX. 

She died, but not alone : she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin ; 
But closed its little being without light. 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie withered with one blight ; 

In vain the dews of Heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — ^tlius died she ; never more on her 
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made 

Through years or moons the inner weight to bear, 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth: her days and pleasures were 
Brief, but delightful— such as had not staid 

Long with her destiny ; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXII. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare. 
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; 

iSTone but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay ; 

Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say, 

Wliat was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 

LXXIII. 

But many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name ; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long; 
Valor was his, and beauty dwelt witli her : 

If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A heavy price must all pay who thus err. 

In some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let me change this theme, which grows too sad, 
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf ; 

I don't much like describing people mad, 
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself — 

Besides, I 've no more on this head to add ; 
And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 

We 11 put about, and try another tack 

With Juan, left half kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, ''cabin'd, cribb'd, con- 
fined," 

Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
Could altogether call the past to mind ; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea, 
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
Another time he might have liked to see 'em. 
But now.was not much pleased with Cape Sigseum. 

LXXVL 

There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 
(Flank'd by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 



* "And then he drew a dial from his poke, 
And looking- on It with lack-lustre ej-es." 

A.S You Like It. 
+ This is a fact. A fcAv years ag-o a man engaged a com- 
pany for some foreign theatre, embax'ked them at an Italian 



Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles; 

They say so— (Bryant says the contrary) : 
And further downward, tall and towering still, is 

The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 't may 
be 
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus; 
All heroes, who if living still would slay us. 

LXXVII. 

High barrows, without marble, or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain, 

And Ida in the distance, still the same. 
And old Scamander (if 't is he), remain ; 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again. 

With ease ; but where I sought for Ilion 's walls, 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls; 

LXXVIII. 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth ; 

Some shepherds (unlike Paris), led to stare 
A moment at the European youth 

Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear ; 
A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in mouth, 

Extremely taken with his own religion, 

Are what I found there— but the devil a Phrj^gian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave ; 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gave 

No very satisfactory information 

About "his past or present situation. 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd 
To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard. 
Which was an odd one; a troop going to act 

In Sicily— all singers, duly rear'd 
In their vocation ; had not been attack 'd 

In sailing from Livorno by the pirate. 

But sold' by the impresario at no high rate.f 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gayety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanor, 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

LXXXII. 

In a few words he told their hapless story, 
Saying, " Our Machiavellian impresario. 

Making a signal off some promontory, 
Hail'd a strange brig ; Corpo di Caio Mario ! 

We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 
Without a single scudo of salario ; 

But if the Sultan has a taste for song. 

We will revive our fortunes before long, 

LXXXIII. 

" The prima donna, though a little old, 
And haggard with a dissipated life. 



port, and carrying- them to Alg-iers, sold them all. One of 
the women, returned from her captivity, I heard sing, by a 
strange coincidence, in Rossini's opera of " L'ltaliana la 
Algieri," at Venice, in the beginningr of 1817. 

503 



CANTO IV 



DON JUAK 



LXXXIV.-XCVTTT. 



And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 
Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's wife, 

With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 
Last carnival she made a deal of strife, 

By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 

From an old Roman princess at Bologna. 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancers ; there 's the jSTini, 
AVith more than one profession gains by all ; 

Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 
She, too, was fortunate last carnival, 

And made at least five hundred good zecchiui, 
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul; 

And then there 's the Grotesca—such a dancer! 

Where men have souls or bodies she must answer. 

LXXXY. 

" As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 

The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 
There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike, 

Yet has a sentimental kind of air 
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigor ; 
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure. 

LXXXYI. 

"As for the men, they are a middling set ; 

The musico is b\it a crack'd old basin, 
But being qualified in one way yet. 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

His singmg I no further trust can place in : 
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex. 

LXXXYII. 

" The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation. 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education, 
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow ; 

But being the prima donna's near relation. 
Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow, 

They hired him, though to hear him you'd believe 

An ass was practicing recitative. 

LXXXYIII. 

" 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 
My o\Mi merits, and though young— I see, sir — 
you 

Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one 
To whom the opera is by no means new : 

You 've heard of Eaucocanti ?— I "m the man ; 
The time may come when you may hear me too ; 

You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 

But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there— do go. 

LXXXIX. 

" Our baritone I almost had forgot, 
A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit ; 

Witli graceful action, science not a jot, 
A voice of no great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot. 
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street ; 

In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe. 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

XC. 
Here Eaucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew. 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each threw 
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Danciug all free and happy in the sun), 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 
504 



XCI. 

They heard next daj^— that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his Sublimity's firman. 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

AVhich everybody does without who can, 
More to secure the'm in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man. 
Were to be chain 'd and lotted out per couple, 
For the slave market of Constantinople. 

XCII. 
It seems when this allotment was made out, 

There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female, 
Who (after some discussion and some doubt. 

If the soprano might be deem'd to be male. 
They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 

AVere link'cf together, and it l\appen'd the male 
AVas Juan — who, an awkward thing at his age, 
Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

AA'ith Eaucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 
The tenor ; these two hated with a hate 

Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 
AA'ith this his tuneful neighbor than his fate ; 

Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain *d. 
Instead of bearing up without debate. 

That each puU'd different ways with many an oath, 

" Arcades ambo," id est— blackguards both. 

XCIY. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the march of old Ancona, 
AYith eyes that look'd into the very soul 

(And other chief points of a ''bella donna""). 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal ; 

And through her clear brunette complexion 
shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
Especially when added to the power. 

XCY. 

But all that power w^as wasted upon him. 
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command; 

Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim : 
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 

Touch 'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 
(And she had some not easy to withstand) 

Could stir his pulse, or m.ake'his faith feel ])rittle ; 

Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

XCA^I. 

Xo matter ; we should ne'er too much inquire, 
But facts are facts: no knight could be more 
true. 

And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 
We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 

'Tis said no one in hand " can hold a fire 
By thought of frosty Caucasus; " but few, 

I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 

AYas more triumphant, and not much less real. 

, XCYII. 

Here I might enter on a chaste description. 
Having withstood temptation in my youth. 

But hear that several people take exception 
At the first two books having too much truth ; 

Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship soon, 
Because the publisher declares, in sooth. 

Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is 

To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

XCYIII. 
'T is all the same to me ; I 'm fond of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

AA'ho say strange things for so correct an age ; 



CAN^TO IV. 



DON JUAK 



XCTX.-CXI. 



I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it sha'n't. 

XCIX. 

As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble ; 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble ; 

Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to take a lease, 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

C. 

Of poets who come down to us through distance 
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, 

Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 

'T is as a snowball which derives assistance 
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 

Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 

But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow. 

CI. 

And so great names are nothing more than nom- 
inal. 

And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 't WTre identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing 
all. 

Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just " — 
Save change : I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,* 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of Rome. 

CII. 

The very generations of the dead 
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb. 

Until the memory of an age is fled. 
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom : 

Where are the epitaphs our fathers read V" 
Save a few glean 'd from the sepulchral gloom 

Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath. 

And lose their own in universal death. 

cm. 

I canter by the spot each afternoon 
Wliere perish 'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 

A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 

Eecords Ravenna's carnage on its face, 

While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.f 

CIV. 

I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid : 
A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 

Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 

To the bard's tomb, % and not the warrior's 
column : 

The time must come, when both alike decay 'd, 
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's voiume. 

Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 

Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 



* " I stood upon the plain of Troy daily, for more than a 
month, in 1810 ; and if anything diminished my pleasure, it 
was that the blackguard Bryant had impugned its veracity." 
—Byron Diary, 1831. 

+ The pillar which records the battle of Ravenna is about 
two miles from the city, on the opposite side of the river to 
the road towards Forli. Gaston de Foix, who gained the 
battle, was killed in it: there fell on both sides twenty thou- 
sand men. 



cv. 

With human blood that column was cemented. 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented 
To show his loatliing of the spot he soil'd : 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose 
wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone. 

CVI. 

Yet there will still be bards : though fame is smoke. 
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 

And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
Song in the world, will seek what then they sought; 

As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 

Dash into poetry, wliich is but passion. 

Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 

CVII. 
If in the course of such a life as was 

At once adventurous and contemplative, 
Men who partake all passions as they pass. 

Acquire the deep and bitter powder to give 
Their images again as in a glass. 

And in such colors that they seem to live ; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em, 
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

CVIII. 

Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes- of all books ! 

Benign Ceruleans of the second sex ! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks. 

Your " imprimatur " will ye not annex ? 
What ! must I go to the oblivious cooks. 

Those Cornisli plunderers of Parnassian wrecks? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be. 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ! 

CIX. 

What ! can I prove " a lion " then no more ? 

A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling ? 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 

And sigh, " I can't get out," like Yorick's star- 
ling ; 
Why then I '11 swear, as poet Wordy swore 

(Because the world won't read him, always snarl- 
ing), 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery, 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 

Oh! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 
As some one somewhere sings about the sky, 

And I, ye learned ladies, say of you ; 
They say your stockings are so— (Heaven knows 
why, 

I have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 

Round the Patrician left-legs, wliich adorn 

The festal midnight, and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures — 
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover. 



$ " Dante was buried (' in sacra minorum sede ') at Ravenna, 
in a handsome tomb, which was erected by his protector, 
Guido da Polenta, restored by Bernardo Bembo In 1483, again 
restored by Cardinal Corsi in 1693, and replaced by a more 
magnificent sepulchre in 1780, at the expense of the cardinal 
Luigi Valent Gonzaga. The Florentines having in vain and 
frequently attempted to recover his body, crowned his image 
in a church, and his pictture is still one of the idols of their 
cathedral. ' '— Hobhouse. 

505 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



I.-V 



You read my stanzas, and I read your features: 
And— but no matter, all those thinft's are over; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover ; 

I knew one woman of that purer school, 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt, " the first of travellers," but not 
The last, if late accounts be accurate, 

Invented, by some name I have forgot, 
As well as the sublime discovery's date, 

An airy instrument, wdth which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state. 

By measuring " the intensity of blue : "* 

oil, Lady Daphne ! let me measure you ! 

CXIII. 

But to the narrative : — The vessel bound 
AVith slaves to sell off in the capital, 

After the usual process, might be found 
At anchor under the seraglio wall ; 

Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound. 
Were landed in the market, one and all. 

And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circas- 
sians, 

Bought up for different purposes and passions. 

CXIY. 

Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, v.-ere given, 

Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colors 
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven : 

Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers, 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach 'd eleven ; 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrev\'. 

CXY. 

Twelve negresses from Xubia brought a price 
Which the West Indian market scarce could 
bring. 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice 
What 't w^as ere Abolition; and the thing 

Keed not seem very v/onderful, for vice 
Is always much more splendid than a king : 

The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, 

Are saving— vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXYI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the command of crews 

As renegadoes; while in hapless group. 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose. 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wafe, or victim : 

CXYII. 

And this must be reserved for further song ; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant 
(Because this Canto has become too long), 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 



* "'The C5-anometer— an instrument invented for ascertain- 
ing the intensitj' of the blue color of the sky." 

+ In a note from Madame Guiccioli to Lord Byron, she says, 
"Remember, my Byron, the promise you have made me. 
Never shall I be able to tell you the satisfaction I feel from 
it; so great are the sentiments of pleasure and confidence 
with which the sacrifice you have made has inspired me." j 
In a postscript to the note she adds, "Mi reveresce solo che 
Don Giovanni non resti all' Inferno." " I am only sorry that ! 
Don Juan was not left in the infernal regions." 

$"Lady Mary Wortley errs strangely when she says, I 
'Saint Paul would cut a strange figure by Saint Sophia.' I i 
506 



I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong. 

But could not for the muse of me put less iu 't : 
x\.nd now^ delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 




CANTO THE FIFTH, t 



VrnEX amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland. 
And pair their rhymes as Yenus yokes her doves, 

They little think w^iat mischief is in hand ; 
The greater their success the worse it proves. 

As Ovid's verse may give to understand ; 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity, i? 

II. 

I therefore do denounce all amorous wTiting, 
Except in such a w^ay as not to attract ; 

Plain — simple — short, and by no means inviting, 
But with a moral to each error tack'd, 

Form'd rather for instructing than delighting. 
And with all passions in their turn attack 'd; 

Xow, if my Pegasus should not be shod ill, 

This poem wall become a moral model. 

III. 

Th.e European with the Asian shore 
Sprinkled with palaces ; the Ocean stream 

Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 
Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; t 

The cypress groves ; Olympus high and hoar ; 
The twelve isles, and the more than I could 
dream, 

Far less describe, present the very view 

Which charm'd the charming Mary Montagu. 

lY. 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary,'' ^ 
For once it was a magic sound to me ; 

And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 
AVhere I beheld wdiat never was to be ; 

All feelings changed, but this was last to vary, 
A spell from wdiich even yet I am not quite free : 

But I grow sad— and let a tale grow cold, 

AVhich must not be pathetically told. 

Y. 

The wind swept downi the Euxine, and the wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegades ; 

'T is a grand sight from off '' the Giant's Grave " || 
To w^atch the progress of those rolling seas 

Between the Bosphorus, as they lash and lave 
Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease : 



have been in both, surveyed them inside and out attentively. 
Saint Sophia's is undoubtedly the most interesting, from its 
immense antiquity, and the circumstance of all the Greek 
emperors, from Justinian, having been crowned there, and 
several murdered at the altar, besides the Turkish sultans 
who attended it regularly. But it is not to be mentioned in 
the same page with Saint Paul's (I speak like a Cockney)."— 
Byron Letters, 1810. 

§ See ante, p. 311. 

II The " Giant's Grave " is a height on the Asiatic shore of 
the Bosphorus, much frequented by holiday parties; like 
Harrow and Highgate. 



CANTO Y. 



DON JUAN. 



vr.-xix. 



There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, 
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine. 

VI. 

'Tvx^as a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning, 
When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 

The Parcse then cut short the further spinning 
Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways : 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 

Because if drown'd, they can't— if spared, they 
won't. 

yii. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 

Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly 
changed. 

All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation. 
From friends, and home, and freedom far es- 
tranged ; 

The negroes more philosophy display 'd — 

Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

YIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full. 
As most at his age are, of hope, and health ; 

Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull, 
And now and then a tear stole down by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters. 

To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 

IX. 

Were things to shake a stoic ; ne'ertheless. 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 

His figure, and the splendor of his dress. 
Of which some gilded remnants still were seen. 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very handsome ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 

X. 

Like a backgammon board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show for 
sale. 

Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 

It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale. 

With resolution in his dark gray eye, 

Kext Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XL 

He had an English look ; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy. 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 

An open brow a little mark'd with care : 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such stmg froid, that 
greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator. 

XII. 

But seeing at his elbow a mere lad, 

Of a high spirit evidently, tliough 
At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 

O'erthrown even men, he soon began to show 
A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 

Lot of so young a partner in the woe. 
Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 
Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 



XIII. 

" My boy ! "—said he, " amidst this motley crew 

Of Georgians, Russians, i^ubians, and what not. 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 

With whom it is our luck to cast our lot, 
The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought: 
If I could yield you any consolation, 
'T would give me pleasure.— Pray, what is your 
nation?" 

XIY. 
When Juan answer'd— " Spanish ! " he replied, 

" I thought, in fact, you could not be a Greek ; 
Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed : 

Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak. 
But that 's her way with all men, till they 're tried ; 

But never mind,— she '11 turn, perhaps, next week ; 
She has served me also much the same as you, 
Except that I have found it nothing new." 

XY. 

" Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 

TF/ia£ brought you here?"— ''Oh! nothing very- 
rare — 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain "— " To this doom 

But what conducted, if the question's faU% 

Is that which I would learn."— "I served for some 
Months with the Bussian army here and there ; 

And taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

A town, was ta'en myself instead of Widdin." * 

XYI. 

" Have you no friends? "—"I had— but, by God's 
blessing. 

Have not been troubled with them lately. Xow 
I have answer'd all your questions without pressing. 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 
"Alas ! " said Juan, " 'twere a tale distressing, 
_ And long besides."—" Oh ! if 't is really so. 
You 're right on both accounts to hold your tongue ; 
A sad tale saddens doubly when 't is long. 

XYII. 

" But droop not : Fortune at your time of life, 
Although a female moderately fickle, 

Ynil hardly leave you (as she 's not your wife) 
For any length of days in such a pickle. 

To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife 
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle : 

Men are the sport of circumstances, when 

The circumstances seem the sport of men." 

XYIII. 
'"Tis not," said Juan, " for my present doom 

Ijnourn, but for the past ;— I loved a maid : " — 
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of gloom ; 

A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume ; 

'T is not my present lot, as I have said. 
Which I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

" On the rough deep. But this last blow—" and 
here 

He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
"Ay," quoth his friend, "I thought it would ap- 
pear 

That there had been a lady in the case ; 
And these are things which ask a tender tear, 

Such as I, too, would shed if in your place : 
I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 
And also when my second ran away : 

* A considerable town in Bulgaria, on the right bank of 
the Danube. 

507 



CANTO V. 



DON JTJAK 



XX.-XXXITI. 



XX. 

" My third "— " Your third ! " quoth Juan, turn- 
ing round ; 

" You scarcely can be thirty : have you tliree ? " 
" Xo— only two at present above ground : 

Surely 't is nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound ! " 

" Well, then, your third," said Juan, " what did 
she ? 
She did not run aw^ay, too,— did she. sir ? " 
" No, faith."—" What then ? "— " I ran away from 
her." 

XXI. 
" You take things coolly, sir," said Juan. " Why," 

Eeplied the other, "what can a man do ? 
There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is new, 
Commence wdth feelings warm, and prospects high ; 

But time strips our illusions of their hue. 
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake. 

XXII. 

" 'Tis true, it gets another bright and fresh, 
Or fresher, brighter ; but the year gone through, 

This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 
Or sometimes only w^ear a week or two ; — 

Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly mesh ; 
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days. 

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 

" All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don 't see how 

It betters present times wdth me or you." 
" ^N'o y " quoth the other ; " yet you will allow 

By setting things in their right point of view^. 
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd ; for instance, now. 

We know wliat slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave wiien masters." 

XXIY. 

" Would we were masters now, if but to try 
Their present lessons on our Pagan friends here," 

Said Juan,— swallowing a heart-burning sigh : 
"Heaven help the scholar, whom his fortune 
sends here! " 

" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 
Kejoin'd the other, "when our bad luck mends 
here ; 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to eye us) 

I w^ish to G— d that somebody w^ould buy us. 

XXY. 

" But after all, what is our present state ? 

'T is bad, and may be better — all men's lot : 
Most men are slaves, none more so than the great. 

To their own whims and passions, and what not ; 
Society itself, which sliould create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got : 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 

XXYI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 
Of the third sex stept up, and peering over 

The captives seem'd to mark their looks and age. 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

* The Turkish zecchino is a gold coin, worth about seven 
shillings and sixpence. The para is not quite equal to an 
English halfpenny. 

+ The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of De- 
cember, 1820, in the streets of Ravenna, not a hundred paces 
508 



Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 
Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailer, 

XXYII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow creatures; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by 
features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 

Some by a place — as tend their years or natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices. 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXYIII. 

The eunuch, having eyed them o'er with care, 
Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 

First but for one, and after for 'the pair ; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too— so they did! 

As though they w^ere in a mere Christian fair, 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 

So that their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some dow^n, and w^eighing others in their hand. 

And by mistake sequins^ with paras jumbling, 
Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 

And then the merchant giving change, and signing 

Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite v/as good ? 

Or, if it were, if also Ms digestion ? 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 

And conscience ask a curious sort of question. 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has opprest one, 
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Yoltaire says " ISTo : " he tells you that Candide 
Found life most tolerable after meals ; 

He 's wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed, 
Eepletion rather adds to what he feels. 

Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's freed 
From his own brain's oppression w^hile it reels. 

Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 

Ammon's (ill pleased with one world and one father) ; 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 

Of eating, with another act or two, 
Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Eedoubled ; when a roast and a ragout, 
And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back'd, 

Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 
Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 
Depends so much upon the gastric juice ? 

XXXIII. 

The other evening ('twas on Friday last)— 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat w^is about me cast. 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 't was eight o'clock scarce past — 

And, running out as fast as I was able,t 

from the residence of the writer. The circumstances were 
as described.—" December 9, 1820. I open my letter to tell 
you a fact, which will show the state of this country better 
than I can. The commandant of the troops is now lying 
dead in my house. He was shot at a little past eight o'clock, 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAK 



XXXIV.-XLYT. 



I found the military commandant 

Stretcli'd in the street, and able scarce to pant. 

XXXIY. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him 
there 

To perish on the pavement : so I had 
Him borne into the house and up the stair, 

And stripp'd, and look'd to, But why should I 

add 
More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 

The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 

Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 

XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 

And though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell. 

So calm : though pierced through stomach, heart, 
and' liver, 
He seem'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead : 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXYI. 

" Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 

Speak ! " but he spoke not : " wake ! " but still he 
slept : — 
" But yesterday and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe : he said, as the centurion saith, 

' Go,' and he goeth ; ' come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumb— 
And now nought left him but the muffled drum." 

xxxyii. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd— they 
With their rough faces throng 'd about the bed 

To gaze once more on the commanding clay 
Which for the last, though not the first, time bled ; 

And such an end ! that he who many a day 
Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 

The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 

Should now be butcher 'd in a civic alley. 

XXXYIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new. 
Those honorable scars which brought him fame; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view 

But let me quit the theme ; as such things claim 

Perhaps even more attention than is due 
Prom me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the same) 

To try if I could wrench aught out of death 

AVliich should confirm, or shake, or make a faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
And fhere we go :— but where f five bits of lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! 
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be shed ? 

Can every element our elements mar ? 
And air — earth— water— fire live— and we dead ? 

We, whose minds comprehend all things ? Ko more ; 

But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

Tlie purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat. 



about two hundred paces fi-om my door. I was putting- on 
my great coat when I heard the shot. On coming- into the 
hall, I found all my servants on the balcony, exclaiming that 
a man was murdered. I immediately ran down, calling on 
Tita (the bravest of them) to follow me. The rest wanted to 
hinder us from going, as it is the custom for everybody 



Embark'd himself and them, and off they went 
thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 
They look'd like persons being led to sentence. 
Wondering what next, till the caique* was 
brouglit 
Up in a little creek below a wall 
O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 

He led them onward, first through a low tliicket 
Plank'd by large groves, which tower'd on eitlier 
hand : 

They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to tliose on board. 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 

As they were plodding on their winding Vv'ay 
Through orange bowers, and jasmine, and so 
forth 

(Of which I might have a good deal to say. 
There being no such profusion in the North 

Of Oriental plants, '' et cetera," 
But that of late your scribblers think it worth 

Tlieir while to rear whole hotbeds in their works, 

Because one poet travell'd 'mongst the Turks) : 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion :— 'twas the same 
Which might have then occurred to you or me. 

"Methinks,"— said he,— "-it would be no great 
shame 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free ; 

Let 's knock that old black fellow on the head. 

And march away — 'twere easier done than said." 

XLIY. 

" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what then ? 

Hoiu get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 

From Saint Bartholomew we have saved our 
skin,t 
To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been; 
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 

XLY. 

"We must be near some place of man's abode; — 
For the old negro's confidence in creeping, 

With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
Show^s that he thinks his friends have not been 
sleeping ; 

A single cry would bring them all abroad : 
'T is better therefore looking before leaping— 

And there, you see, this turn has brought us 
through, 

By Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too." 

XLYI. 

It was indeed a wide extensive building 
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the front 

Tliere seemed to be besprent a deal of gildiug 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont,— 



here, it seems, to run away from the stricken deer."— Byro7t 
Ijetters. 

* The light and elegant wherries plying about the quays of 
Constantinople are so called. 

+ Saint Bartholomew is said to have been flayed alive. 
509 



CAXTO V. 



DON JUAK 



XLYIT.-LX. 



A ?aud,v taste : for they are little skilFd in 

The arts of which tliese lands Avere once the font: 
Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 
New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLYII. 

And nearer as they came, a o^enial savor 
Of certain stews, and roast meats, and pilaus, 

Thino-s which in hungry mortals' eyes find favor, 
Made Juan in liis harsh intentions pause, 

And put himself upon his good behavior : 
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause. 

Said, " InHeaven's name, let's get some suppernow, 

And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row." 

XLYIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion. 
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason; 

The last of these was never much the fashion. 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season : 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the lash on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on. 

With arguments according to their " forte;" 

But no one ever dreams of being short.— 

XLIX. 

But I digress : of all appeals,— although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,— no 
Method 's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold. 

Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



Turkey contains no bells, and yet men dine ; 

And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 
Xo Christian knoll to table, saw no line 

Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared. 
Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge lire shine, 

And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared, 
And gazed around them to the left and right, 
With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance. 
They followed close behind their sable guide, 

Y/lio little thought that his own crack 'd existence 
Was on the point of being set aside : 

He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 
And knocking at the gate, 't was open'd wide, 

And a magniticent large hall disphiy^d 

The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade. 

LII. 

I won't describe ; description is my forte, 
But every fool describes in these" bright days 

His wondrous journey to some foreign court, 
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise — 

Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 
While Xature, tortured twenty thousand ways, 

Resigns herself with exemplary patience 

To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illustra- 
tions.-^ 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and doA^Ti, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess ; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 
And some seem'd much in love with their own 
dress ; 



♦"Guide des Voyag-eurs." "Directions for Travellers," 
etc.—" Rhymes. Incidental and Humorous," " RhjTiiing- Rem- 
iniscences," "Effusions in Rhyme," etc.— "Lady Morgan's 
Tour in Italy," " Tour through Istria," etc., etc.— " Sketches 
of Italy," "Sketches of Modern Greece," etc., etc.— The last 
510 



And divers smoked superb pipes, decorated 

AVith amber mouths of greater price or less; 
And several strutted, others slept, and some 
Prepared for supper with a glass of rum. 

LIY. 

As the black eunuch entered with his brace 
Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment, without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate, ne'er stirr'd in any wise : 

One or two stared the captives in the face. 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station. 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LY. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without stoi)- 

On through a farther range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, dropping.! 

A marble fountain echoes through the glooms 
Of night, which robe the chamber, or where popping 

Some female head most curiously presumes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or lattice. 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LYI. 

Some faint lamps gleaming from the lofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their further way. 

But not enough to sIioav the imperial halls 
In all the flashing of their full array ; 

Perhaps there 's nothing— I '11 not say appalls, 
But saddens more by night as well as day. 

Than an enormous room without a soul 

To break the lifeless splendor of the whole. 

LYII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing : 
In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the sliore. 

There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 
The spots wdiich were her realms for evermore ; 

But in a mighty hall or gallery, both in 
More modern buildings and those built of yore, 

A kind of death comes o'er us all alone, 

Seeing what 's meant for many with but one. 

LYIII. 

A neat, snug study on a wint-er's night, 
A book, friend, single lady^ or a glass 

Of claret, sandwich, and an appetite. 
Are things which make an English evening pass ; 

Though certes by no means so grand a sight 
As is a theatre lit up by gas. 

I pass my evenings in long galleries solely. 

And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX. 

Alas ! man makes that great which makes him little : 
I grant you in a church 't is very well : 

What speaks of Heaven should by no means be 
brittle. 
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 

Their names who rear'd'lt ; but huge houses fit ill — 
And huge tombs worse — mankind, since Adam 
fell: 

Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 

Might teach them this much better than I 'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Ximrod's hunting-box, and then 
A town of gardens, walls, and wealth amazing, 



is a playful allusion to his friend Mr. Hobhouse's "Illustra- 
tions of Childe Harold." 

t A common furniture. I recollect being- received by All 
Pacha, in a large room, paved with marble, containing a 
marble basin, and fountain playing in the centre, etc., etc. 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN. 



LXI.-LXXIII. 



"Where Xebuchadonosor, king of men, 

Reign 'd, till one summer's day he took to grazing, 
And Daniel tamed the lions in their den, 

The people's awe and admiration raising; 
'T was famous, too, for Thisbe and for Pyramus, 
And the calumniated queen Semiramis* — 

LXI. 

That injured queen, by chroniclers so coarse 
Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy) 

Of an improper friendship for her horse 
(Love, like religion, sometimes runs to heresy) : 

This monstrous tale had probably its source 
(For such exaggerations here and there I see) 

In writing " Courser " by mistake for " Courier : " 

I wish the case could come before a jury here, f 

LXII. 

But to resume,— should there be (what may not 
Be in these days?) some infidels, who don't, 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't 

(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks has 
got. 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't) 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you, 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest 
Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 

Of tiiose, forgetting the great place of rest. 
Who give themselves to architecture wholly ; 

We know where things and men must end at best : 
A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 

And "■ Et sepulchri immemor struis domos " 

Shows that we build when we should but entomb us. 

Lxiy. 

At last they reach 'd a quarter most retired, 

Where echo woke as if from a long slumber ; 
Though full of all things which could be desired, 

One w^onder'd what to do with such a number 
Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment, 
Which puzzled Xature much to know what Art 
meant. 

LXY. 
It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, which 
Might lead to heaven knows w^here; but in this 
one 

The movables were prodigally rich : 
Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon. 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 
Of workmanship so rare, they made you wish 
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish. 

LXYI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 
A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in 
wonder. 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of stain- 
ing, 
As if the milky way their feet w^as under 

Ynth all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in yonder. 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't the fault is not in me,— 

* Babylon was enlarged by Nlmrod, streng-thened and beau- 
tified by Nebucbadonosor, and rebuilt by Semiramis. Except- 
ing the ruins of some large and lofty turrets, like that of 
Babel or Belus, the cities of Babylon and Nineveh are so 
completely crumbled into dust, as to be wholly uudistin- 



LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous ; and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 

A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 

And of variety there w^as no lack — 
And yet, though I have said there was no dearth,— 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

LXYIII. 

The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 

A. Candiote cloak, which to the knee might reach, 
And trousers not so tight that they would bursr, 

But such as fit an Asiatic breech ; 
A shawl, whose folds in Cashmire had been nurst, 

Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; 

In short, all things which form a Tm^kish Dandy. 

LXIX. 

Wliile he w^as dressing, Baba, their black friend. 
Hinted tlie vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end. 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which Eortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 
And then he added, that he needs must say, 

" 'T would greatly tend to better their condition. 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 

LXX. 
" For his own part, he really should rejoice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice." 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 

In such a trifie, scarcely could express 
" Sufficiently " (he said) " his approbation 
Of all the customs of this polish 'd nation. 

LXXI. 

" For his o^m share — he saw but small objection 

To so respectable an ancient rite ; 
And, after swallowing down a slight refection. 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of refiection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." 
'' Will it ? " said Juan, sharply: " Strike me dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head ! 

LXXII. 

"Cut off a thousand heads, before " — '• Xow, 



pray," 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt : 
You put me out in what I had to say. 

Sir ! — as I said, as soon as [ have supt, 
I shall perpend if your proposal may 

Be such as I can properly accept ; 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own free will." 

LXXIII. 
Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 

As dress yourself " — and pointed out a suit 
In which a princess wdth great pleasure would 

Array her limbs ; but Juan standing mute. 
As not being in a masquerading mood. 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 
And when the old negro told him to " Get ready," 
Replied, " Old gentleman, I 'm not a lady." 



guishable but by a few inequalities of the surface on which 
they once stood. 

+ At the time when Lord Byron was writing this canto, the 
unfortunate affair of Queen Caroline was occupying mi'Ch 
attention in Italy, as in England. The allusions to the do- 
mestic troubles of George IV. in the text are frequent. 
511 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAK 



LXXI V. -LXXX VTTI. 



Lxxiy. 

" What you may be, I neither know nor care," 
Said Baba ; " but pray do as I desire : 

I have no more time nor many words to spare." 
" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of this odd travesty ? " — " Forbear," 
Said Baba, " to be curious ; 't will transpire, 

is doubt, in proper place, and time, and season : 

I have no authority to tell the reason." 

Lxxy. 

"Then if I do," said Juan, "I '11 be "—"Hold!" 

Rejoin 'd the negro, "pray be not provoking ; 

This spirit 's well, but it may wax too bold, 
And you will find us not too fond of joking." 

" Whaf, sir ! " said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 
That I unsex'd my dress ? " But Baba, stroking 

The things down, said, " Incense me, and I call 

Those who will leave you of no sex at all. 

LXXYI. 

" I offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 
A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 

AVhy you should wear them." — " What, though my 
soul loathes 
The effeminate garb ? " — thus, after a short pause, 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slight oaths, 
" What the devil shall I do with all this gauze ? " 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning face. 

LXXYII. 
And then he swore ; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 

A pair of trousers of fiesh-color'd silk ; 
l\Qxi with a virgin zone he was equipp'd. 

Which girt a slight chemise as white as milk ; 
But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd. 

Which — as we say — or as the Scotch say, uliillc 
(The rhyme obliges me to this ; sometimes 
Monarciis are less imperative than rhymes), — 

LXXYIII. 

Wliilk, which for what you please), was owing to 
His garment's novelty, and his being awkward : 

And yet at last he managed to get through 
His toilet, though no doubt a little backward : 

The negro Baba help'd a little too, 
W^hen some untoward part of raiment stuck 
hard; 

And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 

He paused, and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd — his hair 
Was hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare, 
That soon his head was most completely crown'd. 

After the manner then in fashion there ; 
And this addition with such gems was bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, 

While Baba made him comb his head and oil it. 

LXXX. 

And now being femininely all array 'd, 
With some small aid from scissors, paint, and 
tweezers, / 

He look'd in almost all respects a maid. 
And Baba smilingly exclaim 'd, " You see, sirs, 

A perfect transformation here display'd ; 
And now, then, you must come along with me, 
sirs. 

That is— the Lady : " clapping his hands twice, 

Four blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 

LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompany those gentlemen 
512 



To supper; but you, worthy Christian nun. 
Will follow me : no trifling, sir ; for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 
What fear you ? think you this a lion's den ? 

Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

LXXXII. 

"You fool ! I tell you no one means you harm." 
" So much the better," Juan said, " for them ; 

Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 
AVhich is not quite so light as you may deem. 

I yield thus far; but soon will break the charm, 
H any take me for that which I seem : 

So that I trust for every body's sake. 

That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXIII. 

" Blockhead ! come on, and see," quoth Baba ; while 
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who, 

Though somewhat grieved, could scarce forbear a 
smile 
L^pon the metamorphosis in view, — 

" Farewell ! " they mutually exclaim'd : " this soil 
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new ; 

One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one a maid, 

By this old black enchanter's unsought aid." 

LXXXIY. 

" Farewell ! " said Juan : " should we meet no more, 
I wish you a good appetite." — "Farewell ! " 

Eeplied the other; " though it grieves me sore : 
When we next meet, we '11 have a tale to tell. 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from shore. 
Keep your good name ; though Eve herself onte 
fell." 

" iJs'ay," quoth the maid, " the Sultan's self sha'n't 
carry me. 

Unless his highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXY. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward room by room 
Through glittering galleries, and o'er marble floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom. 
Haughty and huge, along the distance lovrers ; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
H seem'd as though they came upon a shrine. 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine. 

LXXXYI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright, and higli. 
Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious guise ; 

Y^arriors thereon were battling furiously ; 
Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish 'd lies; 

There captives led in triumph droop the eye. 
And in perspective many a squadron flies : 

It seems the work of times before the line 

Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXYII. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 

The gate so splendid was in all its feo.tures^* 

You never thought about those little creatures,^ 

LXXXYIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
You started back in horror to survey 



* Features of a gate— a ministerial metaphor: ''^ the feature 
upon which this question hinges." See the " Fudge Family," 
or hear Castlereagh. 



y^ 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAK 



LXXXIX.-C. 



The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 
Whose color was not black, nor white, nor grajs 

But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 

They were misshapen pigmies, deaf and dumb — 

Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

LXXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they were strong, and tliough 
They look'd so little, did strong things at 
times— 

To ope this door, which they could really do. 
The hinges being as smooth as Eogers' rhymes ; 

And now and then, with tough strings of the bow, 
As is the custom of those Eastern climes, 

To give some rebel Pacha a cravat : 

Tor mutes are generally used for that. 

XC. 
They spoke by signs— that is, not spoke at all ; 

And looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : it scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small, 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared ; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate whome'er they flx'd their eyes on. 

XCI. 

Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide : 

" If you could just contrive," he said, " to stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 

'T would be as well, and— (though there 's not much 
in 't) 
To swing a little less from side to side. 

Which has at times an aspect of the oddest; — 

And also could you look a little modest, 

XCII. 

" 'T would be convenient ; for these mutes have eyes 
Like needles, which may pierce those petticoats ; 

And if they should discover your disguise. 
You know how near us the deep Bosphorus 
floats ; 

And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 
To find our way to Marmora without boats, 

Stitch 'd up in sacks— a mode of navigation 

A good deal practiced here upon o casion." * 

XCIII. 

With this encouragement, he led the way 
Into a room still nobler than the last ; 

A rich confusion form'd a disarray 
In such sort, that the eye along it cast 

Could hardly carry anything away. 
Object on object flasli'd so bright and fast ; 

A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, and glitter, 

Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; such 
things 

Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten 'd domes of Western kings 

(Of which I have also seen some six or seven), 



* "A few years ago the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained 
to his father of his son's supposed infidelity : he asked with 
whom, and she had the barbarity to give in a list of the 
twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, 
fastened up in sacks, and drowned in the lake the same night. 
One of the guards who was present informed me, that not one 
of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror 
at so sudden a "wrench from all we know, from all we love." 

t " With regard to the queen's person, all contemporary 

authors agree in ascribing to Mary the utmost beauty of 

33 



Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pictures. 
On which I cannot pause to make my strictures. 

xcy. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 

Under a canopy, and there reclined 
Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'd 
To Juan, who though not much used to pray. 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his mind 
What all this meant : while Baba bow'd and bended 
His head, until the ceremony ended. 

XCYI. 

The lady rising up with such an air 
As Yenus rose with from the wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 
Of eyes, which put out each surrounding gem ; 

And raising up an arm as moonlight fair. 
She sign'd to Baba, who first kiss'd the hem 

Of her deep purple robe, and speaking low, 

Pointed to Juan, who remain'd below. 

xcyii. 

Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate : 

I 'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features ; it would strike you blind. 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

XCVIII. 
Thus much however I may add,— her years 

Were ripe, tliey might make six-and-twenty 
springs. 
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears. 

And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things : 
Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots ; f true — tears. 

And love destroy ; and sapping sorrow wrings. 
Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 
Ugly; for instance— Ninon de I'Enclos.t 

XCIX. 

She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike ; like Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen : 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew. 
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 
"cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond ; 

I won't be bail for anything beyond. 

C. 

They bow'd obeisance and withdrew, retiring. 
But not by the same door through which came in 

Baba and Juan, which last stood admiring. 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise ; for both or none things win ;, 

And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the ■■' Nil admirari." 



countenance, and elegance of shape, of which the humaa 
form is capable. Her hair was black ; her eyes were a dark 
gray; her complexion was exquisitely fine; and her hand& 
and arms remarkably delicate, both as to shape and color- 
No man, says Brantome, ever beheld her person without ad- 
miration and love, or will read her history without sorrow."^ 
—Robertson. 

% Mademoiselle de I'Enclos, celebrated for her beauty, her 
wit, her gallantry, and, above all, for the extraordinary length 
of time during which she preserved her attractions. 
513 



ca:s^to y. 



DON JUAN. 



CT.-CXV. 



CI. 

" Xot to admire is all the art I know 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, needs few flowers of 
speech) 
To make men happy, or to keep them so : " 

(So take it in the very words of Creech). 
Thus Horace wrote we all know lon^' ago ; 

And thus Pope quotes the precept to reteach 
From his translation ; but had none admired., 
Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired ? 

CII. 
Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 

Motion 'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A second time desired him to kneel down. 

And kiss the lady's foot ; which maxim when 
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 

Drew himself up to his full height again. 
And said, "It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope." 

CIII. 
Baba, indignant at this iU-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter 'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bow-string — quite in vain ; not yet 
Would Juan bend, though 'twere to Maiiomet's 
bride : 
% There 's nothing in the world like etiquette 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
As also at the race and county balls. 

CIY. 
He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 

About his ears, and nathless would not bend; 
The blood of all his line's Castilian lords 

BoiFd in his veins, and rather than descend 
To stain his pedigree, a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end ; 
At length perceiving the '"foot " could not stand, 
Baba proposed that he should kiss the hand. 

CV. 
Here was an honorable compromise, 

A*half-way house of diplomatic rest. 
Where tliey might meet in much more peaceful 
guise ; 

And Juan now his willingness exprest 
To use all fit and proper courtesies, 

Adding, that this was commonest and best. 
For through the South, the custom still commands 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

CYI. 

And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 
Though on more thorQicgh-hred * or fairer fingers 

Xo lips e'er left their transitory trace: 
On such as these the lip too fondly lingers. 

And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace. 
As you will see, if she you love shall bring hers 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stranger's 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 

CYII. 

The lady eyed him o'er and o'er, and bade 
Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 

As if well used to the retreating trade ; 
And taking hints in good part all the while, 

He whisper'd Juan not to be afraid. 
And looking on him with a sort of smile. 

Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction, 

As good men wear who have done a virtuous ac- 
tion. 



* There is nothing-, perhaps, more distinctive of birth than 
the hand. It is almost the only sign of blood which aristoc- 
racy can generate. 

514 



CYIII. 
When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 

I know not what might be the lady's thought, 
But o'er her bright brow flash 'd a tumult strange, 

And into her clear cheek the blood was brought. 
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of heaven; and in her large eyes 
wrouglit, 
A mixture of sensations might be scann'd, 
Of half voluptuousness and half command. 

CtX. 
Her form had all the softness of her sex, 

Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 
When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows howj the road to evil ; 
The sun himself was scarce more free from specks 

Than she from aught at which the eye could cavil ; 
Yet, somehow, there was something someAvhere 

wanting. 
As if she rather ordered than was granting. — 

ex. 

Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain 

Was thrown as 't were about the neck of you, — 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view ; 
Our souls at least are free, and 't is in vain 

We would against tliem make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 

CXI. 

Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet ; 

Her very nod was not an inclination ; 
There was a. self -will even in her small feet, 

As though they were quite conscious of her sta- 
tion — 
They trod as upon necks ; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation), 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride (thank Heaven, not mine !). 

CXII. 

" To hear and to obey "had been from birth 

The law of all around lier ; to fulfill 
All fantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 

Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her will; 
Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth : 

Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still ; 
Had she but been a Christian, I 've a notion 
We should have found out the " perpetual motion." 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought ; 

Whate'er she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, v/itli diligence was sought. 

And when 't was found straightway tiie bargrdn 
closed : 
There was no end unto the things she bought, 

Nor to the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet even her tyranny had such a grace, 
The women pardon 'd all except her face. 

CXIY. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught 
Her eye in passing on his way to sale ; 

She order 'd him directly to be bought, 
And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 

In any kind of mischief to be wrought. 
At all such auctions knew how to prevail : 

Slie had no prudence, but he had; and this 

Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

CXY. 

His youth and features favor 'd the disguise. 
And should you ask how she, a sultan's bride, 



CANTO V. 



DON JTJAK 



cxvi.-cxxx. 



Could risk or compass such strange fantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide : 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes. 
And kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we may ascertain with due precision, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CXVI. 

But to the main point, where we have been tend- 
ing:— 

She now conceived all difficulties past, 
And deem'd herself extremely condescending 

AVhen, being made her property at last. 
Without more preface, in her blue eyes blending 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 
And merely saying, " Christian, canst thou love ? " 
Conceived that phrase was quite enough to move. 

CXVTI. 
And so it was, in proper time and place; 

But Juan, who had still his mind o'ertlowing 
With Haidee's isle and soft Ionian face, 

Felt the warm blood, which in his face was 
glowing, ♦ 

Rush back upon his heart, which filFd apace. 

And left his cheeks as pale as snowdrops blowing : 
These words went through his soul like Arab spears, 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXVIIT. 

She was a good deal shock'd ; not shock'd at tears, 
For women shed and use them at their liking ; 

But there is something when man's eye appears 
AVet, still more disagreeable and striking : 

A woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 
Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 

His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 

To them 't is a relief, to us a torture. 

CXIX. 

And she would have consoled, but knew not how : 
Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 

Infected her with sympathy till now, 
And never having dreamt what 't was to bea* 

Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 
There might arise some pouting petty care 

To cross her brow, she wonder'd how io near 

Her eyes another's eye could shed a tear. 

cxx. 

But nature teaches more tlian power can spoil, 
And, when a strong although a strange sensation 

Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 
For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 

Tliey naturally pour the "" wine and oil," 
Samaritans in every situation ; 

And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why. 

Felt an odd glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 
But tears must stop like all things else ; and soon 

Juan, who for an instant had been moved 
To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one who dared to ask if "he had loved," 
Call'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 

Bright with the very weakness he reproved ; 
And although sensitive to beauty, lie 
Felt most indignant still at not being free. 

CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days. 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise ; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's ways 
Into«, comfortable tete-a-tete, 



To lose the hour would make her quite a martyr. 
And they had wasted now almost a quarter. 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time. 

To gentlemen in any such like case, 
That is to say— in a meridian clime, 

AVith us there is more law given to the chase, 
But here a snaall delay forms a great crime : 

So recollect that the extremest grace 
Is just two minutes for your declaration — 
A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

CXXIY. 

Juan's was good ; and might have been still better, 
But he had got Haidee into his head : 

However strange, he could not yet forget her. 
Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 

Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 
For having had him to her palace led. 

Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 

Grow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

cxxv. 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 
Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes. 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies : 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid, 
That being the last thing a proud woman tries ; 

She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew. 

CXXYI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 
But he was steel'd by sorrow, wrath, and pride; 

With gentle force her white arms he unwound. 
And seated her all drooping by his side. 

Then rising hauglitily he glanced around, 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual fantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st, if I can love ? be this the proof 
How much I hai-e loved— that I love not thee ! 

In this vile garb, the distaff, web, and woof, 
Were fitter for me : Love is for the free ! 

I am not dazzled by this splendid roof; 
Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be. 

Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a 
throne. 

And hands obej^ — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite ; 

Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things : 
She deem'd her least command must yield deliglit, 

Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
Aware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion anywhere, 
And also, as may be presumed, she laid 

Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er. 
By their possessors thrown into the shade : 

She"^thought hers gave a double " right divine ; " 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, 
Ye ! Avho have kept your chastity when young, 
515 



CA^s^TO Y. 



DON JUAK 



CXXXI.-CXLIV. 



AVliile some more desperate dowager lias been 
waging 

Love with you, and been in the dog-days stung 
By your refusal, recollect her raging'! 

Or recollect all that was said or sung 
On such a subject; then suppose the face 
Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose,— but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of Potiphar, the Lady Booby, 

Pluvdra, and all Avhich story has disclosed 
Of good examples; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed, 
To educate— ye youth of Europe— you by I 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXII. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 

Or any interesting beast of prey. 
Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who cannot have their ownM'ay ; 
But though my turn will not be served with less, 

These don't express one half what I should say : 
For what is stealing young ones, few or many, 
To cutting short their hopes of having any 'i 

CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring 's nature's general law% 
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and ducklings; 

There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the claw, 
Like an invasion of their babes and sucklings ; 

And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
How mothers love their children's squalls and 
chucklings : 

This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 

Your patience) shows the cause must still be 
stronger. 

CXXXIY. 

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 

'T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd alwaj^s fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes, 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer. 

So supernatural was her passion's rise. 
For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 

(Enough, God knows I) would much fall short of this. 

CXXXV. 

Her rage w^as but a minute's, and 't was well — 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the while 

It lasted "t w^as like a short glimpse of hell : 
J^ought 's more sublime than energetic bile. 

Though horrible to see, yet grand to tell. 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through her form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

CXXXVI. 

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage. 

And yet she did not want to reach the moon. 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page ; 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune. 
Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill," like Lear's, 

And then her thirst of blood was quench 'd in tears. 

CXXXVII. 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
Pass'd without words — in fact she could not speak; 

And then her sex's shame broke in at last, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak. 

But now it flow'd in natural and fast. 
As water through an unexpected leak ; 
516 



For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good for people in her station. 

CXXXYIII. 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 
It also gently hints to them that others, 

Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud : 
That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 

And works of the same pottery, bad or good. 
Though not all born of the same sires and 
mothers ; 

It teaches— Heaven knows only what it teaches, 

But sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

CXXXIX. 

Her first thought w^as to cut off Juan's head ; 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance ; 
Her third, to ask him where he had been bred; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance ; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself ; her seventh , to sentence 
The lash to Baba : — but her grand resource 
Was to sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it awk- 
ward ; 

For Eastern stays are little made to pad. 
So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard : 

She thought of killing Juan — ^but, poor lad ! 
Though he deserved it well for being so backward, 

The cutting off his head was not tiie art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved : he had made up his mind 
To be impaled, or quarter'd as a dish 

For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined. 
Or thrown to lions, or made baits for fish. 

And thus heroically stood resign 'd, 
Rather than sin— except to his own wish : 

But all his great preparatives for dying 

Dij^olved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLIL 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valor oozed,^ 
So .Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how ; 

And first he w^onder'd w^hy he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now; 

And next his savage virtue he accused. 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow. 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 

"Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest chatter, 
Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses ; 

Just as a languid smile began to fiatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIY. 

"Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the Moon !" 
('Twas thus he spake) ''and Empress of the 
Earth ! 
Whose frown would put the spheres all out of tune. 
Whose smile makes all the planets dance with 
mirth. 



* "Yes, my valor is certainly g-oing- ! it is sneaking off! 1 
feel it oozing, as it were, at the palms ot my hands !"— Sher- 
idan's Rivals. • 



CANTO V. 



DON JUAN, 



CXLV.-CLVIT. 



Your slave brings tidings— he hopes not too soon— 

Which your sublime attention may be worth : 
The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, 
To hint that he is coming up this way." 

CXLY. 

" Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, "as you say ? 

I wish to heaven he would not shine till morning ! 
But bid my women form the milky way. 

Hence, my old comet ! give the stars due warn- 
ing—* 
And, Christian ! mingle with them as you may. 

And as you 'd have me pardon your past scorn- 
ing " 

Here they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan 's coming ! " 

CXLVI. 
First came her damsels, a decorous file. 

And then his Highness' eunuchs, black and white ; 
The train might reach a quarter of a mile : 

His Majesty was always so polite 
As to announce his visits a long while 

Before he came, especially at night ; 
For being the last wife of the Emperor, 
She was of course the favorite of the four. 

CXLYII. 

His Highness was a man of solemn port, 
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes, 

Snatch 'd from a prison to preside at court. 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise ; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention 'djn the histories 

Of Cantemir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line.f 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said liis prayers 
With more than " Oriental scrupulosity; " % 

He left to his vizier all state affairs. 
And show'd but little royal curiosity : 

I know not if he had domestic cares — 
JSIo process proved connubial animosity; 

Four wives and twice five hundred maids, unseen, 

Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXLIX. 

If now and then there Iiappen'd a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 

TiiC story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 

From which the secret nobody could rip : 
The public knew no more than does this rhyme ; 

No scandals made the daily press a curse — 

Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 

CL. 

He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square. 

Because he had journey 'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular anywhere ; 

His empire also was without a bound : 
'Tis true, a little troubled here and there. 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours. 

But then they never came to "the Seven Tow- 
ers;"^ 



* "But prithee— get my women in the way, 

That all the stars may g-leam with due adorning'." — MS. 

+ It may not he unworthy of remark, that Bacon, in his 
essay on "Empire," hints that Solyman was the last of his 
line ; on what authority, I know not. These are his words :— 
"The destruction of Mustapha was so fatal to Solyman's 
line; as the succession of the Turks from Solyman until this 
day is suspected to be untrue, and of strange blood ; for that 
Selymus the second was thought to be supposititious." But 



CLI. 

Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
To lodge there when a war broke out, according 

To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels, who have never had a sword in 

Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 
Their spleen in making strife, and safely wording 

Their lies, yclept despatches, without risk or 

The singeing of a single inky whisker. 

CLII. 

He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons. 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once, 
Sometimes at six years old— though this seems 
odd, 

'T is true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 

Must make a present to his sire-in-law. 

CLIII. 

His sons were kept in pi;ison, till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be known unto the fates alone ; 

Meantime the education they went through 
Was princely, as the proofs have always shown ; 

So that the heir apparent still was found 

No less deserving to be hang'd than crown 'd. 

CLIV. 

His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
With all the ceremonies of his rank, 

Who clear 'd her sparkling eyes and smooth 'd her 
brows, 
As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 

These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 
To save the credit of their breaking bank : 

To no men are such cordial greetings given 

As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven. 

CLY. 

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan amongst the damsels in disguise. 

At which he seem'd no whit surprised nor grieved, 

But just remark'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fiuttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved, 

" I see you 've bought another girl ; 't is pity 

That a mere Christian should be half so pretty." 

CLYI. 

This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
The new-bought virgin, made her blush and shake. 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone : 
Oh, Mahomet ! that his Majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake I 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle^ 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLYII. 
The Turks do well to shut— at least, sometimes— 

The women up— because, in sad reality. 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality 



Bacon, in his historical authorities, is often inaccurate. I 
could give half a dozen instances from his Apophthegms 
only.— See Appendix, Note 51. 

% Gibbon. 

§ " The state prison of Constantinople, in which the Porte 
shuts up the ministers of hostile powers who are dilatory in 
taking their departure, under pretence of protecting them 
from the insults of the mob."— Hope. 
517 



CANTO V. 



DOJS- JUAN. 



CLYTTI-CLIX. 



Which in the I^orth prevents precocious crimes, 

And makes our snoAV less pure than our morality 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ice, 
Has quite the contrary effect on vice. 

CLYIII. 

Tlius in the East they are extremely strict, 
And wedlock and a padlock mean the same : 

Excepting only when the former 's pick'd 
It ne'er can be replaced in proper frame ; 

Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick 'd : 
But then their own polygamy 's to blame 



Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife V 

CLIX. 

Thus far our chronicle; and now we pause. 
Though not for want of matter ; but 't is time, 

According to the ancient epic laws, 
To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause. 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 

Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, perhaps 

You '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



PBEFACE TO CANTOS TT., VIL, AND VIII. 



THE details of the siege of Ismail in tAvo of the fol- 
lowing cantos {i. e., the seventh and eighth) are taken 
from a French work, entitle^ " Histoire de la Nouvelle 
Russie." Some of the incidents attributed to Don Juan 
really occurred, particularly the circumstance of his sav- 
ing the infant, which was the actual case of the late Due de 
Richelieu, then a young volunteer in the Russian service, 
and afterward the founder and benefactor of Odessa, where 
his name and memory can never cease to be regarded 
with reverence. 

In the course of these cantos, a stanza or two will be 
found relative to the late Marquis of Londonderry, but 
written some time before his decease. Had that person's 
oligarchy died with him, they would have been sup- 
pressed ; as it is, I am aware of nothing in the manner 
of his death* or of his life to prevent the free expression 
of the opinions of all whom his whole existence was 
consumed in endeavoring to enslave. That he was an 
amiable man in private life, may or may not be true ; but 
with this the public have nothing to do ; and as to lament- 
ing his death, it will be time enough when Ireland has 
ceased to mourn for his birth. As a minister, I, for one 
of millions, looked upon him as the most despotic in in- 
tention, and the weakest in intellect, that ever tyrannized 
over a country. It is the first time indeed since the Nor- 
mans that England has been insulted by a minister (at 
least) who could not speak English, and that Parliament 
permitted itself to be dictated to in the language of Mrs. 
Malaprop.f 

Of the manner of his death little need be said, except 
that if a poor radical, such as Waddington or Watson, 
had cut his throat, he would have been buried in a cross- 
road, with the usual appurtenances of the stake and mal- 
let. But the minister was an elegant lunatic — a senti- 
mental suicide — he merely cut the " carotid artery " (bless- 
ings on their learning !), and lo ! the pageant, and the 
Abbey ! and " the syllables of dolor yelled forth " by the 
newspapers — and the harangue of the Coroner in a 
eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased — (an An- 
tony worthy of such a Csesar) — and the nauseous and atro- 



* Robert, second marquis of Londonderry, died, by his own 
hand, at his seat at North Craj', in Kent, in August, 1823. 
During- the session of parliament which had just closed, his 
lordship appears to have sunk under the weight of his labors, 
and insanity was the consequence. 

+ See Sheridan's comedy of "The Rivals." 

t From this number raust be excepted Canning-. Canning 

is a genius, almost a universal one, an orator, a wit, a poet, a 

statesman ; and no man of talent can long pursue the path 

518 



cious cant of a degraded crew of conspirators against all 
that is sincere and honorable. In his death he was 
necessarily one of two things by the law — a felon or a 
madman — and in either case no great subject for pane- 
gyric. In his life he was — what all the world knoAvs, 
and half of it will feel for years to come, unless his death 
prove a "moral lesson" to the surviving SejaniJ of 
PJurope. It may at least serve as some consolation to the 
nations, that their oppressors are not happy, and in some 
instances judge so justly of their own actions as to antici- 
jyate the sentence of mankind. Let us hear no more of 
this man; and let Ireland remove the ashes of her Grat- 
tan from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall the patriot 
of humanity repose by the Werther of politics ! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have been made 
on another score to the already published cantos of this 
poem, I shall content myself with two quotations from 
Voltaire : — "La pudeur s'est enfuitedes coeurs, et s'est re- 
fugiee sur les levres." . . ." Plus les moeurs sont depraves, 
plus les expressions deviennent mesurees ; on croit regag- 
ner en langage ce qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the degraded and 
hypocritical mass which leavens the present English gen- 
eration, and is the only answer they deserve. The hack- 
neyed and lavished title of Blasphemer — which, with 
Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, etc., are the changes 
which the hirelings are daily ringing in the ears of those 
who Avill listen — should be welcome to all who recollect 
on whom it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 
Christ were put to death publicly as blasphemers, and so 
have been and may be many who dare to oppose the most 
notorious abuses of the name of God and the mind of 
man. But persecution is not refutation, nor even triumph : 
the " wretched infidel," as he is called, is probably hap- 
pier in his prison than the proudest of his assailants. 
With his opinions I have nothing to do — they may be 
right or wrong — but he has suffered for-them, and that very 
suffering for conscience' sake will make more proselytes 
to deism than the example of heterodox ^ Prelates to 
Christianity, suicide statesmen to oppression, or over-pen- 

of his late predecessor. Lord C. If ever man saved his coun- 
try, Canning cari, but will he? I, for one, hope so. 

§ When Lord SandAvich said " he did not know the differ- 
ence between orthodoxy and heterodoxj^" Warburton, the 
bishop, replied, "Orthodoxy, my lord, is my doxy, heter- 
odoxy is another man's doxy." A prelate of the present daj' 
has discovered, it seems, a third kind of doxy, which has not 
greatly exalted in the eyes of the elect that which Bentham 
calls " Church-of-Englandism." 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAK 



I.-XI. 



sioned homicides to the impious alliance which insults 
the world with the name of " Holy ! " I have no wish 
to trample on the dishonored or the dead ; but it would 
be well if the adherents to the classes from whence those 



persons sprung should abate a little of the cant which is 
the crying sin of this double-dealing and false-speaking 

time of selfish spoilers, and but enough for the present. 

Pisa, July, 1823. 



CANTO THE SIXTH. 



I. 

*' There is a tide in the affairs of men, • 

Which,— taken at the flood," — you know the rest,* 

And most of us have found it now and then : 
At least we think so, though but few have guess 'd 

The moment, till too late to come again. 
But no doubt everything is for the best — 

Of which the surest sign is in the end : 

When things are at the worst they sometimes mend. 

II. 

There is a tide in the affairs of women, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads — God knows 
where : 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its current to a hair ; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmenf 

With its strange whirls and eddies can compare : 
Men with their heads reflect on this and that — 
But women with their hearts on heaven know\s 
what ! 

III. 
And yet a headlong, headstrong, downright she, 

Young, beautiful, and daring— who would risk 
A throne, the world, the universe, to be 

Beloved in her own way, and rather wliisk 
The stars from out the sky, than not be free 

As are the billows when the breeze is brisk- 
Though such a she 's a devil (if there be one), 
Yet she would make full many a Mauichean. 

lY. 

Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'erthrows the same, we readily forget, 
Or at the least forgive, the loving msh one. 

If Antony be well remember 'd yet, 

'T is not his conquests keep his name in fashion, 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 

Y. 

He died at fifty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and twenty, 
For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a sport — I 

Remember when, though I had no great plenty 
Of worlds to lose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what I had— a heart ; as the world went, I 
Gave what was worth a world; for worlds could 

never 
Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 

YI. 

'T was the boy's " mite," and, like the " widow's," 
may 
Perhaps be weigh'd hereafter, if not now ; 



♦ See Shakspeare, Julius Caesar, act iv., so. lii. 

+ A noted visionary, born near Gorlitz, in Upper Lusatia, 
in 1575, and founder of the sect called Behmenites. 

% " Cato gave up his wife Martia to his friend Hortensius ; 



But v/hether such things do or do not weigh, 
All who have loved, or love, will still allow 

Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, 
And Love 's a god, or was before the brow 

Of earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 

Of— but Chronology best knows the years. 

YII. 

We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkward than uncommon, 
For gentlemen must som^etimes risk their skin 

For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman : 
Sultans too much abhor this sort of sin. 

And don't agree at all wdtli the wise Roman, 
Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious. 
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. % 

YIII. 

I know Gulbeyaz was extremely WTong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it ; 
But I detest all fiction even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you blame it. 
Her reason being weak, her passions strong, 

She thought that her lord's heart (even could she 
claim it) 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

IX. 

I am not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by " the bookish theoric " it appears. 

If 'tis summ'd up with feminine precision, 
That, adding to the account his Highness' j^ears, 

The ^ir Sultana err'd from inanition ; 
For, were the Sultan just to all his dears. 

She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 

Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

X. 

It is observed that ladies are litigious 

Upon all legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are religious. 

Which doubles what they think of the trans- 
gression ; 
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us. 

As the tribunals show through many a session. 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In that to which the law makes them sole heirs. 

XI. 
Now, if this holds good in a Christian land. 

The heathen also, though with lesser latitude, 
Are apt to carry things wdth a high hand. 
And take, what kings call "•an imposing atti- 
tude;" 
And for their rights connubial make a stand, 
When their liege husbands treat them with in- 
gratitude ; 
And as four wives must have quadruple claims. 
The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

but, on the death of the latter, took her back again. This, 
conduct was ridiculed by the Romans, who observed, that 
Martia entered the house of Hortensius very poor, but re- 
turned to the bed of Cato loaded with treasures."— Plu- 
tarch. 

519 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



XII.-XXV. 



XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
The favorite ; but what 's favor amongst four ? 

Polygamy may well be held in dread, 
Xot only as a sin, but as a hore: 

Most wise men with one moderate woman wed, 
Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 

And all (except Mahometans) forbear 

To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of Ware."* 

XIII. 

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, — 
So styled according to the usual forms 

Of every monarch, till they are consign -d 
To those sad hungry jacobins the worms,t 

Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,— 
His Highness gazed upon Gulbeyaz' charms, 

Expecting all the welcome of a lover 

(A '' Highland welcome " % all the wide world over). 

XIY. 

]>row here we should distinguish ; for howe'er 
Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that. 

May look like what is — neither here nor there, 
They are put on as easily as a hat. 

Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear, 
Trimm'd either heads or hearts to decorate, 

AVhich form an ornament, but no more part 

Of heads, than their caresses of the heart. 

XY. 

A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unknown. 

Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
Of love, when seated on his loveliest throne, 

A sincere woman's breast,— for over-ica r7)i 

Or over-coM annihilates the charm. 

XYI. 

For over- warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 't is no great lease of its own tire \ 
For no one, save in very early youth. 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, « 
AVhich is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transferr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount : while your over-chilly 
Women, on t' other hand, seem somewhat silly. 

XYII. 

That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste, 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess'd, 
And see a sentimental passion glow, 

Even were Saint Francis' paramour their guest, 
In his monastic concubine of snow ; I — 

In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatian, "Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

XYIII. 

The " tu " 's too much,— but let it stand,— the verse 
Requires it, that 's to say, the English rhyme. 

And not the pink of old hexameters ; 
But, after all, there 's neither tune nor time 

In the last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's chime : 

I own no prosody can ever rate it 

As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it. 

* At Ware, the inn known by the sign of the Saracen's 
Head still contains the famous becZ, measuring- twelve feet 
square, to which an allusion is made by Shakspeare in 
" Twelfth Night." 

+ " Your worm is your only emperor for diet : we fat all 
creatures else, to fat us ; and we fat ourselves for maggots. 
Your fat king, and your lean beggar, is but variable service ; 
■two dishes but to one table : that 's the end."— Hamlet, 
520 



XIX. 

If fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 
I know not — it succeeded, and success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man, too, beats all female art ; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less : 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

XX. 

We leave this royal couple to repose : 
A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 

Whate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes : 
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 

As any man's clay mixture undergoes. 
Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 

'T is the vile daily drop on drop ^vhich w^ears 

The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 
To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a percentage ; a child cross, dog ill, 
A favorite horse fallen lame just as he 's mounted, 

A bad old woman making a worse will. 
Which leaves you minus of the cash you counted 

As certain ;— these are paltry things, and yet 

I 've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I 'm a philosopher ; confound them all ! 

Bills, beasts, and men, and— no ! not womankind! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call. 

And I can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul, or mind, their birth or growth, 
Is more than I know— the deuce take them both ! 

XXIII. 

So now all things are d n'd one feels at ease, 

As after reading Athanasius' curse. 
Which doth your true believer so much please: 

I doubt if any now could make it worse 
O'er his w^orst enemy when at his knees, 

'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse. 
And decorates the book of Common Prayer, 
As doth a rainbow the just-clearing air. 

XXIY. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping, or 
At least one of them ! — Oh, the heavy night, 

When wicked wives, who love some bachelor, 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the gray morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite — 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 

Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake ! 

XXY. 

These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 

Also beneath the canopy of beds 
Four-posted and silk curtain 'd, which are given 

For rich men and their brides to lay their heads 
Upon, in sheets white as what bards call " driven 

Snow." Well! 't is all hap-hazard when one weds. 
Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 
Perhaps as \\T:etched if a peasanVs quean. 



$ See Waverley. 

§ " The blessed Francis, being strongly solicited one day by 
the emotions of the flesh, pulled off his clothes and scourged 
himself soundly: being after this inflamed with a wonderful 
fervor of mind, he plunged his naked body into a great heap 
of snow. The devil, being overcome, retired immediately, 
and the holy man returned victorious into his cell." See 
Butler's Lives of the Saints. 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN 



XXYI.-XXXIX, 



XXVI. 

Don Juan in his feminine disguise, 
With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial ej^es, 
And at the usual signal ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs ; a thousand bosoms there 

Beating for love, as the caged bird's for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 
The tyrant's * wish, " that mankind only had 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might 
pierce: " 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad, 

And much more tender on the whole than iierce ; 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth, 

To kiss them all at once from jS^orth to South. 

XXVIII. 

Oh, enviable Briareus ! with thy hands 
And heads, if thou hadst all things multiplied 

In such proportion!— But my Muse withstands 
The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 

Or travelling in Patagonian lands ; 
So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 

Our hero through the labyrinth of love 

In which w^e left him several lines above. 

XXIX. 

He went forth with the lovely Odalisques,! 

At the given signal join'd to their array ; 
And though he certainly ran many risks. 

Yet he could not at times keep, by the way, 
(Although the consequences of such frisks 

Are worse than the worst damages men pay 
In moral England, where the thing 's a tax), 
From ogling all their charms from breasts to backs. 

XXX. 

Still he forgot not his disguise :— along 
The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, 
By eunuchs "flank'd; while at their head there 
stalk'd 

A dame who kept up discipline among 
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or talk'd, 

Without her sanction, on their she-parades : 

Her title was '' the Mother of the Maids." 

XXXI. 

Whether she was a " mother," I know not. 
Or whether they were '' maids " who call'd her 
mother ; 

But this is her seraglio title, got 
I know not how, but good as any other; 

So Cantemir % can tell you, or De Tott : 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they blun- 
der'd. XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doubt ! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men— 

Except his Majesty,— who, with her aid. 
And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now and 
then 



* Caligula— see Suetonius, " Being- in a rage at the people, 
for favoring a party in the Circeusian games in opposition 
to him, he cried out, ' I wish the Roman people had but one 
neck.' " 

+ The ladies of the seraglio. 

% Demetrius Cantemir, a prince of Molda^'la; whose "His- 
tory of the Growth and Decay of the Ottoman Empire in 



A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 
Of beauties cool as an Italian convent. 
Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that ? Devotion, doubtless— how 
Could you ask such a question ?— but we will 

Continue. As I said, this goodly row 
Of ladies of all countries at the will 

Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 
Like water-lilies floating down a rill— 

Or rather lake— for rilh do not run slowly. — 

Paced on most maiden- like and melancholy. 

XXXIV. 

But when they reach'd their own apartments, there. 
Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose. 

Waves at spring-tide, or women anywhere 
When freed from bonds (which are of no great use 

After all), or like Irish at a fair. 
Their guards being gone, and as it were a truce 

Establish 'd between them and bondage, they 

Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 

Their talk, of course, ran most on the new comer ; 

Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything: 
Some thought her dress did not so much become her. 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
Some said her years were getting nigh their summer, 

Others contended they were but in spring ; 
Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
While others wish'd that she had been so quite. 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
AYas w^hat her dress bespoke, a damsel fair, 

And fresh, and "beautiful exceedingly," 
Who with the brightest Georgians ^ might com- 
pare : 

They w^onder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and everything beside. 

XXXVII. 

But wiiat was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex, 

After the first investigating view. 
They all found out as few, or fewer, specks 

In the fair form of their companion new, 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex. 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or Heathen, 

In a new face "the ugliest creature breatliing." 

XXXVIII. 
And yet they had their little jealousies, ^ 

Like all the rest ; but upon this occasion, 
Whether there are such things as sympathies 

Without our knowledge or our approbation. 
Although they could not see through liis disguise. 

All felt a soft kind of concatenation. 
Like magnetism, or devilism, or w^hat 
You please— we will not quarrel about that: 

XXXIX. 

But certain 't is they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 't vrere 

Russia " was translated into English by Tindal. He died in 
1723. 

§ " It is in the adjacent climates of Georgia, Mingrelia, and 
Circassia, that nature has placed, at least to our eyes, the 
model of beauty, in the shape of the limbs, the color of the 
skin, the symmetry of the features, and the expression of the 
countenance : the men are formed for action, the women lor 
love."— Gibbon. 

521 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAN. 



XL.-LTII. 



A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 
Who wish'd they had a brother just like her, 

Wliom, if they were at home in sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padisha* or Pacha. 

XL. 

Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka,t and Dudu; in short 
(To save description), fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing in stature and degree. 

And clime and time, and country and complexion ; 

They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian, white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm. 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to 
tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed. 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 

XLII. 

A kind of sleepy Yenus seem'd Dudu, 
Yet very fit to "murder sleep " in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true. 
Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce lose : 

Yet, after all, 't would puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 
She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half -shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
" Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd her also whence she came— 
"From Spain."— " But where is Spain?" — 
" Don't ask such stuff, 

;N"or show your Georgian ignorance — for shame ! " 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough. 

To poor Katuika : " Spain 's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLY. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
Juanna, playing with her veil or hair; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd. 
As if she pitied her for being there, 

A pretty stranger without friend or guide. 
And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 

Wliich welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 

With kind remarks upon their mien and faces. 

XLYI. 

But here the Mother of tlie Maids drew near. 
With " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 

I 'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
She added to Juanna, their new guest : 

* Padisha is the Turkish title of the Grand Signior. 
f Katinka was the name of the youngest of the three girls 
522 



" Your coming has been unexpected here, 

And every couch is occupied ; you had best 
Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 
We will have all things settled for you fairly." 

XLYII. 

Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 
You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 

Tliat anybody should disturb you so ; 
I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 

Than you would make tlie half of ;— don't say no ; 
And I of your young charge will take due care." 

But here Katinka interfered, and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLYIII. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she. 
The matron frown 'd :— " Why so ? "— '* For fear 
of ghosts," 
Keplied Katinka : " I am sure I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 
And then I have the worst dreams that can be. 
Of Guebres, Giaours, and Giniis, and Gouls in 
hosts." 
The dame replied, "Between your dreams and 

you, 
I fear Juanna 's dreams would be but few. 

XLIX. 

" You, Lolah, must continue still to lie 
Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by: 
And I shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy. 
And will not toss and chatter the night through. 

What say you, child ?" — ^Dudii said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and Lolali on both cheeks, 
Katinka too ; and with a gentle bow 

(Curt'sies are neither used by Turks nor 
Greeks) 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to botli their piques, 
The others pouting at the matron's preference 
Of Dudu, though they held their tongues fi-om def- 
erence. 

Li. 

It was a spacious chamber (Oda is 

The Turkish title), and ranged round the wall 
Were couches, toilets— and much more than this 

I might describe, as I have seen it all, 
But it suffices— little was amiss ; 

'T was on the whole a nobly furnish 'd hall. 
With all things ladies want, save one or two, 
And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature, 
Xot very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sinning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
Which they hit off at once in tlie beginning, 

Full of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 

And pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIII. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Wliere all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding ; cheerful without mirth. 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 



at whose house Lord Byron resided while at Athens, in 1810. 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAK 



LIV.-LXVIT. 



Than are your mi,G,-bt5' passions and so fortli, 
Which some call " the sublime : " I wisli they 'd 
try it : 
I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 
And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIY. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy, 
And serious more than pensive, and serene, 

It may be, more than either— not unholy 
Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to have 
been. 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was wholly 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen, 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LY. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
The Age of Gold (when gold was yet unknown, 

By which its nomenclature came to pass ; 
Thus most appropriately has been shown 

" Lucus a non lucendo," not what toa.s, 
But what ivas not ; a sort of style that 's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

The devil may decompose, but never settle : 

LYI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," * 
AVhicli was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost). Kind reader I pass 
Tliis long parentliesis : I could not shut 

It sooner for the soul of me, and class 
My faults even with your own ! which meaneth. 
Put 

A kind construction upon them and me : 

But that you won't— then don't— I am not less free. 

LYII. 

'T is time we should return to plain narration, 
And thus my narrative proceeds :— Duda, 

With every kindness short of ostentation, 
Show'd Juan, or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station 
Described — what 's strange — in words extremely 
few : 

I have but one simile, and that 's a blunder, 

Tor wordless woman, which is silent thunder. 

LYIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 
The gender still was epicene, at least 

In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
An outline of the customs of the East, 

With all their cliaste integrity of laws, 
By which the more a hareni is increased. 

The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 

Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I 'm sure 

That nobody can ever take amiss. 
Because 't is pleasant, so that it be pure, 

And between females means no more than this — 
That they have nothmg better near, or newer. 

" Kiss " rhymes to ''bliss " in fact as well as verse— 

I wish it never led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which cost little, for she was 

A child of Xature, carelessly array 'd : 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 



* This brass, so famous in antiquity, is a mixture of g-old, 
silver, and copper, and is supposed to have been produced by 



'T was like the fawn, which, in the lake display 'd, 

Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass. 
When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 
Admiring this new native of the deep. 

LXI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 
Were laid aside ; but not before she offer 'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 
Of modesty declined the assistance proffer'd : 

Which pass'd well off— as slie could do no less ; 
Though by this politesse she rather suffered, 

Pricking lier fingers with those cursed pins, 

Which surely were invented for our sins, — 

LXII. 

Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Xot to be raslily touch'd. But still more dread, 
Oh, ye ! whose fate it is, as once 't was mine. 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade : 
The pins were placed sutficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 

But these are foolish things to all the wise, 
And I love wisdom more than she loves me ; 

My tendency is to philosophize 

On most things, from a tymnt to a tree ; 

But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies. 
What are we? and whence came we? what 
shall be 

Our ultimate existence ? what 's our present ? 

Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIY. 

There was deep silence in the chamber : dim 
And distant from each other burn'd the lights. 

And slumber hover 'd o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants : if there be sprites, 

They should have walk'd there in their sprightliest 
trim, 
Byway of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXY. 

Many and beautiful lay those around, 

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and root. 
In some exotic garden sometimes found, 

With cost, and care, and warmth induced to 
shoot. 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft 

breath , 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXYI. 

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm, 
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark croAvd 

Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm ; 
And smiling through her dream, as through a 
cloud 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further charm, 
As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud. 

Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of night 

All bashfully to struggle into light. 

LXYII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so ; for 
'T was night, but there were lamps, as hath been 
said. 



the fusion of these metals, in whicli Corinth abounded, when 
it was sacked. 

523 



CANTO YT. 



DON JUAN 



LXYIII.-LXXXII. 



A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleepin,? sorrow, and betray'd 
Through the heaved breast the dream of some far 
shore 

Beloved and deplored ; while slowly stray'd 
(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 
The black bough) tear-drops through her ej^es' dark 
fringes. 

LXYIII. 
A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, 

Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep ; 
White, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill. 

Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep. 
Or Lot's wife done in salt, — or what you will: — 

My similes are gathered in a heap. 
So pick and choose— perhaps you '11 be content 
With a carved lady on a monument. 

LXIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears ; — and wiiat is she ? 

A lady of a "certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens ; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, 

As ere that awful period intervenes 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf, 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

LXX. 

But all this time how»slept, or dream'd, Dudu ? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover, 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over. 
Just when the fading lamps waned dim and blue, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to hover, 
To those who like their company, about 
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out : 

LXXI. 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion : 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may call 

Xeither, came crowding like the waves of ocean, 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall. 

All trembling, wondering. without the least notion 
!More than I have myself of what could make 
The calm Dudu so turbulently wake. 

LXXII. 

But wide awake she was, and round her bed. 
With floating draperies and with flying hair, 

With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread. 
And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare, 

And bright as any meteor ever bred 
By the Xorth Pole , — they sought her cause of care. 

For she seem'd agitated, flushed, and frighten xl, 

Her eye dilated, and her color heighten'd. 

LXXIII. 

But what is strange— and a strong proof how great 
A blessing is sound sleep — Juanna lay 

As fast as ever husband by his mate 
In holy matrimony snores away. 

Xot all the clamor broke her happy state 
Of slumber, ere they shook her,— so they say 

At least,— and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, 

And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXXIY. 

And now commenced a strict investigation. 
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce. 

To answer in a very clear oration. 
Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But being " no orator as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 
524 



LXXY. 

At length she said, that in a slumber sound 
Slie dream'd a dream of walking in a wood — 

A ''wood obscure," like that where Dante found 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

Life's half-way house, where dames with virtue 
cro^^^l'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning rude ; 

And that this wood was full of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXYI. 

And in the midst a golden apple grew, — 
A most prodigious pippin— but it hung 

Rather too high and distant ; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 

Stones and whatever she could pick up, to 
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely clung 

To its owai bough, and dangled yet in sight,' 

But always at a most provoking height ;— 

LXXY^II. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope. 
It fell down of its own accord before 

Her feet ; that her first movement was to stoop 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core ; 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the golden fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out, and stung her to the heart, 

And so — she woke mth a great scream and start. 

LXXYIII. 

All this she told with some confusion and 
Dismay, the usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 

I 've known some odd ones which seem'd really 
plann'd 
Prophetically, or that which one deems 

A " strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things are settled nowadays. 

LXXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great harm. 
Began, as is the consequence of fear. 

To scold a little at the false alarm 
That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 

The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 
Bed for the dream she had been obliged to hear, 

And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd. 

And said, that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

" I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee. 
To take us from oar natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at halt-past three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its full. 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see, 
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too, the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamor— I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 
With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have known ; 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

LXXXII. 

Lolah 's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudii, with large drops in her own. 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision. 

Implored that present pardon might be shown 



i 



CANTO VI. 



DON JUAK 



LXXXTIT.-XCVIT. 



For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna should be taken from her, and 
Her future dreams should be all kept in hand. 

LXXXIII. 

She promised never more to have a dream, ' 
At least to dream so loudly as just now : 

She wonder 'd at herself how she could scream — 
'T was foolish, nervous, as she must allow, 

A fond hallucination, and a theme 
For laughter— but she felt her spirits low. 

And begg'd they would excuse her; she'd get 
over 

This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIY. 

And here Juanna kindly interposed. 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep disclosed, 
When all around rang like a tocsin bell ; 

Slie did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show. 

Save that of dreaming once " mal-a-propos." 

LXXXY. 

As thus Juanna spoke, Dudii turn'd round 
And hid her face within Juanna's breast : 

Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 
The color of a budding rose's crest. 

I can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 
The mystery of this rupture of their rest ; 

All that I know is, that the facts I state 

Are true as truth has ever been of late, 

LXXXYI. 

And so good night to them,— or, if you v/ill. 
Good morrow— for the cock had crown, and 
light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 
And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, wiiich in the chill 
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each height 

That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 

Asia, where KafC looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXYII. 

With the first ray, or rather gray of mom, 
Gulbeyaz rose from restlessness ; and pale 

As Passion rises, w^ith its bosom worn, 
Array'd lierself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

Tlie nightingale that sings with the deep thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail, 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

AVhose headlong passions form their proper woes. 

LXXXYIII. 

And that 's the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift ;— 

But that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because ail gentle readers have tlie gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision ; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural. 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 

LXXXIX. 

Kose the sultana from a bed of splendor. 
Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 

Aloud because his feelings were too tender 
To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side, — 

So beautiful that art could little mend her. 
Though pale with conflicts between love and 
pride ; — 

So agitated was she with her error, 

She did not even look into the mirror. 



XC. 

Also arose about the self-same time. 

Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 
Master of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 
A thing of much less import in that clime — 

At least to those of incomes which afford 
The filling up their whole connubial cargo — 
Than where two wives are under an embargo. 

XCI. 

He did not think much on the matter, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride's beauty. 

XCII. 

And now he rose ; and after due ablutions 
Exacted by the customs of the East, 

And prayers and other pious evolutions, 
He drank six cups of coffee at the least. 

And then withdrew to hear about the Russians, 
Whose victories had recently increased 

In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores, 

As greatest of all sovereigns and w s. 

XCIII. 

But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 

Her son's son, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach — and now rhymes 
wander 

Almost as far as Petersburg, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, which blend . 
Their roar even with the Baltic's — so you be 
Your father's son, 't is quite enough for me. 

XCIY. 
To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 

Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 
That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 

A libel, or whate'er you please to rhyme on : 
But people's ancestors'are history's game ; 

And if one lady's sli]) could leave a crime on 
All generations, 1 should like to know 
A7hat pedigree the best would have to show ? 

XCY. 

Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
Their own true interests, which kings rarely 
know, 

Until 't is taught by lessons rather rude. 
There was a way to end their strife, although 

Perhaps precarious, had they but thought good. 
Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 

She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, 

And for their other matters, meet and share 'em. 

XCYI. 

But as it was, his Highness had to hold 
His daily-council upon ways and means 

How to encounter with this martial scold, 
This modern Amazon and queen of queans ; 

And the perplexity could not be told 
Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 

Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 

Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

XCYII. 

Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 
Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 

For love or breakfast ; private, pleasing, lone, 
And rich with all contrivances which grace 
525 



CAXTO YI. 



DON JUAX 



XCVITT.-CXT. 



Those gay recesses : — man}' a precious stone 
Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd tiowers, 
Tliose captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIIL 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 
Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 

And singing birds without were heard to warble: 
And the stain'd glass which lighted this lair grot 

Varied each ray ;— but all descriptions garble 
The true etfect, and so we had better not 

Be too minute : an outline is the best, — 

A lively reader's fancy does tlie rest. 

XCIX. 

And here she summon'd Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and information 
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 

And whether he had occupied their station : 
If matters had been managed as desired, 

And his disguise with due consideration 
Kept up ; and above all, the where and liow 
He had pass'd the night, was what she wish'd to 
know. 

C. 
Baba, with some embarrassment,, replied 

To this long catechism of questions, ask'd 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 

His best'to obey in what he had been task-d: 
But there seem'd something that lie wish\l to liide, 

Which hesitation more betray 'd than mask'd ; 
He scratch'd his ear. the infallible resource 
To which embarrass "d people have recourse. 

CI. 

Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
Xor much disposed to wait in word or deed ; 

She liked quick answers in all conversations: 
And when she saw him stumbling like a steed 

In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones : 
And as his speech grew still more broken-kneed, 

Her che^k began to flush, her eyes to sparkle, 

And her proud brow's blue veins to swelt and darkle. 

CII. 

When Baba saw^ these symptoms, which he knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 

Her anger, and beseech'd she 'dhear him through — 
He could not help the thing which he related : 

Tlien out it came at length, that to Dudii 
Juan was given in charge, as hath been stated ; 

But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 

The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm. 

The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 
The discipline of the whole liarem bore, 

As soon as they re-enter'd their own room. 
For Baba-s function stopt short at the door, 

Had settled all : nor could he then presume 
(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 

Without exciting such suspicion as 

Might make the matter still worse than it was. 

CIV. 
He hoped, indeed he thought, he could be sure 

Juan had not betray "d himself: in fact 
'T was certain that his conduct had been pure, 

Because a foolish or imprudent act 
Would not alone have made him insecure. 

But ended in his being found out and sack'd^ 
And thrown into the sea.— Tluis Baba spoke 
Of all save Dudu"s dream, which w^as no joke. 



* *• How fares my Kate' 

Taming of the Shreu:. 



What! sweeting, aD amort?" 
526 



CV. 

This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 
And talk'd away— and might have talk'd till 
now, 

For any further answer that he found, 
So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow: 

Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain whiri'd 
round. 
As if she had received a sudden blow*. 

And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and chilly 

O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 

CVI. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
Baba thought she w^ould faint, but there he 
err'd — 

It was but a convulsion, which though short 
Can never be described : vre all have heard. 

And some of us have felt thus •' all amort,'' * 
AVhen things beyond the common have occurr'd ;— 

Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 

What she could ne'er express—then how should I ? 

CVII. 

Slie stood a moment as a P3-thoness 
Stands on her tripod, agonized, and full 

Of inspiration gathered from distress. 
When all the heart-strings like wild horses pull 

The heart asunder ;— then, as more or less 
Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 

She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 

And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling knees. 

CVIII. 

Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like the weeping vriilow, 

Sweeping the marble imderneath her cliair, 
Or rather sofa ( for it was all pillow, 

A low, soft ottoman), and black despair 
Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 

Which rushes to some shore wiiose shingles check 

Its further course, but must receive its wreck. 

CIX. 

Her head hung do\Mi, and her long hair in stoop- 
ing 

Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
Would that I were a painter 1 to be grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail ! 
Oh that my words were colors ! but their tints 
May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 

ex. 

Baba. who knew" by experience when to talk 
And wiien to hold his tongue, now held it till 

This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 
Gulbeyaz' taciturn or speaking will. 

At length she rose up, and began to walk 
Slowly along the room, but ^silent still, 

And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye ; 

The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 
She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak— but 
paused. 

And then moved on again with rapid pace ; 
Then slacken'd it, which is the march most caused 

By deep emotion :— you may sometimes trace 
A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
Their work even by the way in which he trode. f 

+ " His guilty soul, at enmity with gods and men, could 
find no rest ; so violently was his mind torn and distracted 



CANTO Til. 



DON JUAK 



I.-TV 



CXII. 

Gujbeyaz stopp'd and beckon 'd Baba :— " Slave I 
Bring the two slaves I " she said in a low tone, 

But one which Baba did not like to brave, 
And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rather prone 

To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to crave 
(Though he well knew the meaning) to be shown 

What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 

For fear of any error, like the late. 

CXIII. 

" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
The imperial bride— and added, -'Let the boat 

Be ready by the secret portal's side : 
You know the rest." The words stuck in her 
throat, 

Despite her injured love and fiery pride : 
And of this Baba willingly took note, 

And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet -s beard, 

She would revoke the order he had heard. 

CXIY. 

" To hear is to obey," he said : " but still, 
Sultana, think upon the consequence : 

It is not that I shall not all fulfill 
Your orders, even in their severest sense ; 

But such precipitation may end ill, 
Even at your own imperative expense : 

I do not mean destruction and exposure. 

In case of any premature disclosure ; 

CXY. 

" But your ovn\ feelings. Even should all the rest 

Be hidden by the rolling waves, which hide 
Already many a once love-beaten breast 

Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide — 
You love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 

And if this violent remedy be tried- 
Excuse my freedom, when I here assure you, 
That killing him is not the way to cure you." 

CXVI. 
^'AYhat dost thou know of love or feeling?— 
Wretch ! 

Begone ! " she cried, with kindling eyes — " and do 
My bidding I " Baba vanish 'd, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further he well knew 
Might end in acting as his own " Jack Ketch ; " 

And though he wish'd extremely to get through 
This awkward business without harm to others, 
He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

CXYII. 
Away he went then upon his commission. 

Growling and grumbling in good Turkish phrase, 
Against all women of whate'er condition, 

Especially sultanas and their ways ; 
Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision. 

Their never knowing their own mind two days, 
The trouble that they gave, their immorality. 
Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

CXYIII. 
And then he calFd his brethren to his aid, 

And sent one on a summons to the pair, 
That they must instantly be well array'd. 

And above all be comb"d even to a hair. 
And brought before the empress, who had made 

Inquiries after them with kindest care : 



At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 
But go they must at once, and will I— nill I. 

CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
Eor the imperial presence, wherein wiiether 

Gulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration, 
Or got rid of the pa,rties altogether. 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

May settle ; but far be 't from me to anticipate 

In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

cxx. 

I leave them for the present with good wislies. 
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange 

Another part of history ; for the dishes 
Of this our banquet we must sometimes change ; 

And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 
Although his situation now seems strange, 

And scarce secure, as such digressions are fair, 

The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



CANTO THE SEVENTH,'' 



I. 

Oh, Love ! oh, Glory ! what are you who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flicht. 
Chill, and chain"d to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
A thousand and a thousand colors they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 

! n. 

And such as they are, such my present tale is, 

j A nondescript and ever-varying rhyme, 

1 A versified Aurora Borealis, 

1 Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

\ When we know what all are, we must bewail us, 
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime 
To laugh at all things— for I wish to know 
What, after all, are all things— but a show ? 

III. 

They accuse me— Ife— the present writer of 
The present poem— of— I know not what — 

A tendency to underrate and scoff 
At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rougli. 
Good God r I wonder what they would be at ! 

I say no more than hath been said in Dante's 

Yerse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes; 

lY. 

By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucauld, 
By Fenelon, by Luther, and by Plato ; 

By Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau, 
Who knew this life was not worth a potato. 



by a consciousness of g-uilt. Accordingly his countenance 
was pale, his eyes ghastly, his pace one -while quick, another 
slow ; indeed, in all his looks there was an air of distraction." 
— Sajllust. 

* " The seventh and eighth cantos contain a full detail (like 
the storm in canto second) of the siege and assault of Ismail, | 
with much of sarcasm on those butchers in large business, i 



your mercenary soldiers. With these things and these fel- 
lows it is necessary, in the present clash of philosophy and 
tyranny, to throw away the scabbard. I know it is against 
fearful odds ; but the battle must be fought ; and it will te 
eventually for the good of mankind, whatever it may be 
for the indi^-idual who risks himself ."—Byron Letters, Aug. 
8,1823. 

527 



CAXTO VII. 



DON JUAK 



v.-xviir. 



'T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so,— 

For my part, I pretend not to be Cato, 
Nor even Dios^enes. — AVe live and die. 
But which is best, you knov*' no more than I. 



Socrates said, our only knowledg^e was 

"To know that nothing could be known;" a 
pleasant 
Science enough, which levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 
Xewton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 

Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, 
Tliat he himself felt only " like a youth 
Picking up shells by the* great ocean— Truth." 

YI. 

Ecclesiastes said, " that all is vanity"— 
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it 

By their examples of true Christianity : 
In short, all know, or very soon may know it ; 

And in this scene of all-confess'd inanity. 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 

From holding up the nothingness of life y 

Yll. 

Dogs, or men ! — for I flatter you * in saying 
That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 

Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 
To show ye what ye are in every way. 

As little as the moon stoi)s for the baying 
Of wolves, will the bright Muse withdran^ one 
ray 

From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath ! 

While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path. 

VIII. 

" Fierce loves and faithless wars " — I am not sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter ; 

The fact 's about the same, 1 am secure; 
I sing them both, and am about to batter 

A town which did a famous siege endure. 
And was beleaguer'd both by land and water 

By Souvarolf , or Anglice Suwarrow, 

Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 

IX. 

The fortress is call'd Ismail, and is placed 
Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 

With buildings in the Oriental taste. 
But still a fortress of the foremost rank. 

Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced. 
Which with your conquerors is a common prank : 

It stands some eighty versts from the high sea. 

And measures round of toises thousands three. 

X. 

Within the extent of this fortification 
A borough is comprised along the height 

Upon the left, which from its loftier station 
Commands the city, and upon its site 

A Greek had raised around this elevation 
A quantity of palisades upright^ 

So placed as to impede the fire of those 

Who held the place, and to assist the foe's. 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notion 
Of the high talents of this new Yauban : 

But the town ditch below was deep as ocean. 
The rampart higher than you 'd wish to liang : 

But tlien there was a great want of precaution 
{Prithee, excuse this engineering slang). 



* See " Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland 
Dog," ante, p. 425. 

528 



Xor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, 
To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 

XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge. 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our Saint George, 
Casemated one, and t'other " a barbette," 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge ; 
While two-and-twenty cannon duly set 

Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town 's open quite. 
Because the Turks could never be persuaded 

A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight ; 
And such their creed was till they were invaded, 

When it grew rather late to set things riglit : 
But as the Danube could not well be waded. 

They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla. 

And only shouted, " Allah ! " and "Bis Millah ! " 

XIY. 

The Russians now were ready to attack ; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory ! 
How shairi spell the name of each Cossack 

Who were immortal, could one tell their story ? 
Alas ! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory 
Than thousands of tliis new and polish'd nation, 
Whose names want nothing but— pronunciation. 

XY. 

Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 
Our euphony; there was Strongenoff, and Stro- 
konoff, * 
Meknop, Serge Low, Arsniew of modern Greece, 
And Tsclutsshakoff, and RoguenofC, and Cho- 
kenoff. 
And others of twelve consonants apiece ; 
And more might be found out, if I could poke 
enough 
Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet). 
It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet, 

XYI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration. 
Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme ; 

Yet there were several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry drawling against time, 

Ending in "iscliskin," " ousckin," "iffskchy," 
"ouski," 

Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XYIL 

Scherematoff and Chrematoff . Koklophti, 
Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 

All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff 'd high 
Against a foe, or ran a sabre througli skin ; 

Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 
Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 

Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, 

And no more handy substitute been near. 

XYIII. 

Til en there were foreigners of much renown, 
Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 

Xot fighting for their country or its crown, 
But wishing to be one day brigadiers ; 

Also to have the sacking of a town ; 
A pleasant thing to young men at their vears. 

'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, 

Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named 
Smith. 



CANTO VII. 



DON JUAN. 



xix.-xxxnr. 



XIX. 
Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ;— all the rest 

Had been call'd ^^ Jemmy, ""^ after the great bard ; 
I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 

But such a godfather 's as good a card. 
Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 

Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward. 
Was he, since so renowm'd " in country quarters 
At Halifax-; " * but now he served the Tartars. 

XX. 

The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills, 
But when I 've added that the elder Jack Smith 

Was born in Cumberland among the liills, 
And that his father was an honest blacksmith, 

I 've said all /know of a name that fills 
Three lines of the despatch in taking " Schmack- 
smith," 

A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 

He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 

Praise) if a man's name in a hulUtin 
May make up for a bullet in his body ? 

I hope this little question is no sin, 
Because, though I am but a simple noddy, 

I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so doting. 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting. 

XXII. 

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and 
gay; 

But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason ; they betray 

Their country; and as traitors are abliorr'd. 
Who name the French in English, save to show 
How Peace should make John Bull the French- 
man's foe. 

XXIII. 

The Kussians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view ; 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings and the private too. 

No matter what poor souls might be undone. 
The city's shape suggested this, 't is true ; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIY. 

The second object was to profit by 
The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turks' flotilla, which lay nigh 
Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station : 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A fantasy which sometimes seizes warriors. 

Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers. 

XXY. 

A habit rather blamable, which is 

Tliat of despising those we combat with. 
Common in many cases, was in this 

The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith ; 
One of the valorous " Smiths " whom we shall 
miss 
Out of those nineteen who late rhvmed to 
"pith;" 
But 't is a name so spread o'er " Sir " and " Mad- 
am," 
That one would think the first who bore it "Adam." 



* See the farce of 



Lovo Laughs at Locksmiths.' 



XXYI. 

The Russian batteries were incomplete. 
Because they were constructed in a hurry ; 

Thus the same cause which makes averse want feet, 
And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John 
Murray, 

When the sale of new books is not so fleet 
As they who print them think is necessary, 

May likewise put off for a time what story " 

Sometimes calls " murder," and at others " glory." 

XXYII. 

Whether it was their engineer's stupidity, 
Their haste or waste, 1 neither know nor care, 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving his soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXYIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
Made all their naval matters incorrect; 

Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
Before they reach 'd a spot to take effect ; 

The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 

They blew up in the middle of the river. 

While, though 'twas dawn, the Turks slept fast as 
ever. . 

XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and surveyed 
The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 

'T was nine, wiien still advancing undismay'd, 
Within a cable's length their vessels lay 

Oif Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 
Which was return'd with interest, I may say. 

And by a fire of musketry and grape. 

And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great pre- 
cision ; 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's submis- 
sion, 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One bark blev/ up, a second near the works 

Running aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

Tlie Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, 

And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here the effect fell short of their desire : 
Count Damas drove them back into the water. 
Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 

XXXII. 

" If " (says the historian here) " I could report 
All tliat the Russians did upon this day, 

I think that several volumes would fall short. 
And I should still have many things to say ; " 

And so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish 'd strangers in that fray : 

The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, 

Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. 

XXXIII. 

This being the case, may show us what Fame is : 
For out of these three "prewx chevaliers,^'' how 
529 



CANTO VII. 



DON JUAK 



XXXIV.-XLVI. 



Many of common readers give a guess 
That such existed V (and they may live now 

For aught we know). Renown 's all hit or miss; 
There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow. 

'T is true, the Memoirs * of the Prince de Ligne f 

Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen. 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallant actions 

As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 
But buried in the heap of such transactions 

Their names are rarely found, nor often sought. 
Tims even good fame may suffer sad contractions, 

And is extinguish 'd sooner than she ought : 
Of all our modern battles, I will bet 
You can't repeat nine names from each gazette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, thougli rich in glory, 
Showed that somewhere^ somehow, there was a 
fault. 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault ; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary. 
Which made a long debate ; but I must halt, 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach. 

XXXVI. 

There was a man, if that he was a man, 
X'ot that his manhood could be call'd in question, 

For had he not been Hercules, his span 
Had been as short in youth as indigestion 

Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 
He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 

The soil of the green province he had wasted. 

As e'er was locust on the land it blasted. 

XXXVII. 

This was PotemkinJ— a great thing in days 
When homicide and harlotry made great ; 

If stars and titles could entail long praise, 
His glory might half equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of fantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people. 

Who measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after his own bent ; 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

But shortly he had cause to be content. 
In the mean time, the batteries proceeded. 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired and answer 'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art. 
By his despatches couch 'd in pithy phrase ; 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff . 



* " Letters and Reflections of the Austrian Field-Marshal, 
Charles Joseph, Prince de Lig-ne, edited by the Baroness de 
Stael-Holstein," 2 vols., 1809. 

t Charles Joseph, Corate de Lig^ne, was born at Brussels. 
Being-, in 1782, sent by the emperor Joseph II. on a mission to 
Catherine, he became a great favorite with her. She ap- 
pointed him field-marshal, and g-ave him an estate in the 
Crimea. In 1788, he was sent to assist Potemkin at the siege 
of Oczakofif. He died in 1814. 

530 



XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marshal 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be partial- 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'erarch all 
With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail at whatever price." 

XLI. 

" Let there be light ! said God, and there was light !" 
'' Let there be blood I " says man, and there's a seal 

The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Xight 
(For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 

More evil in an hour, than thirty bright 
Summers could renovate, though they should be 

Lovely as those which ripen 'd Eden's fruit ; 

For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends, the Turks,who with loud "AUahs" now 

Began to signalize the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken ; few are slow 

In thinking that their enemy is beat 
(Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat). 
But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, 
AVho, hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon. 

XLIII. 

• 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
In sight two horsemen, who were deem'd Cossacks 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs, 

For there were but t/iree' shirts between the two ; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks. 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now !" says some great fool, 
When London had a grand illumination, 

Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull, 
Is of all dreams the first hallucination ; 

So that the streets of color 'd lamps are full, 
That sage {said John) surrenders at discretion 

His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, 

To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense. 

XLY. 

'T is strange that he should f urtlier "damn his eyes," 
For they are damn'd ; that once all-famous oath 

Is to the devil now no further prize. 
Since John has lately lost the use of both. 

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise ; 
And Famine, with her gauut and bony growth, 

Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, 

Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XL VI. 

But to the tale ;— great joy unto the camp ! 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossack, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 

Which leads beholders on a boggy walk. 



t Count Segur, the intimate friend of Prince Potemkin, says 
of him:— "In his youth he had pleased Catherine by the 
ardor of his passion, by his valor, and by his masculine 
beauty. Become the rival of Orloff, he performed for his 
sovereign whatever the most romantic passion could inspire. 
He put out an eye, to free it from a blemish which dimin- 
ished his beauty. Banished by his rival, he ran to meet 
death in battle, and returned with glory. He died in 1791, at 
the age of fifty-two." 



CANTO vir. 



DON JUAN. 



XLVIT.-LXI. 



He flitted to and fro a dancing light, 

AVliicli all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right. 

XL VII. 

But cerUs matters took a different face ; 

There was enthusiasm and much applause, 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, 

And all presaged good fortune to their cause. 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines, 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 

XL VIII. 

'T is thus the spirit of a single mind 
Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 
Or roams the herd beneath the bull's protection ; 

Or as a little dog will lead the blind, 
Or a bell-wetlier form the flock's connection 

By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to victual; 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 
The whole camp rung with joy ; you would have 
thought 

That they were going to a marriage feast 
(This metaphor, I think, holds good as aught, 

Since there is discord after both at least) : 
There was not now a luggage boy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardor niuch increased ; 
And why ? because a little — odd — old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was ; and every preparation 
Was made with all alacrity : the first 

Detachment of three columns took its station, 
And waited but the signal's voice to burst 

Upon the foe : the second's ordination 
Was also in three columns, with a thirst 

For glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter : 

The third, in columns two, attack'd by w^ater. 

LI. 

[I^ew^ batteries were erected, and was held 
A general council, in which unanimity. 

That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 
As sometimes happens in a great extremity ; 

And every difficulty being dispell 'd. 
Glory began to daw^n with due sublimity, 

While Souvaroff, determined to obtain it. 

Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet.* 

LII. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
In chief, in proper person deign 'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to squander 
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfill ; 

Just as you 'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

LIII. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks. 

And made them charge with bayonet these ma- 
chines, 
By way of lesson agaiust actual Turks ; 

And when well practiced in these mimic scenes, 
He judged them proper to assail the works ; 

At which your Avise men sneer'd in phrases witty : 

He made no answer; but he took the city. 

* Fact : Suwaroff did this in person. 



LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve 
Of the assault, and all the camp was in 

A stern repose ; which you would scarce conceive ; 
Yet men resolved to dash through thick and thin 

Are very silent when they once believe 
That all is settled : — there w^as little din, 

For some were thinking of their home and friends. 

And others of themselves and latter ends. 

LV. 

Suwarrow chiefly v/as on the alert, 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pondering; 
For the man was, we safely may assert, 

A thing to wonder at beyond miost wondering ; 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half -dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering ; 
ISTow Mars, now Monius ; and when bent to storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

LVI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drills 

For this great conqueror play'd the corporal- 
Some Cossacks, hovering like hawks round a hill, 

Had met a party towards the twilight's fall. 
One of whom spoke their tongue— or well or ill, 

'T was much that he was understood at all ; 
But whether from his voice, or speech, or manner. 
They found that he had fought beneath their banner. 

LVII. 

Whereon immediately at his request 

They brought him and his comrades to head- 
quarters ; 
Their dress was Moslem, but you might have guess'd 

That these WT.re merely masquerading Tartars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion 'd vest 

Lurk'd Christianity ; which sometimes barters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makes 
It diflicult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, wiio was standing in his shirt 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling. 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert, 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing, 

For deeming human clay but common dirt. 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 

His maxims, which to martial comprehension 

Proved death in battle equal to a pension ;— 

LIX. 

Suwarrow, when he saw this company 
Of Cossacks and their prey, turn'd round and cast 

Upon them his slow brow and piercing eye : — 
' ' Whence come ye ? ' '— ' 'From Constantinople last, 

Captives just now escaped," w^as the reply. 
"What are ye?"— "What you see us." Briefly 
pass'd 

This dialogue ; for he who answer'd knew 

To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 

" Your names ? "— " Mine 's Johnson, and my com- 
rade 's Juan ; 

The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw on 

The party a slight glance, then said, " I have heard 
Your name before, the second is a new one : 

To bring the other three here was absurd : 
But let that pass :— I think I have heard your name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment '? " — " The same." 

LXL 

"You served at Widdin? "— " Yes."— " You led 
tlie attack ? " 
"I did."— "What next ? "— " I really hardly 
know." 

531 



CANTO VII. 



DON JUAK 



LXri.-LXXV. 



" You were the first i' the breach ? "— " I was not 
slack 
At least to follow those who mi^ht be so." 
" What foUow'd ? "— '' A shot laid me on my back, 

And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
"You shall have vengeance, for the town sur- 
rounded 
Is twice as strong as that where you were wounded. 

LXII. 

*' "Where will you serve ? "— " Where'er you please." 
— "I know 

You like to be the hope of the forlorn. 
And doubtless would be foremost on tlie foe 

After the hardships you 've already borne. 
And this young fellow— say what can he do ? 

He with the beardless chin and garments torn ? " 
" Wliy, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the assault." 

LXIII. 

" He shall if that he dare." Here Juan bow'd 
Low as the compliment deserved. Suwarrow 

Continued : " Your old regiment 's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow. 

Or it may be to-night, tlie assault : I have vow'd 
To several saints, that shortly plough or har- 
row 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded by the proudest mosque. 

Lxiy. 

" So now, my lads, for glory ! " — Here he turn'd 
And drill'd away in the most classic Russian, 

Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 
For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 

A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn 'd 
All earthly goods save tithes), and bade them 
push on 

To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 

The armies of "the Christian Empress Catherine. 

LXY. 

Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favorite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess ' 

My debt in being thus allow'd to die 
Among the foremost ; but if you 'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. 

" Right ! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff , take him to — 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew: 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXYII. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
The ladies,— wlio by no means had been bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new. 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true. 
Passive obedience, — now raised up the head, 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, and flung 

Their arms, as hens their wings about their young, 

LXYIII. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men 

Who were thus honor'd by the greatest chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 
532 



Oh, foolish mortals ! Always taught in vain ! 

Oh, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf 
Of thine imaginary deathless tree. 
Of blood and tears must flow the unebbing sea, 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears. 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey'd 

The women with their hair about their ears 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling: for however habit sears 
Men's hearts against whole millions, when their 
trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes— and such was Suwarrow. 

LXX. 

He said,— and in the kindest Calmuck tone,— 
" Why, .lohnson, what the devil do you mean 

By bringing women here ? They shall be shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 

In safety to the wagons, where alone 
In fact they can be safe. You should have been 

Aware this kind of baggage never thrives; 

Save we.d a year, I hate recruits with wives." 

LXXI. 

"May it please your excellency," thus replied 
Our British friend, " these are the wives of 
others. 

And not our own. I am too qualified 
By service with my military brothers 

To break the rules by bringing one's own bride 
Into a camp : I know that nought so bothers 

The hearts of the heroic on a charge, 

As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII. 

" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape, 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious shape. 

To me this kind of life is not so new ; 
To them, poor things, it is an awkward scrape. 

I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely. 

Request that they may both be used genteelly." 

LXXIII. 

Meantime these two poor girls, with swimming 
eyes, 

Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
Their own protectors ; nor was their surprise 

Less than their grief (and truly not less just) 
To see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIY. 

For everything seem'd resting on his nod. 
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, 

Who were accustom 'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem. 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail 's a diadem) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 

LXXY. 

John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings Oriental, 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
Don Juan, who was much more sentimental. 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of day. 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some consolation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 



CANTO VIIT. 



DON JTJAK 



LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some slight 
kisses. 

They parted for the present— these to await, 
According to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, or Fate— 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their i)eloved friends began to arm. 
To burn a town which never did them harm. 

LXXYII. 

Suwarrow, — who but saw things in the gross, 
Being much too gross to see them in detail, 

Who calculated life as so much dross. 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail. 

And cared as little for his army's loss 

(So that their efforts should at length prevail) 

As wife and friends did for the boils of Job, — 

What was 't to him to hear two women sob ? 

LXXYIII. 

Nothing. — The work of glory still went on 

In preparations for a cannonade 
As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 
But now, instead of slaying Priam's son, 

We only can but talk of escalade, 
Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, bayonets, 

bullets ; 
Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' gullets. 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long ; all ages, though so short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 
Arms to which men will never more resort. 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to annoy ; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer ! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men were slain. 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each act. 

There should be ne'ertheless a slight substratum. 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate 'em ? 
Souls of immortal generals! Phcebus watches 
To color up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte ! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty. 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, sur- 
rounded ! 
Oh, Capsar's Commentaries ! now impart, ye 

Shadows of glory I (lest I be confounded), 

* "This canto is almost entirely filled with the taking of 
Ismail by storm. It would be absurd to attempt, in prose, 
even a feeble outline of the varied horrors which marked 
that celebrated scene of ruthless and indiscriminate carnag-e ; 
the noble writer has depicted them with all that vivid and 
appalling fidelity, which, on such a theme, might be 3xpected 



A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 

LXXXIII. 

When I call " fading " martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year, 

And almost every day, in sad reality, 
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business. 

Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness. 

Lxxxiy. 

Medals, rank, ribbons, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Are things immortal to immortal man, 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot : 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women ; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 

But Glory 's glory ; and if you would find 

What that is— ask the pig who sees the wind ! 

LXXXY. 

At least he feels it. and some say he see.9. 
Because he runs before it like a pig ; 

Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 

A schooner, or— but it is time to cease 
This canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue. 

The next shall ring a peal to shake all people. 

Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXXVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold, dull night. 
The hum of armies gathering rank on rank ! 

Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 
Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 

Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 
The stars peep through the vapors dim and dank, 

Whicli curl in curious wreaths : — how soon the 
smoke 

Of hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak ! 

LXXXYII. 

Here pause we for the present — as even then 
That awful ])ause, dividing life from death. 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men. 
Thousands of whom were drawing their last 
breath ! 

A moment — and all will be life again ! 
The march ! the charge ! the shouts of either faith, 

Hurrah ! and Allah ! and— one moment more — 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



CANTO THE EIGHTHS 



.:j«^fe«-*-« — 



I. 



Qh, blood and thunder ! and oh, blood and wounds ! 

Tliese are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem. 
Too gentle reader ! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet this is Glory's dream . 



from his powerful muse; and, if anything can add to the 
shuddering sensation we experience in reading these terrific 
details, it is the consideration that poetry, in this instance, 
instead of dealing in fiction, must necessarily relate a tale 
that falls short of the truth."— CAMPBELii, 

633 



CAXTO YITT. 



DON JUAK 



II.-XV. 



Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such thino-s, since they are her theme, 
So he they her inspirers ! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will— they mean but wars. 

II. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
To wield them in their terrible array. 

The army, like a lion from his den, 
March 'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to 
slay, — 

A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 
To breathe destruction on its winding way, 

Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 

Immediately in others grew again. 

III. 

History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
In balancing the profit and the loss, 

AVar's merit it by no means might enhance. 
To waste so much gold for a little dross. 

As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

lY. 

And why ?— because it brings self -approbation ; 

AVhereas the other, after all its glare. 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
A higher title, or a loftier station. 

Though they may make Corruption gape or stare. 
Yet, in'the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

Y. 

And such they are — and such they will be found : 

Xot so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground. 

Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds 
undone. 
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 

While the mere victor's may appall or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchword till the future shall be free. 

YI. 

The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd 
Xought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
And in the Danube's waters shone the same — 

A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder; for heaven's 
flaslies 

Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions ashes ! 

YII. 

The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 

Beyond the Kussian batteries a few toises. 
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
, Answering the Christian thunders with like 

voices : 
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced. 
Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty 
noises ; 
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when 
The restless Titan hiccups in his den ; 

YIII. 

And one enormous shout of "Allah ! " rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore 

Resounded ''Allah ! " and the clouds which close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 
534 



Yibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through 
All sounds it pierceth, "Allah ! Allah ! Hu ! " * 

IX. 

The columns were in movement one and all, 
But of the portion which attack'd by water, 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of 
slaughter. 

As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 
" Carnage " (so Wordsworth tells you) " is God's 
daughter : " 

If lie speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

X. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee ; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball betv/een 
Ills cap and head, which proves the head to be 

Aristocratic as was ever seen. 
Because it then received no injury 

More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean 
Xo harm unto a right legitimate head ; 
••Ashes to ashes "—why not lead to lead ? 

XI. 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 

Insisting on removal of the jxrince 
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, 

All common fellows, who might writhe and wince. 
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 

The General ^larkow, who could thus evince 
His sympathy for rank, by the same token. 
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic. 
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills : 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick, 
Like tlie death-watch, within our ears the ills 

Past, present, and to come ;— but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field ; 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony. 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may regard — 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win perhaps a ribbon at the breast ! 

XIY. 

Yet I love glory ; — glory 's a great thing : — 
Think what it is to be in your old age 

Maintain'd at the expense of your good king : 
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 

And lieroes are but made for bards to sing. 
Which is still better ; thus in verse to wage 

Your wars eternally, besides enjoying 

Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying. 

XY. 

The troops, already disembark 'd, push'd on 
To take a battery on the right : the others, 

Who landed lower down, their landing done, 
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: 

Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one. 
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of 
mothers, 

* Allah Hu ! is properly the war cry of the Mussulmaus, 
and they dwell on the last syllable, which gives it a wild and 
peculiar effect. 



CANTO VIII. 



DON JUAN, 



XVI.-XXVIII. 



O'er the intrenchment and the palisade, 
Quite orderly, as if^upon parade. 

XYI. 

And this was admirable ; for so hot 
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded, 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded. 

Of officers a third fell on the spot, 
A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault : 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault. 

XVII. 

But here I leave the general concern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame: 

He must his laurels separately earn ; 
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim. 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory. 

And what is worse still, a much longer story : 

XVIII. 

And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous sluniber 
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encumber ; — 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt 

In tlie despatch : I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose. "^ 

XIX. 

Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps. 
And fought away with might and main, not 
knowing 

The way which they liad never trod before. 
And still less guessing where they might be going ; 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er, 
Tiring, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glow- 
ing, , 

But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 

To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin. 

XX. 

Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands,— sometimes gain- 
ing 

A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher 
To some odd angle for wliicli all were straining ; 

At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining 

Instead of heaven, they stumbled baickwards o'er 

A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore. 

XXI. 

Though 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and though 
The nightly muster and the silent march 

In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 
So much as under a triumphal arch. 

Perhaps might make him sliiver, yawn, or tlirow 
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch, 

Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day; — 

Yet for all this he did not run away. 

XXII. 

Indeed he could not. But-what if he had ? 
There have been and are heroes who begun 



* A fact : see the Waterloo Gazettes. I recollect remarking 
at the time to a friend :— " Tftere is fame ! a man is killed, his 
name is Grose, and they print it Grove." I was at college 
with the deceased, who was a very amiable and clever man, 
and his society in great request for his wit, gayety, and 
"Chansons d boire." 

+ See General Valancey and Sir Lawrence Parsons. 



With something not much better, or as bad : 
Frederick the Great from Molwitz deign 'd to 
run 

For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one 

Warm bout are broken in to their new tricks. 

And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her sublime 
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Funic; — 

(^he antiquariansf who can settle time. 
Which settles all things, Roman, .Greek, or Ru- 
nic, 

Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same 
clime 
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 

As any other notion, and not national ;)— 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child of song ; 

iS'ow swimming in the sentiment of joy. 
Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong). 

And afterward, if he must needs destroy. 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

Ho less delighted to employ his leisure ; 

XXV. 

But always without malice : if he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what vie call '' the best 

Intentions," which form all mankind's ir^rizp card!, 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack, wlien people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 

'T is pity " that such meaning should pave hell."t 

XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 
Whether hell's pavement — if it be so paved — 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved 

And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall. 

XXVII. 

Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career. 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides 
Just at the close of the first bridal year. 

By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides. 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here. 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing. 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII. 

I don't know how the thing occurr'd— it might 
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded, 

And that the rest had faced unto the right 
About ; a circumstance which has confounded 

Csesar himself, who, in the very sight 
Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obliged to snatch a sliield. 

And rally back his Romans to the field. ^ 



t The Portuguese proverb says that "hell is paved with 
good intentions."— See ante, p. 408. 

§ " The Nervii marched to the number of sixty thousand, 
and fell upon Caesar, as he was fortifying his camp, and had 
not the least notion of so sudden an attack. They first 
I'outed his cavalry, and then surrounded the twelfth and the 
seventh legions, and killed all the officers. Had not Caesar 
535 



CANTO VIII. 



DON JUAN. 



XXTX.-XLIII. 



XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why. arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaj)s he ought 

For a much longer time; then, like an ass — 
(Start not, kind reader, since great Homer thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one) ; — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were corses. 

XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had 

Quite disappear'd— the gods know how! (I can't 
Account for ever>i:lung which may look bad 

In history ; but we' at least may grant 
It was not marvellous tliat a mere lad, 

In search of glory, sliould look on before. 

Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps :)— 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded. 
And left at large, 4ike a young heir, to make 

His way to— where he knew not — single handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An " ignis fatuus ; " or as sailors stranded 
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake ; 

So Juan, following honor and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes. 

XXXIII. 

He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fiird as with lightning— for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains. 

He riish'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken 

By thy humane discovery. Friar Bacon ! 

XXXIV. 

And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second column, 

Under the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) • 
Of heroism, and took his place witli solemn 

Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces 

And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too, 
"Wlio had " retreated," as the phrase is when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den ; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 
Knew when and how " to cut and come again,'' 

And never ran away, except when running 

Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 

XXXVI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying, 
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 

pnatched a buckler from one of his own men, forced his way 

thronarh the combatants before him, and rushed upon the 

barbarians; or had not the tenth legion, seeing his danger, 

536 



More virgin valor never dreamt of flying, 

From ignorance of danger, which endues 
Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerves and 
thews,— 
Johnson retired a little, just to rally 
Those who catch cold in " shadows of Death's val- 
ley." 

XXXVII. 
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 

Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 
Kampart, wall, casemate, house — for there was not 

In this extensive city, sore beset 
By Christian soldiery, a single spot 

Which did not combat like the devil, as yet, — 
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 
By the resistance of the chase they batter 'd. 

XXXVIII. 

And these he call'd on ; and, what 's strange, they 
came 

Unto his call, unlika" the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim. 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
And that odd imi)ulse, which in wars or creeds 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 

XXXIX. 

By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon 
AVe shall not see his likeness: he could kill his 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
Her steady breath (which some months the same 
slill is) : 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle, 

And could be very busy without bustle ; 

XL. 

And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be rid so 
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so 
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 

But when they light upon immediate death, 

Retire a little, merely to take breath. 

XLI. 

But Johnson only ran off, to return 
With many other warriors, as we said. 

Unto that rather somewhat misty bourne, 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 

To Jack, howe'er, this gave but slight concern : 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living as on wire. 

And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 

Which fills a resriment (besides their pay. 
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough)— 

They found on their return the self-same welcome, 

Which made some t/tf?? A:;, and others know^a hell come. 

XLIII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail. 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle, 

ran from the heights where they were posted, and mowed 
down the enemy's ranks, not one Roman would have sur- 
vived the battle."— Plutarch. 



CANTO VITT. 



DON JUAN. 



XLiy.-LYir. 



Proving that trite old truth, that life 's as frail 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash 'd them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head before their guns were cock'd. 

XLIY. 

The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks : 
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks, 
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels. 

That Johnson , and some few who had not scamper 'd, 

Reach'd the interior talus* of the rampart. 

XLY. 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin. 
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below. 

So that you scarce could say who best had chosen, 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 
»0r those who thought it brave to wait as yet. 

XLVI. 

But tliose who scaled, found out that their advance 
Was favor'd by an accident or blunder : 

The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 
Had palisado'd in a way you 'd wonder 

To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock 
under) — 

Right in the middle of the parapet 

Just named, these palisades were primly set : 

XLYII. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 
Paces w^ere left, w^hereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to all those who w^ere left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which further aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades. 

XLYIII. 

Among the first, — I will not say the^/i7'.s«, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations : 

The Briton must be bold W'ho really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say so too ; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Balow, Gneisenau, 
And God knows who besides in " au " and " ow," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 
Into the hearts of those w^ho fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw. 
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show 

His orders, also to receive his pensions ; 

Which are the heaviest that our history mentions. 

L. 

But never mind ; — " God save the king ! " and kings ! 

For if he don't, I doubt if me)\ will longer — 
I think I hear a little bird, w^ho sings 

The people by and by will be the stronger : 



* Talu?.y the slope or inclination of a wall, whereby, reclin- 
ing at the top so as to fall within its base, the thickness is 
gradually lessened according- to the height." — Milit. Diet. 



The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings 

So much into the raw as quite to wrong her 
Beyond the rules of posting,— and the mob 
At last fall sick of imitating Job. 

LI. 

At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 

. Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant ; 

At last it takes to weapons such as men 

Snatch when despair makes human hearts less 
pliant. 
Then comes " the tug of war;" — 't will come again, 

I rather doubt ; and I w^ould fain say " fie on 't," 
If I had not perceived that revolution 
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution. 

LII. 

But to continue : — I say not the first. 
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 

W^alk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
Amidst such scenes — though this was quite a 
new one 

To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst 
Of glory, which so pierces through and through 
one. 

Pervaded him — although a generous creature, 

As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 

And here he w^as— who upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child ; howe'er 

The man in all the rest might be confest, 
To him it was Elysium to be there ; 

And he could even withstand that awkward test 
Yv^hich Rousseau points out to the dubious fair, 

" Observe your lover when he leaves your arms ;" 

But Juan never left them while they had charms, 

LIY. 

Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, wdio are much the same. 

But here he was !— where each tie that can bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flame : 

And he whose very' body was all mind. 
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame 

The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 

Dash'd ou like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LY. 

So was his blood «tirr'd while he found resistance. 
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate. 

Or double post and rail, where the existence 
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight, 

The lightest being the safest : at a distance 
He hated cruelty, as all men hate 

Blood, until heated — and even then his own 

At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 

LYI. 

The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast. 

Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, addressed 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a " base Bezonian"t 
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian. 

LYII. 

Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 
The general who held him in command ; 



+ Pistol's " Bezonian " is a corruption of bisognoso—a needy 
man— metaphorically (at least) a scoundrel. 

537 



CANTO VIIT. 



BON JUAK 



LVIIT.-LXX. 



For seeing one with ribbons, black and blue, 
Stars, niedals, and a bloody sword in hand, 
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank, 
He recognized an officer of rank. 

LVIII. 

Short speeches pass between two men who speak 
No common language ; and besides, in time 

Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 

Is perpetrated ere a word can break 
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 

In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, 
prayer, 

There cannot be much conversation there. 

LIX. 

And therefore all we have related in 
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute ; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafen 'd by the din. 
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet, 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonizing voice ! 

LX. 

The town was enter'd. Oh, eternity ! — 
''God made the country, and man made the 
town," 

So Cowper says— and I begin to be 
Of his. opinion, when I see cast down 

Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh, 
All ^valls men know, and many never known ; 

And pondering on the present and tlie past, 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last :— 

LXI. 

Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer. 
Who passes for in life and death most lucky, 

Of the great names which in our faces stare. 
The General Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky, 

Was happiest among mortals anywhere ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.* ' 

LXII. 

Crime came not near him— she is not the child 
Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — for 

Her home is in the rarely-trodden wild, 
Where if men seek her not, and death be more 

Tlieir choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled 
By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 

In cities caged. The present case in point I 

Cite is, that Boone lived hunting up to ninety; 

LXIII. 

And what 's still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, 

Not only famous, but of that good fame 
Without which glory 's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of Nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation, 
When they built up unto his darling trees, — 



* " The wildest solitudes are to the taste of some people. 
General Boone, who was chiefly instrumental in the first set- 
tlement of Kentucky, is of this turn. It is said, that he is 
now (1818), at the a^e of seventy, pursuing the daily chase 
two hundred miles to the westward of the last abode of civil- 
ized man. He had retired to a chosen spot, beyond the Mis- 
538 



He moved some liundred miles off, for a station 
AVhere there were fewer houses and more ease ; 

The inconvenience of civilization 
Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please ; 

But where he met the individual man, 

He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 

LXV. 

He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase, 

Whose young, unwaken'd w(n'ld was ever new, 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on Nature's or on human face ; 

The free-born forest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree. 

LXVI. 

And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 

Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain : the green woods were their 
portions ; 

No sinking spirits told them they grew gray. 
No fashion made them apes of her distortions; 

Simple they wTre, not savage ; and their rifles. 

Though very true, were not yet used for trifles. 

Lxyii. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers. 
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil ; 

Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers ; 
Corruption could not make their hearts her 
soil ; 

The lust which stings, the splendor which encum- 
bers, 
With the free foresters divide no spoil ; 

Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 

Of this unsighing people of the woods. 

LXVIII. 

So much for Nature :— by way of variety. 
Now back to thy great joys. Civilization ! 

And the sweet consequence of large society. 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety. 
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration, 

The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore, 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The to\\Ti was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
Clash 'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother 

With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to up- 
braid:— 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother 

The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute. 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterwards beat back 
(With some assistance from the frost and snow) 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 
It happen 'd was himself beat back just now : 

He was a jolly fellow, and coiUd crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe, 

Though life, and death, and victory were at stake; 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take : 



souri, which, after him, is named. ' Boone's Lick,' out of .the 
reach, as he flattered himself, of intrusion ; but white men, 
even there, encroached upon him, and two years a^o, he 
went back two hundred miles further."— Birkbeck's Notes 
on America. 



CANTO yilT. 



DON JUAK 



LXXT.-LXXXTV. 



LXXL 

For having thrown himself into a ditch, 
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich. 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 

But there his project reach 'd its utmost pitch 
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's 

Was much regretted), for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again. 

LXXII. 

And had it not been for some stray troops landing 
They knew not where, being carried by the 
stream 

To some spot, where they lost their understanding, 
And wander'd up and down as in a dream, 

Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 
That which a portal to their eyes did seem,— 

The great and gay Koutousow might have lain 

Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And scrambling round the rampart, these same 
troops, 

After the taking of the "Cavalier,"- 
Just as Koutousow 's most " forlorn " of " hopes " 

Took, like chameleons, some slight tinge of fear, 
Open'd the gate call'd "Kilia," to the groups 

Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud. 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

Lxxiy. 

The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacks — 
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography, 

So that I do not grossly err in facts. 
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 

Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 
And no great dilettanti in topography 

Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 

Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXY. 
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thun- 
der'd 
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the ram- 
part. 
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd 

The city, without being further hamper'd; 
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder 'd — 
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd. 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, 
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorn- 
ers. 

LXXYI. 
Then being taken by the tail — a taking . 

Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — ^these 
Cossacks were all cut off as day was breaking, 

And found their lives were let at a short lease — 
But perish'd without shivering or shaking. 

Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 
March 'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki :— 

LXXYII. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met. 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet, 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 't was an even bet 
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn : 

'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch. 

*"A 'cavalier' is an elevation of earth, situated ordina- 
rilj' in the gorge of a bastion, bordered with a parapet, and 



LXXYIII. 

Another column also suffered much : — 
And here we may remark with the historian. 

You should but give few cartridges to such 
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory 
on : 

When matters must be carried by the touch 
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry 
on, 

They sometimes, with a hankering for existence. 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 
(Without the General, who had fallen some time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 
Was made at length with those who dared to 
climb 

The death-disgorging rampart once again ; 
And though the Turks' resistance was sublime, 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter, 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar. 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savilge sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was also dish'd : 

LXXXI.- 

For all the answer to his proposition 
Yv^as from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steel and lead — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions; not a single head 

Was spared ;— three thousand Moslems perish'd 
here. 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The city 's taken — only part by part— 

And Death is drunk with gore : there 's not a 
street 
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart 

For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat. 
Here War forgot his own destructive art 

In more destroying Nature ; and the heat 
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime. 
Engender 'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 

Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 
Seized fast, as if 't were by tlie serpent's head 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel ; 
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and 
bled, 

And howl'd for help. as wolves do for a meal — 
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold. 
As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIY. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch 'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through 't 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish 'd it 

cut into more or fewer embrasures, according to its capac- 
ity."— 31iliL ma. 

539 



CANTO viir. 



BON JUAK 



LXXXV.-XCIX. 



Even with his life— for (but they lie) 'tis said 
To the live leg still clung the severed head. 

LXXXY. 

However this may be, 't is pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed. 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd ; 

The regimental surgeon could not cure 
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

]More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXYI. 

But then the fact 's a fact— and 't is the part 
Of a true poet to escape from fiction 

"VVliene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from tlie restriction 

Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart 
For what is sometimes call'd poetic diction 

And that outrageous appetite for lies 

Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. 

LXXXYII. 

The city 's taken, but not render'd !— Xo! 

There 's not a Moslem tliat hath yielded sword: 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall ; but deed nor word 
Acknowledge aught of dread'of death or foe: 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite— the groan 
Of the last foe is echo'd by his own. 

HXXXYIII. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves, 
And human lives are lavish 'd everywhere, 

As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 
When tlie stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air, 

And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves, 
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare; 

But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, 

As oaks blown down w^ith all their thousand winters. 

Lx:5p:ix. 

It is an awful topic — but 't is not 

My cue for any time to be terrific : 
For checker'd as is seen our human lot 

AVitli good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific 
Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 
I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 

XC. 

And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is ''quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 
AVitli all their pretty milk-and-water ways, 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes, 
A little scorch 'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 

XCI. 

Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group 
Of murder'd women, who had found their way 

To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop 
And shudder ;— while, as beautiful as May, 

A female child of ten years tried to stoop 
And hide her little palpitating breast 
Amidst the bodies lulPd in bloody rest. 

XCII. 
Two villainous Cossacks pursued the child 
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with 
them, 

640 



The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild 
Has feelings pure and polish 'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilized, the wolf is mild ; 
And whom for this at last must we condemn ? 

Their natures ? or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destroy ? 

XCIII. 

Their sabres glitter 'd o'er her little head. 
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright. 

Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead \ 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight, 

I shall not say exactly what he said^ 
Because it might not solace '' ears polite ; " 

But what he did, was to lay on their backs, 

The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacks. 

XCIY. 

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder, 
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek 

If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek 

Their baffled rage and pain ; while waxing colder 
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 

Don Juan raised his little captive from 

The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

XCY. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
For the same blow which laid her mother here 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace. 
As the last link with all she had held dear; 

But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes. 

And gazed on Juan with a w^ild surprise. 

XCYI. 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd 
Upon each other, with dilated glance, 

In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hoi)e, fear, mix'd 
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance 

Unto his protegee ; wliile hers, transfix'd 
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 

A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face. 

Like to a lighted alabaster vase ; — 

XCYII. 

Up came John Johnson (I will not say "Jacfc," 
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace 

On great occasions, such as an attack 
On cities, as hath been the present case) : 

Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back. 
Exclaiming :— '' Juan ! Juan ! On, boy ! brace 

Your arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar, 

That you and I will win Saint George's collar.* 

XCYIII. 

" The Seraskier is knock 'd upon the head, 
But tine stone bastion still remains, wherein 

The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead, 
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din 

Of our artillery and his own : 't is said 
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin, 

Lie round the battery ; but still it batters. 

And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me ! " — But Juan answer'd, " Look 
Upon this child — I saved her — must not leave 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some nook 
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve, 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson took 
A glance around— and shrugg'd— and twitch 'd 
his sleeve 

* A llussian military order. 



CANTO VIII. 



DON JUAK 



C.-CXIII. 



And black silk neckcloth— and replied, "You're 

right ; 
Poorthing! what 's to be done ? I'm puzzled quite." 

C. 

Said Juan—" Whatsoever is to be 
Done, I '11 not quit her till she seems secure 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Quoth Johnson — " Neither will I quite insure; 

But at the least you may die gloriously." — 
Juan replied—" At least I will endure 

Wliate'er is to be borne— but not resign 

This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine." 

CI. 

Johnson said — " Juan, we 've no time to lose ; 

The child 's a pretty child— a very pretty — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark ! now choose 

Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity :— 
Hark ! hoAV the roar increases I— no excuse 

Will serve when there is plunder in a city ; — 
I should be loath to march without you, but, 
By God ! we '11 be too late for the first cut." 

CII. 

But Juan was immovable ; until 
Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill 
Such as he thought the least given up to prey ; 

And swearing if the infant came to ill 
That they should all be shot on the next day ; 

But if she were deliver'd safe and sound. 

They should at least have fifty rubles round, 

cm. 

And all allowances besides of plunder 
In fair proportion with their comrades ;— then 

Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men : 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder, 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens everywhere each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 

ciy. 

And such is victory, and such is man ! 

At least nine-tenths of what we call so :— God 
May have another name for half we scan 

As human beings, or his ways are odd. 
But to our subject : a brave Tartar khan — 

Or " sultan," as the author (to whose nod 
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 
This chieftain — somehow would not yield at all : 

CV. 

But flank 'd byj^ye brave sons (such is polygamy, 
That she spawns warriors by the score, where 
none 

Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), 
He never would believe the city won 

Wliile courage clung to but a single twig. — Am I 
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son ? 

Neither— but a good, plain, old, temperate man. 

Who fought with his five children in the van. 

CVI. 

To take him was the point.— The truly brave. 
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds, 

Are touch 'd with a desire to shield and save ; — 
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 

Are they — now furious as the sweeping wave. 
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods 



* " At Bender, after the fatal battle of Pultawa, Charles 
gave a proof of that unreasonable obstinacy which occa- 
sioned all his misfortunes in Turkey. When advised to write 
to the g-rand vizier, according- to the custom o€ the Turks, he \ 



The rugged tree unto the summer wind. 
Compassion breathes along the savage mind. 

CVII. 

But he would not be taken ^ and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 

As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.* 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 

Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender. 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CYIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their Eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to' show 
So much less fight as might form an apology 

For them in saving such a desperate foe — 
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 

When they dispute with skeptics ; and with curses 

Struck at "his friends, as babies beat their nurses. 

CIX. 

Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both 
Juan and Johnson ; whereupon they fell. 

The first with sighs, the second with an oath. 
Upon his angry sultauship, pell-mell, 

xVnd all around were grown exceeding wroth 
At such a pertinacious infidel. 

And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 

Which they resisted like a sandy plain 

ex. 

That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish 'd — 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 

His third was sabred ; and the fourth , most cherislfd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 

The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish 'd. 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not. 

Because deform 'd, yet died all game and bottom. 

To save a sire who blush 'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 

As great a scorner of the Nazarene 
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr, 

Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green, 
Who make the beds of those who won't take 
quarter 

On earth, in Paradise ; and when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures. 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features. 

CXII. 

And what they pleased to do with the young khan 
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess; 

But doubtless they prefer a fine young mail 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 

And that's the cause no doubt why, if we scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 

For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body. 

You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs 
bloody. 

CXIII. 

Your houris also have a natural pleasure 
In lopping off your lately married men. 

Before the bridal hours have danced their measure, 
And the sad, second moon grows dim aga'in. 

Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 
To wish him back a bachelor now and then : 



said it was beneath his dig-nity. The same obstinacy placed 
him necessarily at variance with all the ministers of the 
Porte."— Voltaire. 



641 



CANTO VTIT. 



DON JUAK 



cxiv.-cxxvr. 



And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the" immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Tlius the young Ichan, with houris in his sight, 
Thought not upon the cliarms of four young 
brides, 

But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 
In short, howe'er our better faith derides, 

These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight, 
As though there were one heaven and none be- 
sides — 

Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 

And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 

So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 
That wlien the very huice was in liis heart, 

He shonted "Allah! " and saw Paradise 
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 

And bright eternity witliout disguise 
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart : — 

With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 

In one voluptuous blaze,— and then he died : 

cxyi. 

But with a heavenly rapture on his face. 

The good old khan, w^ho long had ceased to see 
Houris, or aught except his florid race, 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 
Wlien he beheld his latest hero grace 

The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree, 
Paused for a moment from the fight, and cast 



cxyii. 

The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 

Quarter, in case he bade them not " aroj^nt ! " 
As he before had done. He did not heed 

Their pause nor signs : his heart w^as out of joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed. 

As he look'd down upon his children gone. 

And felt — though done with life — he wTtS alone. 

V cxyiii. 

But 't was a transient tremor :— with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung, 

As carelessly as hurls the moth her wdng 
Against the light wherein she dies : he clung 

Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring. 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young ; 

And throwing back a dim look on his sons, 

In one wade wound pour'd forth his soul at once. 

CXIX. 

'Tis strange enough— the rough, tough soldiers, 
who 

Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through. 

And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew. 

Were melted for a moment ; though no tear 
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with 

strife, 
They honored such determined scorn of life. 



* " No man could describe the horrors which ensued. The 
ferocious victors, instead of being- struck -with admiration or 
respect by the noble defence of the brave garrison, M^ere so 
enrag-ed at the great slaughter of their fellows which had 
taken place, that no bounds could be prescribed to the excess 
of their furj'. All order and command seem to have been 
entirely at an end during the horrors of that terrible night : 
the officers could neither restrain the slaughter, nor prevent 
the general plunder, made by the lawless and ferocious sol- 
diers. Thousands of the Turks, incapable of enduring the 

542 



CXX. 

But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 
AVhere tlie chief pacha calmly held his post : 

Some twenty times he made the Euss retire, 
And baffled the assaults of all their host; 

AX length he condescended to inquire 
If yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 

And being told the latter, sent a bey 

To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd,with great sang-froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 

Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 
Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet looking 

With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy 
His stern philosopliy ; but gently stroking 

His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 

As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

CXXII. 

Tlie town was taken— whether he might yield 
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now : 

His stubborn valor was no future shield. 
Ismail 's no more ! The crescent's silver bow 

Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field, 
But red with no redeeming gore : the glow 

Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 

Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 

All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst wiiich pen expresses ; 

All by which liell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell— mere mortals wiio their power abuse — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.* 

GXXIV. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity 
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke 
through 

Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, some pretty 
Child, or an aged, helpless man or two — 

What 's this in one annihilated city. 
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew ? 

Cockneys of London ! Muscadins of Paris ! 

Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxy. 

Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 

Or if these do not move you, don't forget 
Such doom may be jomx own in after times. 

Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 

Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story, 

Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 

cxxyi. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation. 
Which loves so well its- country and its king, 

A subject of sublimest exultation — 
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 



sight of the horrid scenes of destruction in which all that 
was dear to them was involved, rushed desperately upon the 
bayonets of the enemy, in order to shorten their misery; 
while those who could reach the Danube threw themselves 
headlong into it for the same purpose. The streets and pas- 
sages were so choked by the heaps of dead and dying bodies 
which lay in them, as considerably to impede the progress 
of the victors in their eager search for plunder."— Dr. Lau- 
rence, in A.nn. Reg. for 1791. 



CANTO VIII. 



DON JUAN. 



CXXVIT.-CXXXIX. 



Howe'er the mighty locust. Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling, 
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne — 
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twen- 
ty stone. 

CXXYII. 

But let me put an end unto my therae : 
There was an end of Ismail— hapless town ! 

Far flash 'd her burning towers o'er Danube's 
stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 

The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders grown : 

Of forty thousand vdio had uiann'd the wall. 

Some hundreds breathed— the rest were silent all ! ^ 

CXXVIII. 

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashion nowadays. 
And therefore worthy of commemoration : 

The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual, 

Had made them chaste ;— they ravish 'd very little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line ; — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation, 

Take towns by storm : no causes can I guess, 
Except cold weather and commiseration ; 

But all the ladies, save some tAventy score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

cxxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen 'd in the dark. 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste — 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things 
from haste 

Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 
Of light to save the venerable chaste : 

But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 

AVere ail deflower 'd by different grenadiers. 

cxxxi. 

But on the whole their continence was great ; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient state 

Of '' single blessedness," and thought it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate. 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding. 

CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buxom middle-aged 
Were also heard to wonder in the "din 

(Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin ! " 

But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
Tliere was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 

But whether they escaped or no, lies hid 

In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXXIII. 

Suwarrow now was conqueror— a match 
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 



* "Among' those who fell were a number of the bravest, 
most experienced, anrl renowned commanders In the Turkish 
armies. Six or scA^en Tartar princes of the illustrious line of 
Gherai likewise perished with the rest. A few hundreds of 
prisoners were preserved, to serve as melancholy recorders 
and witnesses of the destruction which they had beheld. In 



While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like 
thatch 

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay 'd, 
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ; 

And here exactly follows what he said : — 
"Glory to God and to the Empress ! " {Powers 
Eternal I such naraes mingled !) " Ismail 's ours." 

CXXXIY. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words. 
Since "Mene, Mene, Tekel," and " Upharsin," 

Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I 'm but little of a parson : 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce on 

The fate of nations ; — but this Russ so witty 

Could rhyme, like ^ero, o'er a burning city. 

cxxxy. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it, — 
For I v/ill teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 

But ye— our children's children ! think how we 

Show'd wJlcU things icere before the world was free ! 

CXXXYI. 

That hour is not for us, but 't is for you : 
And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 

You hardly will believe such things were true 
As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 
'em; 

But may their very memory perish too !— 
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 
'em 

More than you scorn the savages of yore. 

Who painted their hare limbs, but not with gore. 

CXXXYII. 

And when jow hear historians talk of thrones, 
And those that sate upon them, let it be 

As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones, 
And w^onder what old world such things could 
see. 

Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones. 
The pleasant riddles of futurity — 

Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 

CXXXYIII. 

Reader! I have kept my word, — at least so far 
As the first canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war, — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic^ if plain truth should prove no bar ; 
For I have drawn much less with a long bow 

Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 

CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle. 

What further hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all : 
But now I choose to break off in the middle. 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall, 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
For which all Petersburg is on the watch. 

consequence of an accurate inquiry set on foot by an Otto- 
man commander of rank, it appears that the whole number 
of Turks who perished in the slaug-hter of Ismail amounted 
to thirty-eight thousand eight hundred and sixteen."— Dr. 
Laurence. 



543 



CANTO IX. 



DON JUAN 



I.-XII. 



CXL. 

This special honor was conferr'd, because 
He had beliaved with courage and humanity — 

Whicli last men lilve, when they have time to pause 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause 
For saving her amidst the wild insanity 

Of carnage,— and I think he was more glad in her 

Safety, than his new order of Saint Vladimir. 

CXLI* 
The Moslem orphan went with her protector. 

For she was homeless, houseless, helpless ; all 
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 

Had perish 'd in the field or by the wall : 
Her very place of birth was but a spectre 

Of what it had been ; there the Muezzin's ca'll 
To prayer was heard no more ! — and .Juan wept. 
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept. 




CANTO THE NINTH. 



Oh, Wellington ! for *' Yillainton " — for Fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your great name, 
But punn'd it down to this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
You have obtained great "pensions and much 
praise : 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" * 

II. 

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
In Marinet's affair — in fact, 't was shabby, 

And like some other things won't do to tell 
Upon your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 't is not worth while to dwell, 
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some tabby ; 

But though your jTars as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 

III. 

Though Britain owes (and pays you too) so much. 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more : 

You have repaired Legitimacy's crutch, 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore; 

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 

lY. 

You are " the best of cut-throats :" — do not start; 

The phrase is Shakspeare's, and not misapplied : — 
War 's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part. 

The world, not the world's masters, will de- 
cide. 
And I shall be delighted to learn who. 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 

Y. 

I am no flatterer— you 've supp'd full of flattery : 
They say you like it too — 't is no great wonder. 



* Query* -K'ey ?— Printer's Devil. 
544 



He whose whole life has been assault and battery, 
At last may get a little tired of thunder ; 

And swallowing eulogy much more than satire, he 
May like being praised for every lucky blunder, 

Call'd '' Saviour of the Nations " — not yet saved, 

And " Europe's Liberator "—still enslaved. 

YI. 

I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plate 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your gate 
A slice or two from your luxurious meals : 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels : — 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration, 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

YIL 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection : 

The high Roman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With modern history has but small connection : 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes. 
You need not take them under your direction ; 

And half a million for your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 

YIII. 

Great men have always scorn 'd great recompenses : 
Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died-. 

Not leaving even his funeral expenses : 
George AVashington had thanks, and nought be- 
side. 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's is) 
To free liis country : Pitt too had his pride, 

And as a high-soul'd minister of state is 

Ilenownxl for ruining Great Britain gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
Except Napoleon, or abused it more : 

You might have freed fallen Europe from the unity 
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore : 

And now — what is your fame ? Shall the Muse 
tune it ye ? 
JS^ov: — that the rabble's first vain shouts are o'er? 

Go ! hear it in your famish 'd country's cries! 

Behold the world ! and curse your victories ! 

X. 

As these new cantos touch on warlike feats. 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to inscribe 

Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
But which 't is time to teach the hireling tribe 

Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, 
Must be recited — and without a bribe. 

You did great things : but not being great in mind, 

Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 

XL 

Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
With which men image out the unkno^^^l thing 

That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter 
spring — 

Death laughs at all you weep for:— look upon 
This liourly dread of all ! whose threatenkl sting 

Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath : 

Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without breath ! 

XII. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet iJcas what you are ; from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd : the Antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle (far more dear 



CANTO IX. 



DON JUAK 



XIIl.-XXVI. 



Than even the tailor's), his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will grin. 

XIII. 
And thus Death laughs,— it is sad merriment, 

But still it is so ; and with such example 
Why should not Life be equally content 

With his superior, in a smile to trample 
Upon the nothings which are daily spent 

Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 
Than the eternal deluge, which devours 
Suns as rays— worlds like atoms— years like hours ? 

XIY. 

*' To be, or not to be ? that is the question," 
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in fashion. 

I am' neither Alexander nor Hephsestion, 
Nor ever had for abstract fame much passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion 
Than Buonaparte's cancer:— could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach— what were a good name ? 

XY. 

" O dura ilia messorUm ! " — " Oh, 
Ye rigid guts of reapers ! " I translate 

For the great benefit of those who know 
What indigestion is— that inward fate 

Which makes all Styx through one small liver flow. 
A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate : 

Let this one toil for bread— t/iaf rack for rent, 

He who sleeps best may be the most content. 

XYI. 

" To be, or not to be ? " — Ere I decide, 
I should be glad to know that which is being. 

'T is true we speculate both far and wide, 
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing: 

For my part, I '11 enlist on neither side. 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 

XYII. 

" Que scais-je ? " was the motto of Montaigne, 

As also of the first academicians : 
That air is dubious which man may attain, 

Was one of their most favorite positions. 
There 's no such thing as certainty, that 's plain 

As any of Mortality's conditions ; 
So little do we know what we 're about in 
This world, I doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

XYIII. 

It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float. 
Like Pyrrho,* on a sea of speculation ; 

But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 
Your wise men don't know much of navigation ; 

And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
Is apt to tire ; a calm and shallow station 

Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down and 
gathers 

Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers. 

XIX. 

" But heaven." as Cassio says, " is above all f — 
]^o more of this, then, let us pray ! " We have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall. 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The sparrow's fall 

• Is special providence," though how it gave 



* " Pyrrho, the philosopher of Elis, was in continual sus- 
pense of judg-ment: he doubted of everything; never made 
any conclusion ; and when he had carefully examined a suh- 
ject, and investigated all its points, he concluded by still 
doubting of its evidence."— Aut:.. Gel. 
35 



Offence, we know not ; probably it perch 'd 
Upon the tree which Eve so fondly search'd. 

XX. 

Oh, ye immortal gods ! what is theogony ? 

Oh , thou, too, mortal man ! what is philanthropy ? 
Oh, world ! which was and is, what is cosmogony V 

Some people have accused me of misanthropy ; 
And yet I know no m.ore than the mahogany 

That forms this desk, of what they mean ; lykan^ 
thropy X 
I comprehend, for without transformation 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXL 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind, 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done anything exceedingly unkind,— 
And (thougli I could not now and then forbear 

Following the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 

Tliey hate me^ not I them : — and here we '11 pause. 

XXII. 

'T is time we should proceed with our good poem,— 
For 1 maintain that it is really good, 

Not only in the body but the proem, 
However little both are understood 

Just now,— but by and by the Truth will show 'em 
Herself in her sublimest attitude : 

And till she dotli, I fain must be content 

To share her beauty and her banishment. 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader ! yours) 
Was left upon his way to the chief city 

Of the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 
Who still have shown themselves more brave than 
witty. 

I know its mighty empire now allures 
Much flattery — even Yoltaire's, and that 's a pity. 

For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 

N'ot a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIY. 
And I will war, at least in words (and— should 

My chance so happen — deeds), with all who war 
With Thought ;— and of Thought's foes by far most 
rude. 

Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 
I know not wdio may conquer : if I could 

Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 
To this my plain, sworn, downriglit detestation 
Of every despotism in every nation. 

XXY. 

It is not that I adulate the people : 
Without me, there are demagogues enough. 

And infidels, to pull down every steeple. 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow skepticism to reap heU, 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ;— I wish men to be free 

As much from inobs as kings — from you as me. 

XXYI. 

The consequence is, being of no party, 
I shall offend all parties :— never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and hearty 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 



t See Othello. 

$ " A kind of madness, in which men have the qualities of 
wild beasts."— Todd. 



545 



CANTO IX. 



DON JUAN, 



xxvir.-xL. 



He who has nought to gain can have small art: he 

Who neither wishes to be bound nor bind, 
May still expatiate freely, as will I, 
Nor give my voice to slavery's jackal cry, 

XXVII. 

Tliafs an appropriate simile, that jackal; — 
I 've heard them in the Ephesiah ruins howl 

By night, as do that mercenary pack all. 
Power's base purveyors, who for pickings prowl, 

And scent the prey their masters would attack all. 
However, the poor jackals are less foul 

(As being the brave lions' keen providers) 

Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 't will brush their web away, 
And without that, tlieir poison and their claws 

Are useless. Mind, good people! wdiat I say — 
(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause I 

The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause: 

Xone, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 

XXIX. 

Don Juan, who had shone in the late slr.ughter, 
Was left upon his way with the despatch, 

AVhere blood was talk'd of as we would of w^ater ; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatcli 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on the 
match 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, 

AV herein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 

XXX. 

And there in a Mhitka he roll'd on 
(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Wliich on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole 
bone), 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings. 

And orders, and on all that lie had done— 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep ways is. 

XXXI. 

At every jolt— and they were many — still 
He turn'd his eyes upon his little charge. 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less "ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no pavior, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 

XXXII. 

At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to call 

" Gentlemen farmers"— a race worn out quite. 
Since lately there have been no rents at all. 

And '' gentlemen " are in a piteous plight, 
And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from her fall : 

She fell witli Buonaparte— What strange tlioughts 

Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter— what a 
trophy ! 
Oh ! ye who build up monuments, defiled 

With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive sophy, 
AVlio, after leaving Hindostan a wild. 
And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
546 



To soothe his woes withal, was slain, the sinner! 
Because he could no more digest his dinner; *— 

XXXIV. 

Oh, ye! or we! or he! or she! reflect. 
That one life saved, especially if young 

Or pretty, is a thing to recollect 
Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 

From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 
With all the praises ever said or sung: 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

Your heart joins chorus. Fame is but a din. 

XXXV. 

Oh, ye great authors luminous, voluminous! 

Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, illumine 
us! 

Whether you 're paid by government in bribes, 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us— 

Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's kibes " 
W^ith clownish heel, your popular circulation 
Feeds you by printing half the realm's starvation ;— 

XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors!—" Apropos des bottes,"— 
I have forgotten what I meant to say. 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots; — 
'T was something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 

Certes it would have been but thrown away. 

And that 's one comfort for my lost advice, 

Although no doubt it was beyond all i)rice. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go: — it will one day be found 
W^itii other relics of •' a former world," 

When this world shall hefonner, underground. 
Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crispVl, and curl'd, 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside out, or drown 'd. 
Like all the worlds before, which have been hurl'd 

First out of, and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII. 

So Cuvier says: — and then shall come again 

Unto the new creation, rising out 
From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 

Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt ; 
Like to the notion's we now entertain 

Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 
Some hundred feet in height, not to say miles, 
And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be dug up ! 

How the new worldlings of the then new East 
AVill wonder where such anim.als could sup! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least: 
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 

And every new creation hath decreased 
In size, from overw^orking the material — 
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's burial.) 

XL. 

TIoiu will — to these young people, just thrust out 
From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough. 

And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about. 
And ])lant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and 
sow, 

Till all the arts at length are brought about. 
Especially of war and taxing, — how. 



* He was killed in a conspiracy, after his temper had been 
exasperated by his extreme costivity to a degree of insanity. 



CANTO IX. 



DON JUAK 



XLI.-LIY. 



I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em, 
Look like the monsters of a new museum I 

XLI, 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint," — and so am I; 

I quite forget this poem 's merely quizzical. 
And deviate into matters rather dry. 

I ne'er decide what 1 shall say, and this I call 
Much too poetical: men should know why 

They write, and for what end : but, note or text, 

I never know the w^ord which will come next. 

XLII. 

So on I ramble, now and tlien narrating. 
Now pondering : — it is time we should narrate. 

I left Don Juan with his horses baiting — 
Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 
His journey, we 've so many tours of late : 

Suppose him then at Petersburg ; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XLIII. 

Suppose him in a handsome uniform ; 

A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume. 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a cairngorm,*. 

Of yellow casimire we may presume. 
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set off the silk ; 

XLIY. 

Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand. 

Made up by youth, fame, and an army tailor- 
That great enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns 
paler, 
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand 

( When she don't pin men's limbs in like a jailer) — 
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar ! He 
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery ! 

XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat ; 

His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small-sword, but sharp as ever; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like, that Psyche vrere more clever 
Than some wives (who make blunders no less stupid) 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XL VI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
The empress smiled: the reigning favorite 
frown 'd — 

I quite forget which of them was in hand 
Just then ; as they are ratlier numerous found. 

Who took by turns that difficult command 
Since first her majesty was singly crown'd: 

But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 

All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLYII. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing and beardless ; and yet ne'ertheless 

There was a something in his turn of limb. 
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to express. 



* A yellow-colored crystal, denominated from a hill in In- 
verness-shire, where it is found, 

t fie was the g-rande passion of the grrande Catherine. See 
her Lives under the head of "Lanskoi." — "Lanskoi was a 
youth of as fine and interesting a figure as the imagination 
can paint. Of all Catiierine's favorites, he was the man 



That though he look'd like one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath tlie spirit's dress. 
Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy, 
And had just buried the fair-faced Lanskoi. f 

XLYIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff , or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatoff , or any other off 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
For a new flame ; a thought to cast of gloom enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough. 
Of him who, in the language of his station, 
Then held that "high official situation." 

XLIX. 

Oh, gentle ladies t should you seek to know 
The import of this diplomatic phrase,- 

Bid Ireland's Londonderry's Marquess % sliow 
His parts of speech; and in the strange displays 

Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 
Which none divine, and every one obeys. 

Perhaps you may pick out some queerno meaning. 

Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 

L. 

I think I can explain myself without 
That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 

That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a doubt, 
Did not his deeds unriddle them each day — 

That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spout 
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 

And here I must an anecdote relate. 

But luckily of no great length or. weight. 

LI. 

An English ladj'^ ask'd of an Italian, 
AYhat were the actual and official duties 

Of the strange thing, some women set a value on, 
Which hovers oft about some married beauties, 

Called " Cavalier servente ; " a Pygmalion 
Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 't is) 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose 
them. 

Said — "Lady, I beseech you to sux)pQse them.'''' 

LII. 

And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, m.atron-like interpretation, 

Of the imperial favorite's condition. 

'T Avas a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if not in rank ; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of shoul- 
ders. 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their holders. 

LIII. 
Juan, I said, w^as a most beauteous boy. 

And had retain'd his boyish look beyond 
The usual hirsute seasons vfhich destroy, 

AVith beards and whiskers, and the like, the fond 
Parisian as})ect, which ui)set old Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons : — I have conn'd 
The history of divorces, which, though cliecker'd, 
Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 

LIY. 

And Catherine, who loved all things (save her lord, 
Who was gone to his place), a,nd pass'd for much. 



whom she loved the most. Lanskoi's fortune was estimated 
at three million rubles. He bequeathed it to the empress, 
who returned it to the sisters of that favorite, reserving only 
to herself the right of purchasing the pictures, medals, and 
library. ' '— Tooke. 
$ This was written long before the suicide of that person, 
547 



CANTO IX. 



DON JUAK 



LV.-LXVT. 



Admiring those (b}^ dainty dames abhorr'd) 
Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 

Of sentiment ; and lie she most adored 
Was the lamented Lanskoi, who was such 

A lover as had cost her many a tear, 

And yet but made a middling grenadier. 

LY. 

Oh, thou " teterrima causa " of all " belli "— 
Thou gate of life and death— thou nondescript! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance,— well I 
May pause in pondering how all souls are dipt 

In thy perennial fountain :— how man fell I 
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
stript 

Of her first fruit ; but how he falls and rises 

Since^ thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 

LYI. 

Some call thee " the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for after all, 

From thee we come, to thee we go, and why 
To get at thee not batter down a wall, 

Or waste a world ? since no one can deny 
Thou dost replenish worlds both great and small : 

With, or without thee, all things at a stand 

Are, or w^ould be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 

LYII. 

Catherine, who was the grand epitome 
Of that great cause of war. or peace, or wdiat 

You please (it causes all the things wiiich be. 
So you may take your choice of this or that) — 

Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 
The handsome herald, on whose plumage sat 

Yictory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 

With liis despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LYIII. 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman (which composed 

At least three parts of this great whole), she tore 
The letter open with an air which posed 

The court, that w^atch'd each look her visage wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 

Fair weather for the day. Though rather spa- 
cious. 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gracious.* 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's thirst- 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain: 

In vain I — As fall the dews on quenchless sands, 

Blood only serves to w^ash Ambition's hands! 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who 
threw 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull 

The whole Gazette of thousands whom he slew.f 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs naturally through 



* " Catherine had been handsome in her youth, and she 
preserved a grracefulness and ma.iesty to the last period of her 
life. She was of a moderate stature, but well proportioned ; 
and as she carried her head very hi?h, she appeared rather 
tall. She had an open front, an aquiline nose, an ag-reeable 
mouth, and her chin, thoug-h long, was not misshapen. Her 
hair was auburn, her eyebrows black and rather thick, and 
her blue eyes had a g-entleness which was often affected, but 
oftener still a mixture of pride. Her physiog'nomy was not 
deficient in expression ; but tliis expression never discovered 
548 



Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think it 

best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete. 
And lighted first her eye, and then her mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately most sweet. 
Like fiowers well water'd after a long drouth : — 

But when on the lieutenant at her feet 
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 

Almost as much as on a new despatch. 

Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuberant, and truculent, 
When wroth — while pZeasecZ, she was as fine a figure 

As those wdio like things rosy, ripe, and succulent, 
AYould wish to look on, while they are in vigor. 

She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest; and in turn was wont with rigor 

To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 

At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient. 

Was not so necessary ; for they tell 
That she was handsome, and though fierce lookxl 
lenient. 

And always used her favorites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in yQ Avent, 

Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
A man " (as Giles says) ; for though she would 

widow all 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. 

LXIY. 

What a strange thing is man ! and what a stranger 
Is woman ! What a wiiirlwind is her head, 

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger 
Is all the rest about her ! Whether wed. 

Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 
Mind like the wind : whatever she has said 

Or done, is light to what she '11 say or do ;— 

The oldest thing on record, and yet new! 

LXY. 

Oh, Catherine! (for of all interjections. 
To thee both oh I and ah I belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connections 
Of human thoughts, which jostle in their flight! 

Just now yours were cut out in different sections : 
First Ismail's capture caught your fancy quite ; 

Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious batch : 

And thirdly he who brought you the despatch ! 

LXYI. 

Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill : " 

And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
While her young herald knelt before her still. 

'T is very true the hill seem'd rather high. 
For a lieutenant to climb up ; but skill 

Smooth 'd even the Simplon's steep, and by God's 
blessing. 

With youth and health all kisses are " heaven-kiss- 
ing." 



what was passing- in the soul of Catherine, or rather It served 
her the better to disguise it."— Tooke. 

+ " Suwarrow is as singular for the brevity of his style as 
for the rapidity of his conquests. On the taking of Tour- 
tourkaya, in Bulgaria, he actually wrote no more to the em- 
press than two lines of Russ poetry : — 
'Slawo Bogon, Slawo bowam, 

Glory to God, glory to you, 

Tourtourkaj'a aviala, ia tarn, 

Tourtourkaya is taken, here am I.' "—Tooke. 



CANTO TX. 



DON JUAN. 



LXVII.-LXXXI. 



LXVII. 

Her majesty look M down, the youth look'd up— 
And so they fell in love ;— she with his face, 

His grace, his God-knows-what : for Cupid's cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
Whicli makes one drunk at once, without the 
base 

Expedient of full bumpers ; for the eye 

In love drinks all life's fountains (save tears) dry. 

LXYIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
Fell into that no less imperious passion. 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion, 

Or duchess, princess, empress, " deigns to prove " 
('T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though a 
rash one. 

For one especial person out of many — 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 

LXIX. 

Besides, he was of that delighted age 
Which makes all female ages equal— when 

We don't much care with whom we may engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lions' den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 
In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 

Quench 'd in the lap of the salt sea, or Thetis. 

LXX. 

And Catherine (we must say thus much for Cathe- 
rine), 

Though bold and bloody, was the kind of thing 
Whose temporary passion w^as quite flattering, 

Because each Tover look'd a sort of king, 
Made up upon an amatory pattern, 

A royal husband in all save the ring — 
Which, being the damn'dest part of "matrimony, 
Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey. 

LXXI. 

And when you add to this, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the best examples say : 

iN'apoleon's, Mary's (queen of Scotland), should 
Lend to that color a transcendent ray ; 

And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, 

Too wise to look through optics black or blue)— 

LXXII. 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension. 

Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would pension), 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigor. 
With other extras^ which we need not men- 
tion, — 

All these, or any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that 's enough, for love is vanity, 

Selfish in its beginning as its end. 
Except where 't is a mere insanity, 

A maddening spirit which would strive to blend 
Itself with beauty's frail inanity. 

On which the passion's self seems to depend ; 
And hence some heathenish philosophers 
Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 
Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 



Of faithful pairs— (I needs must rhyme with dove. 

That good old steamboat which keeps verses 
moving 
'Gainst reason— Reason ne'er was hand-and-glove 

With rhyme, but always leant less to improving 
TJie sound than sense)— besides all these pretences 
To love, there are those things which words name 
senses : 

LXXY. 
Those movements, those improvements in our bodies 

Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess. 

For such all w^omen are at first no doubt. 
How beautiful that moment ! and how odd is 

That fever which precedes the languid rout 
Of our sensations ! What a curious way 
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay I 

LXXYI. 

The noblest kind of love is love Platonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that which may be christen'd love canonicali 
]^ecause the clergy take the thing in hand ; 

The third sort to be noted in our chronicle 
As flourishing in every Christian land. 

Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 

Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise, 

LXXVII. 

Well, we w^on't analyze — our story must 
Tell for itself : the sovereign was smitten, 

Juan much flatter'd by her love, or lust ; — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust. 
That he who names oue, both perchance may hit 
on : 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXYIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide wiiisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears ! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisi)er 
Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er; but tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by. 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 
Inquired, Who was this very new young man. 

Who promised to be great in some few hours ? 
Which is full soon (though life is but a span). 

Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can. 

Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 

Of several ribbons, and some thousand peasants.* 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are : 
Love — that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far. 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
And was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 't is better 

That one should die, thaii two drag on the fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's fortune, 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 

Whose avarice all disbursements did importune. 
If history, the grand liar, ever saith 



* A Russian estate is always valued by the number of the 
slaves upon it. 

549 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAK 



T.-X. 



The truth ; and though grief her old age might 
shorten, 
Because she put a favorite to death, 
Her vile, ambiguous njetliod of flirtation. 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all v/as bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 't Avere to hustle 
Round the young man with their congratulations. 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

It is to speculate on handsome faces, 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIII. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 

A general object of attention, made 
His answers with a very graceful bow, 

As if born for the ministerial trade. 
Thougii modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 

Xature had A\Titten " gentleman." lie said 
Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 
Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

Lxxxiy. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office : all the world look'd kind 
(As it will look sometimes with the first stare, 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in mind), 
As also did Miss Protasolf then there, 

Xamed from her mystic office '• I'Eprouveuse," 

A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXY. 

With lier then, as in humble duty bound, 

Juan retired, — and so will I, until 
My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 

We have just lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 
So lofty that I feel my brain turn round. 

And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 
Which is a signal to my nerves and brain, 
To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



I. 

When N'ewton saw an apple fall, he found 
In that sliglit startle from his contemi)lation — 

'T is said (for I '11 not answer above ground 
For any sage's creed or calculation) — 

A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, called " gravitation ; " 

And this is the sole mortal who could grapple. 

Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple. 

II. 

Man fell with apples, and with applos rose. 
If this be true ; for we must deem the mode 

In which Sir Isaac Xewton could disclose 
Through the then unpaved stars the turnpike 
road, 

A thing to counterbalance human woes : 
For ever since immortal man hath glow'd 

With all kinds of meciianics. and full soon 

Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 
550 



III. 

And wherefore this exordium ?— Why, just now, 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper. 

My bosom underwent a glorious glow. 
And my internal spirit cut a caper: 

And though so mucli inferior, as I know, 
To those who, by the dint of glass and vapor. 

Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 

I Vv'isli to do as much by poesy. 

lY. 

In the wind's eye I have sail'd, and sail; "but for 
The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 

But at the least I have shunn'd the common shore. 
And leaving land far out of sight, would skim 

The ocean of eternity : the roar 
Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 

But siill sea-worthy skiff ; and she may float 

Wliere ships have founder'd, as doth many a boat. 



We left our hero, Juan, in the yioom 
Of favoritism, but not yet in the hlush ; — 

And far be it from my Muses to presume 
(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 

To follow him beyond the drawing-room : 
It is enough that Fortune found him flush 

Of youth, and vigor, beauty, and tliose things 

Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

YI. 

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 

" Oh ! " saith the Psalmist, " that I had a dove's 
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest ! " 

And Avho that recollects young years and loves, — 
Though hoary now, and with a withering breast. 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere,— but would much 

rather 
Sigh like his son, than cough like his grandfather? 

YII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') shrink, 
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, 

So narrow as to shame their wintry brink. 
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow ! 

Such difference doth a few months make. You \1 
think 
Grief a rich field which never would lie fallow ; 

IN'o more it doth, its ploughs but change their boys. 

Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

YIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart — and now 

And then before sighs cease; for oft the one 
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 

Is ruffled by a w^rinkle, or the sun 
Of life reach 'd ten o'clock : and while a glow 

Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 
O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure for 

clay, 
Thousands blaze, love, hope, die,— how happy 
they !— 

IX. 
But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 

We left him in the focus of such glory 
As may be won by favor of the moon. 

Or ladies' fancies— rather transitory 
Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of June, 

Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come? Much rather should he court the 

ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 



Besides, he had some qualities which fix 
Middle-aged ladies even more than young : 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAK 



XT.-XXriT. 



The former know what 's what ; while new-fledged 
chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sunp^ 
In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence Love 
sprung. 
Some reckon women by their suns or years, 
I rather think the moon should date the dears. 

XI. 

And why ? because she 's changeable and chaste. 

I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 
Suspicious people, who lind fault in haste, 

May choose to tax me with ; which is not fair, 
Nor flattering to " their temper or their taste," 

As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air : 
However, I forgive him, and I trust 
He will forgive himself ;— if not, I must. 

XII. 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue — 'tis a point of honor; 

And I know nothing wliich could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would ^hun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 
Her hundred arms and legs, and fain outrun 
her. 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest foes — 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII. 

This were the worst desertion :— renegadoes. 
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, 

Would scarcely join again the " reformadoes," * 
Whom he forsook to fill the laureate's sty ; 

And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, 
Whether in Caledon or Italy, 

Should not veer round with every breath, nor seize 

To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIY. 
The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life. 
And nought remains unseen, but much untold, 

By those who scour those double vales of strife. 
While common men grow ignorantly old, 

Tiie lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife, 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

XY. 

A legal broom 's a moral c]iimne5^-sweeper. 
And that 's the reason he himself 's so dirty ; 

The endless soot f bestows a tint far deeper 
Than can be hid by altering his shirt ; he 

Retains the sable stains of the dark creeper. 
At least some twenty-nine do out of thirty, 

In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 

As Csesar wore his robe you wear your gown. 

XYI. 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine. 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us things below), 

Are over: Here 's a health to ''Auld Lang Syne ! " 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 



* "Reformers," or rather " Reformed." The baron Brad- 
wardine in Waverley is authority for the word. 

t Query, suit ?— Printer's Devil. 

% The brig of Don, near the " auld toun " of Aberdeen, with 
Its one arch, and its black deep salmon stream below, is in 
my memory as yesterday. 1 still remember, though perhaps 
I may misquote, the awful proverb which made me pause to 



XYII. 

And when I use the phrase of "Auld Lang Syne ! " 
'T is not address'd to you— the more 's the pity 

For me, for I would rather take my wine 
With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud 
city. 

But somehow— it may seem a schoolboy's whine. 
And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 

A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, — 

XYIII. 

As "Auld Lang Syne " brings Scotland, one and all, 
Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and 
clear streams, 

The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's Uncle wall,X 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 

Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring ; — floating past me seems 

My childhood in this childishness of mine: 

I care not— 't is a glimpse of "Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I raird at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 

Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit, [early; 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh and 

I ".scoic/i'rZ not kill'd " the Scotchman in my blood, 

And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 

XX. 

Don Juan, who was real, or ideal,— 

For both are much the same, since what men think 
Exists when the once thinkers are less real 

Than what they thought, for mind can never sink. 
And 'gainst the body makes a strong appeal ; 

And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 
Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 
And know no more of what is here, than there ; — 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish 'd Kussian — 
Hoio we won't mention, whi/ we need not say: 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong concussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way ; 

But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth 'd for a monarch's seat of honor : gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money. 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 

XXII. 

The favor of the empress was agreeable ; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard. 
Young people at his time of life should be able 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, able 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 

xxiir. 

About this time, as might have been anticipated. 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples, 

Don Juan grew, I fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — g,s being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 



cross it, and yet lean over it with a childish delight, being an 
only son, at least by the mother's side. The saying as recol- 
lected by me was this, but I have never heard or seen it sino« 
I was nine years of age : — 

" Brig of Balgounie, black 's your wa' ; 
WV a wife's ae f^on, and a mear's aefoaU 
Doun ye shall fa' ! " 
551 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAK 



xxTv.-xxxvr. 



Of fmil humaRity— must make us selfisli, 
Aud shut our souls up iu us like a shell-tish. 

XXIV. 

This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, but not matter, 

And wrinkles, the d d democrats, won't flatter. 

XXV. 

And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though the 
great 

Gracclius of all mortality, who levels. 
With liis Agrarian laws,* the high estate 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, and 
revels, 
To one small grass-grown patch (which must await 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devils 
Who never had a foot of land till now,— 
Death 's a reformer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and gloss, and 
glitter, 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and furry — 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's bitter) 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a flurry. 
Through all the "purple.and line linen," fitter 

For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 

And neutralize her outward show of scarlet. 

XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe: we would 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 

But getting nigh grim Dante's ''obscure wood," 
That horrid equinox, that hateful section 

Of human years, that half-way house, that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with circum- 
spection 

Life's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier 

Of age, and looking back to youth, give one tear ; — 

XXVIII. 

I won't describe, — that is, if I can help 
Description; and I won't reflect, — that is. 

If I can stave off thought, w^hich — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the abyss 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips :— but, as I said, 

I luon't philosophize, and will be read. 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — 
A thing which happens rarely : this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valor; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a race-horse ; much to each dress he sported, 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds befringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 

XXX. 

He wrote to Spain ;— and all his near relations, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 



* Tiberius Gracchus, being tribune of the people, demanded 
in their name the execution of the Agrarian law ; by which 
all persons possessing- above a certain number of acres were 
to be deprived of the surplus for the benefit of the poor 
citizens. 

+ A metaphor taken from the " forty-horse power " of a 
552 



Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer 'd the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations ; 
And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 

Tliat with the addition of a slight pelisse, 

Madrid's} and Moscow's climes were of a piece. 

XXXI. 

His mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, 
That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, 
He had brought his spending to a handsome 
anchor, — 

Replied, " that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasures after which wild youth will 
hanker; 

As the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 

XXXII. 

" She also recommended him to God, 
And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother; 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, which looks 
odd 
In Catholic eyes ; but told him. too, to smother 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad; 
Inform 'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock ; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

" She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and what was better still, whose nation 
And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and 
then) ; — 

At home it might have given her some vexation ; 
But where thermometers sink down to ten, 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the river." 

XXXIV. 

Oh for a. forty-parson power f to chant 
Thy praise. Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt. 
Not practice ! Oh for trump of cherubim ! 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite at least, \wot soul. 
But went to heaven in as sincere a way 

As anybody on the elected roll, 
AVliich portions out upon the judgment day 

Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday scroll, 
Such as the conqueror William did repay 

His knights with, lotting others' properties 

Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus, — eight-and-forty manors 

(If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's banners : 

And though I can't help thinking 't was scarce fair 
To strip the Saxons of their lii/des, t like tanners ; 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce, 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 



i 



steam-engine. That mad wag, the Reverend Sydney Smith, 
sitting by a brother clergj-man at dinner, observed after- 
wards that his dull neighbor had a " twelve-pcurson power" of 
conversation. 

* " Hyde."— I believe a hjde of land to X)e a legitimate 
word, and, as such, subject to the tax of a quibble. 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAK 



XXXVII.-LI. 



xxxyii. 

The gentle Juan flourish 'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants calPd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs do from 
rhymes, 
Save such as Southey can atford to give. 

Perhaps heJong'd in bitter frosts for clinies 
In which the jS'eva's ice would cease to live 

Before May-day : perhaps, despite his duty, 

In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty. 

xxxyiii. 

Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the wither 'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and however we may storm, 

They must be paid: though six days smoothly 
run. 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick : 

The empress was alarm 'd, and her physician 
(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 

Of his fierce pulse betoken a condition 
Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 

Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition ; 
At which the whole court was extremely troubled: 
The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines 
doubled. 

XL. 
Low were the whispers, manifold the rumors : 

Some said he had been poisoned by Potemkin ; 
Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumors. 

Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin ; 
Some said 't was a concoction of the humors, 

Which with the blood too readily will claim kin : 
Others again were ready to maintain, 
" 'T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
"Sodae sulphat. .^vj. gfs. Mannse optim. 

Aq. fervent, f, ^ifs. ,^ij. tinct. Sennse 
Haustus " (and here the surgeon came and cupp'd 
him) 

" R Pulv. Com. gr. iij. IpeSacuanhae " 
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 'em). 

" Bolus Potassse Sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die capiendus." 

XLII. 

Tills is the way physicians mend or end us. 
Secundum artem : but although we sneer 

In health— when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer : 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus " 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock 's near. 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy.* 

XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at this first notice to 

Quit J and though death had threaten 'd an ejec- 
tion. 
His youth and constitution bore him through, 

And sent the doctors in a new direction. 
But still his state was delicate : the hue 

Of health but flicker'd with a faint reflection 
Along his wasted cheek, and seem'd to gravel 
The faculty— who said that he m.ust travel. 



* Both Dr. Baillie and John Abernethy, the great surgeon, 
were remarkable for plainness of speech. 



XLiy. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim. 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion : 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim. 
And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion, 

She then resolved to send him on a mission. 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XLV. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation, 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain 'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt to 
push on : 

Something about the Baltic's navigation. 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Which Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

XLVI. 

So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favorites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendor, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card, 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honors, 
Which show'd what great "discernment was the 
donor's. 

XLYII. 
But she was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queens 

Are generally prosperous in reiorning ; 
Which puzzles us to know what Fortune means. 

But to continue : though her years were waning. 
Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 

And though her dignity brook'd no complaining, 
So much did Juan's setting off distress her, 
She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLYIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last; 

And four-and-twenty hoars, and twice that 
number 
Of candidates requesting to be placed, 

Made Catli erine taste next night a quiet slumber: — 
i^o^' that she meant to fix again in haste, 

Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 
But always choosing with deliberation, 
Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honor 's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You '11 mount with our young hero the conveyance 
Which wafted him from. Petersburg : the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair czarina's autocratic crest. 

When, a nev/ Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 

Was given to her favorite, and now hore his. 



A bulldog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, 
All private favorites of Don Juan ;— for 

(Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere ver^ 
min. 
Live animals : an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchant ne'er display'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid ; — 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 
Their station : there were valets, secretaries, 
553 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAN, 



LTI.-LXIII. 



In other vehicles ; but at his side 
Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 

He made 'gainst Cossack sabres in the wide 
Slaughter of Ismail. Thougli my wild Muse 
varies 

Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 

Whom he preserved, a pure and living pearl. 

LII. 

Poor little thing ! She was as fair as docile, 

And with that gentle, serious character. 
As rare in living beings as a fossil 

Man 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, "grand Cu- 
vier ! " 
111 fitted was her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all must 
err : 
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefore 
Was tranquil, though slie knew not why or where- 
fore. 

LIII. 
Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 

Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 
I cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 
Parental feelings, and the other class, 

Call'd brotherly affection, could not move 
Ilis bosom, — for he never had a sister : 
Ah ! if he had, how much he would have miss'd her ! 

LIY. 

And still less was it sensual : for besides 
That he was not an ancient debauchee 

(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt tides, 
As acids rouse a dormant alkali). 

Although [Hivill happen as our planet guides) 
His youth was not the chastest that might be, 

There was the purest Platonism at bottom 

Of all his feelings— only he forgot 'em. 

LY. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation ; 

His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved. 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation 

Through his means and the church's might be 
paved. 
But one thing 's odd, which here must be inserted, 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LYI. 
'Twas strange enough she should retain the im- 
pression 
Through such a scene of change, and dread, and 
slaughter; 
But though three bishops told her the transgres- 
sion, 
She show'd a great dislike to holy water ; 
She also had no passion for confession ; 

Perhaps she had nothing to confess ; — no matter : 
Whate'er the cause, the church made little of it — 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet. 

LYII. 

in fact, the only Christian she could bear 
Yv'as Juan ; whom she seem'd to have selected 

In place of what her home and friends once were. 
He naturally loved w^hat he protected : 

* In the empress Anne's time, Biren, her favorite, assumed 
tho name and arms of the " Birons " of France ; Avhich fam- 
ilies are yet extant with that of England. There are still the 
daughters of Courland of that name ; one of them I remem- 
ber seeing- in England in the blessed year of the Allies (1814) 
—the Duchess of S.— to whom the English Duchess of Somer- 
set presented me as a namesake. 
554 



And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, 

A guardian green in years, a vvard connected 
In neither clime, time, blood, with her defender; 
And yet this want of ties made theirs more tender. 

LYIII. 
They journey'd on through Po and and through 
Warsaw, 
Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron : 
Through Courland also, which that famous farce 
saw, 
Which gave her dukes the graceless name of 
''Biron."* 
'Tis the same landscape which the modern Mars 
saw. 
Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, the siren ! 
To lose by one month's frost some twenty years 
Of conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let this not seem an anti-climax :— " Oh ! 

My guard ! my old guard ! " f exclaim 'd that god 
of clay. 
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereagh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chili'd by snow ! 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire through ice, like Hecla's flame. 

LX. 

From Poland they came on through Prussia Proper, 
And Konigsberg, the capital, whose vaunt. 

Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper. 
Has lately been the great Professor Kant,J 

Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 
About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 

To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 

Have princes who spur more than their postilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the like, 
Until he reach'd'the castellated Rhine: — 

Ye glorious Gothic scenes ! how much ye strike 
All fantasies, not even excepting mine! 

A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike, 
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 

Between the present and past worlds, and hover 

Upon their airy confines, half-seas over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Mannheim, Bonn, 
Wliich Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone. 
On which I have not time just now to lecture. 

From thence he was drawn onwards to Cologne, 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven tliousand maidenheads of bone. 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known.^ 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoetsluys, 
That w^ater-land of Dutchmen and of ditches. 

Where juniper expresses its best juice. 
The poor man's sparkling substitute for riches. 

Senates and sages have condemn'd its use- 
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 

Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 

Good government has left them, seems but cruel. 



+ Napoleon's exclamation at the Elysee Bourbon, June tho 
23d, 1815. 

% Tmm-anuel Kant, the celebrated founder of a new philo- 
sophical sect, was born at Konigsberg. He died in 1801. 

§ Saint Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins were stiil 
extant in 1816, and may be so yet, as much as ever. ■ 



CANTO X. 



DON JUAN, 



Lxrv.-LxxvrT. 



LXIY. 

Here he embark 'd, and with a flowing sail 
Went bounding for tlie island of the free, 

Towards which the impatient wind blew half a 
gale ; 
High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in the 
sea, 

And sea-sick passengers tiirn'd somewhat pale ; 
But Juan, season 'd, as he well might ))e, 

By former voyages, stood to watcli the skiffs 

AV^hich pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the cliffs. 

LXY. 

At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt— 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt— 

A kind of pride that he should be among 
Tliose haughty shopkeepers, who sternly dealt 

Tlieir goods knd edicts out from pole to pole, 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXYI. 

I 've no great cause to love that spot of earth. 
Which liolds what might have been the noblest 
nation ; 

But though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and form.er worth. 
Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 

Wlien a man's country 's going to the devil. 

LXYII. 

Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 
How her great name is now throughout abliorr'd ; 

How eager all the earth is for the blow 
Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; 

How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 
That worse than icorst o//oes,' the once adored 

False friend, M^ho held out freedom to mankind, 

And now would chain them, to the very mind ;— 

LXYIir. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free. 
Who is but first of slaves '-^ The nations are 

In prison, — but the jailer, what is he V 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 

Is the poor privilege to turn tlie key 
Upon the captive, freedom ? He 's as far 

From the enjoyment of the earth and air 

Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 
Don Juan nov/ saw Albion's earliest beauties, 

Thy cliffs, dear Dover! harbor, and hotel; 
Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties ; 

Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 
Thy packets, all whose passengers are booties 

To those who upon land or water dwell ; 
And last, not least, to strangers uninstructed. 
Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

Juan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
And rich in rubles, diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it,— 

(His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, 
Before him summ'd the awful scroll and read it) : 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny. 

Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 



* On the toint) of the prince lies a whole-lengrth brass figure 
of him, his armor with a hood of mail, and a skull-cap eu- 



LXXI. 

On with tlie horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash 
through puddle ; 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry ! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
Along the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause besides, to fuddle, 
With " schnapps " — sad dogs ! whom " Hundsfot," 

or " Yerflucter," 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed— no matter where its 
Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry. 

And merely for the sake of its own merits ; 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel— which is driving. 

LXXIII. 

They saw at Canterbury the^cathedral ; 

Black Edward's helm,* and Becket's bloody 
stone, t 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone :— 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! All 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half solved into these sodas or magnesias. 
Which form that bitter draught, the human species. 

LXXIY. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
He breathed a thousand Cressys, as he saw 

That casque, which never stoop'd except to Time. 
Even the bold Churchman's tomb excited awe, 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who now at least must talk of law 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed. 

And asked why such a structure had been raised: 

LXXY. 

And being told it was " God's house," she said 
He was well lodged, biit only wonder'd how 

He suffer'd Infidels in his homestead, 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The True Believers ;— and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resign 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine. 

LXXYI. 

On! on! through meadows, managed like a garden, 
A paradise of hops and high production ; 

For, after years of travel by a bard in 
Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction, 

A green field is a sight which makes him pardon 
The absence of that more sublime construction, 

Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices. 

Glaciers, volcanoes, oranges, and ices. 

LXXYII. 

And when I think upon a pot of beer 

But I won't weep !— and so drive on, postilions ! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of free millions ; 

A country in all senses the most dear 
To foreigner or native, save some silly ones. 

Who "kick against the pricks " just at this juncture, 

And for their pains get only a fresh punctme. 



riched with a coronet, which had been once studded ^vath 
jewels, but only the collets now remain. 
+ Becket was assassinated in the cathedral, in UTl. 
555 



CANTO XT. 



DON JUAK 



T.-IIL 



LXXYIII. 

What a delightful thhi.i? 's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail : — but onward as we roll, 
'' Surgit amari aliquid "—the toll I 

LXXIX. 

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment ! 

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's 
purses. 
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, 

Such is the shortest way to general curses. 
Tiiey hate a murderer mucli less than a claimant 

On that sweet ore which everybody nurses. — 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, 
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket : 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
To your instructor. Juan now was borne. 

Just as the day began k) wane and darken. 
O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn 

Toward the great city. — Ye who have a spark in 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn 

According as you take things well or ill ; — 

Bold Britons, Ve are now on Shooter's Hill ! 

LXXXI. 

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 

Which well beseem 'd the " devil's drawing-room," 
As some have qualified that wondrous place : 

But Juan felt, though not approaching home. 
As one who, though he were not of the race. 

Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother. 

Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t'other.* 

LXXXII. 

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as ey 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy'; 
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 

LXXXIlI. 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapor 

Of some alchemic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) ; 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere. 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIY. 

He paused— and so will I ; as doth a crew 
Before they give their broadside. By and by, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
Our old acquaintance ; and at least I '11 try 

To tell you truths ijou will not take as true. 
Because they are so;— a male Mrs. Fry, f 

* India ; America. 

+ The Quaker lady, whose benevolent exertions have ef- 
fected so great a chanpre in the condition of the female pris- 
oners in Newg-ate. 
i This worthy alderman died in 3829. 

§ "Oh for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne. 

That to King- Charles did come, 
556 



With a soft besom will I sweep your halls. 
And brush a web or two from off the walls. 

LXXXV. 

Oh , Mrs. Fry ! Why go to Newgate ? Why 
Preach to poor rogues ? And wherefore not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden 'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din. 

Unless you make their betters better :— Fy ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore ; 

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses; 
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, 

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses ; 
Tell tliem Sir AVilliam Curtis t is a bore. 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, 
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all. 

LXXXYII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, 

To set up vain pretence of being great, 
'Tis not so to be good ; and be it stated, 

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state : 
And tellthem But you won't, and I have prated 

Just now enough ; but by and by I '11 prattle 

Like lioland's horn I in Roncesvalles' battle. 



CANTO THE ELEVENTH, 

I. 

WnENBishopBerkeley said "there was no matter,"|| 
And proved it — 't was no matter what he said : 

They say his system 't is in vain to batter. 
Too subtle for the airiest human head : 

And yet who can believe it ? I would shatter 
Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, 

Or adamant, to find the world a spirit. 

And wear my head, denying that I wear it. 

II. 

What a sublime discovery 'twas to make the 

Universe universal egotism. 
That all 's ideal — all ourselves I — I '11 stake the 

AVorld (be it what you will) that that 's no schism. 
Oh, Doubt !— if thou be'st Doubt, for which some 
take thee, 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole prism 
Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of spirit I 
Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly bear 
it. 

III. 
For ever and anon comes Indigestion 

(Not the most " dainty Ariel "), and perplexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question : 

And that which after all my spirit vexes, 



When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer. 

On Roncesvalles died." — Marmion. 
II "The celebrated and ingenious Bishop of Cloyne, in his 
' Principles of Human Knowledge,' denies, without any cere- 
mony, the existence of every kind of matter whatever, nor 
does he think this conclusion one that need, in any degree, 
stagger the incredulous." 



4 



CANTO XT. 



DON JUAK 



IV.-XVIT. 



Is, that I find no spot v/here man can rest eye on, 

Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder. 
The world, which at the worst 's a glorious blunder — 

ly. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 
To the old text, still better :— lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude. 

They 're right ; our days are too brief for affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and everybody one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

Y. 

And therefore will I leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 

If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair ; 

The truth is, I 've grown lately rather phthisical : 
I don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illness, I grow much more orthodox. 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the Divinity 
(But that I never doubted, nor the Devil) ; 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity ; 
The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 

The fourth at once establish 'd the whole Trinity 
On so uncontrovertible a level. 

That I devoutly wishM the three were four 

On purpose to believe so much the more. 

VII. 

To our theme. — The man who has stood on the 
Acropolis, 

And look'd down over Attica : or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constantinople 
is. 

Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropolis. 

Or sat amidst the bricks of I^ineveh, 
May not think much of London's first appearance — 
But ask him what he tliinks of it a year hence ? 

VIII. 
Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; 

Sunset the time, the place the same declivity 
Which looks along that vale of good and ill 

Where London streets ferment in full activity. 
While everything around was calm and still. 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their pivot 
he 
Heard, — and that bee-like, bubblhig, busy hum 
Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 

IX. 

I say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the summit. 

And lost in wonder of so great a nation. 
Gave way to 't, since he could not overcome it. 

"And here," he cried, "is Freedom's chosen sta- 
tion ; 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can entomb it 

Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 

Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 

X. 

" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here people pay 
But what they please ; and if that things be dear. 



* " FaJstaff. Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, min- 
ions of the moon : and let men say, we be men of good gov- 
ernment; being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and 



'T is only that they love to throw away 

Their casli, to show how much they have a year. 
Here laws are all inviolate ; none lay 

Traps for the traveller; every highway 's clear ; 
Here " — he was interrupted by a knife. 
With "Damn your eyes! your money or your 
lifel"— 

XI. 
These freeborn sounds proceeded from four pads 

In ambush laid, who had perceived him loiter 
Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 

Had seized the lucky hour to reconnoitre. 
In which the heedless gentleman who gads 

Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
May find himself within that isle of riches 
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

XIL 

Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God damn ! " 
And even that he had so rarely heard, 

He sometimes thought 'twas only their "Sa- 
1am," 
Or " God be with you ! "—and 'tis not absurd 

To think so : for half English as I am 
(To my misfortune), never can I say 
I heard them wish "God with you," save that 
\vay ;— 

XIII. 
Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 

And being somewhat choleric and sudden. 
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman, 
"Oh, Jack ! I 'm floor 'd by that 'ere bloody French- 
man! " 

XIV. 
On which Jack and his train set off at speed, 

And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a distance, 
Came up, all marvelling at such a deed, 

And olfering, as usual, late assistance. 
Juan, who saw the moon's late minion* bleed 

As if his veins would pour out his existence, 
Stood calling out for bandages iind lint. 
And wisli'd he had been less hasty with his flint. 

XV. 

"Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's wont 
To welcome foreigners in this way : now 

I recollect some innkeepers who don't 
Differ, except in robbing with a bow. 

In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front. 
But what is to be done ? I can't allow 

The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 

So take him up ; I '11 help you with the load." 

XVI. 

But ere they could perform this pious duty, 
The dying man cried, " Hold ! I 've got my gruel ! 

Oh, for a glass of max ! f AVe 've miss'd our booty ; 
Let me die where I am ! " And as the fuel 

Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick and sooty 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and he drew 
ill 

His breath, — he from his sw^elling throat untied 

A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ! "—and died. 

XVII. 

The cravat stain 'd with bloody drops fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet : he could not tell 



chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we — 
steal." — Henry IV. 
+ Gin or Hollands. 

557 



CANTO XI. 



DON JUAK 



XVIIT.-XXTX. 



Exactly why it was before him thrown, 
Xor what the meaning' of the man's farewell. 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy* upon town, 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell, 

Full flash,! all fancy, until fairly diddled, 

His pockets first and tlien his body riddled. 

XYIII. 
Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case. 
As soon as " Crowner's quest " allow xl, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he shoull 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space. 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborji native 
In self-defence : this made him meditative. 

XIX. 

He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Wlio in his time Imd made heroic bustle. 

Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken, J or at the spellken^ hustle ? 

Who queer aflat ?|| Who (spiteof Bow' Street's ban) 
On the high toby-spice^ so flash the muzzle ? 

Who on alark,**with black-eyed Sal ( his blowingff). 

So prime, so swell,t J so nutty,^^ and so knowing ? 

XX. 

But Tom 's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die ; and by God's blessing 'tis 
Not long before the most of tliem go home. 

Hail ! Thamis, hail ! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

l\\ thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons," 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ; — 

XXI. 

Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees 
(Like lucus from no light) ; through prospects 
named 

Mount rieasant, as containing nought to please, 
Xor much to climb ; througii little boxes framed 

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
Vv'ith '' To be let," upon their doors proclaim'd: 

Through "Eows" most modestly call'd " Paradise," 

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice; — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a 
\vhirl 

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and confusion ; 
Here taverns wooing to a pin-t of " purl,"|||| 

There mails fast flying off like a delusion ; 
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 

In window\s ; here tlie lamplighter's infusion 
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
(For in those days we had not got to gas^1[) ; — 

XXIII. 

Through this, and much, and more, is the approach 

Of travellers to miglity Babylon : 
Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach. 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem one. 
I could say more, but do not choose to encroach 

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The sun 



* " A thief who affects a knowing-ness in his air and conver- 
sation, which renders him in reality an object of ridicule."— 
Vaux. 

+ " A fellow who affects any particular habit, as swearing, 
dressing- in a particular manner, taking- snuff, etc., merely to 
be noticed, is said to do it out of flash."— V. Egan. 

t A house that harbors thieves is called a ken.—% The play- 
house.— II To puzzle or confound a g-ull, or silly fellow.— 
H Robbery on horseback.—** Fun or sport of any kind.— -H- A 
pickpocket's trull.— tt- So gentk-nanly. See Slxing Diction- 
ary. 

558 



Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twulight, as the party crossed the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That 's rather fine, the gentle so.und of Thamis— 

Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream — 
Though hardly heard through multifarious " dam- 
me 's." 
The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam, 
The breadth of pavement, and j^on shrine where 
fame is 
A spectral resident — w^hose pallid beam 
In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pile- 
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 

XXV. 

Tlie Druids' groA^es are gone— so much the better: 
Stonehenge is not— but w^hat tlie devil is it ? — 

But Bedlam still exists wdth its sage fetter. 
That madmen may not bite j^ou on a visit ; 

The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; 
The Mansion House, too (though some people 
quiz it). 

To me appears a stiff yet grand erection ; 

But then the Abbey 's w^orth the whole collection. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights, too, up to Charing Cross, 
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 
Match'd with the Continent's illumination, 

Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss. 
The French were not yet a lamp-lighting nation. 

And when they grew so — on their new-found lan- 
tern. 

Instead of Tvicks, they made a wricked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 
Suspended may illuminate mankind. 

As also bonfires made of country seats : 
But the old way is best for the purblind : 

The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind. 

Which, though 't is certain to perplex and frighten, 

Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 
Could recommence to hunt his honest man., 

xlnd found him not amidst the various progenies 
Of this enormous city's spreading span, 

'Twere not for want of lamps to aid his dodging his 
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What Jean, 

I 've done to find the same throughout life's journey, 

But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 
Through crowds and carriages,but waxing thinner 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long-seal'd spell 
Of doors 'gainst duns, and to an early dinner 

Admitted a small party as night fell,^ 
Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner. 

Pursued his path, and drove past some liotels, 

Saint James's Palace and Saint James's " Hells, "'^** 



§§ " A person who conceives a strong- inclination for another 
of the opposite sex is said to be quite nutty u^on him or her." 
—Ihid. 

nil "A kind of m.edicated malt liquor, in Avhich wormwood 
and aromatics are infused."— Todd. 

^T The streets of London were first regularly lighted with 
gas in 1812. 

*** " Hells," gaming-houses. What their number may now 
be in this life, I know not. Before I was of age I knew them 
pretty accurately, both "gold" and "'silver." I was once 
nearly culled out by an acquaintance, because when he asked 



CANTO XT. 



DON JUAK 



XXX.-XLITT. 



XXX. 

They reach 'd the hotel: forth stream 'd from the 
front door 

A tide of well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight 's o'er ; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Mai thus, in promoting ma,rriage.— 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels. 
Especially for foreigners— and mostly 

For those whom favor or whom fortune swells, 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly. 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Until to some conspicuous square tliey pass, 

And blazon o'er the door their names in brass. 

XXXII. 

Juan, whose was a delicate commission, 
Private, though publicly important, bore 

No title to point out with due precision 
The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 

'T was merely known, that on a secret mission 
A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 

Young, handsome, and accomplish'd,who was said 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's head. 

xxxiii. 

Some rumor also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters. 
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it movies. 

He found himself extrem.ely in the fashion. 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

xxxiv. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 
The contrary ; but then 't is in the liead; 

Yet as the consequences are as bright 
As if they acted with the heart instead. 

What after all can signify the site 
Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 

In safety to the place for which you start, 

AVhat matters if the road be head or heart ? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 
To proper placemen, every Euss credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace 
By those who govern in the mood potential. 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth 
face. 
Thought (what in state affairs is most essential) 

That they as easily might do the youngster 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland songster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do ; but by 
And by we '11 talk of that ; and if we don't, 

'T will be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie : — 
Kow what I love in women is, they won't 

Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

me where I thought that his soul would be found hereafter, 
I answered, ''In Silver Hell." 

* See the Irish Avatar, ante^ p. 453. 

+ " Anent " was a Scotch phrase meaning' "concerning "— 



XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie ? 'T is but 
The truth in masquerade ; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 

The very shadow of true Truth would shut 
Up annals, revelations, poesy, 

And prophecy— except it should be dated 

Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 

Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy ? 
She rings the world's '' Te Deum," and her brow 

Blushes for those who will not :— but to sigh 
Is idle ; let us like most others bow, 

Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, 
After the good example of " Green Erin,"* 
Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for wear- 
ing. 

XXXIX. 
Don Juan was presented, and his dress 

And mien excited general admiration— 
I don't know which was more admired or less : 

One monstrous diamond drew much observation, 
Whicli Catherine in a moment of " ivresse " 

(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) 
Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd; 
And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings. 
Who must be courteous to the accredited 

Diplomatists of rather wavering kings, 
Until their royal riddle 's fully read, 

The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty springs 
Of office, or tlie house of office, fed 

By foul ct)rruption into streams, — even they 

Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay : 

XLI. 

And insolence no doubt is what they are 
Employ 'd for. since it is their daily labor, 

In the dear offices of peace or war ; 
And should you doubt, pray ask of your next 
neighbor. 

When for a passport, or some other bar 
To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore), 

If he found not this spavvai of taxboni riches, 

Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XLII. 

But Juan was received with much "empresse- 
m.ent : " — 

These phrases of refinement I must borrow 
Erom our next neighbors' land, where, like a chess- 
man, 

There is a move set down for joy or sorrow, 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man 

In islands is, it seems, downright and thorough. 
More than on continents — as if the sea 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue more free. 

XLIII. 

And yet the British "Damme" 's rather Attic, 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things whicli no aristocratic 
Spirit would name, and therefore even I won't 
anent f 

This subject quote ; as it would be schismatic 
In politesse, and have a sound affronting in 't;— 



"with regard to:" it has been made English by the Scotch 
novels ; and, as the Frenchman said, " If it be not, ought to he 
English." 



559 



CANTO XI. 



DON JUAK 



XLIV.-LVI. 



But "Damme " 's quite ethereal,though too daring — 
Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIY. 

For do-vsTiright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Noid) you may cross the blue dee]) and white foam— 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leave behind, the next of much you come 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics : poems must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

XLY. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty, 

But to sit up while others lie in bed. 
And look down on the universe with pity,— 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLYI. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
Of import both to virgin and to bride. 

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter; 
And (should she not hold fast by love or pride) 

'Tis also of some moment to the latter : 
A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 

Requires decorum, and is apt to double 

The horrid sin— and what 's still worse, the trouble. 

XLYII. 

But Juan was a bachelor— of arts. 

And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, and 
had 
An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 
Or cheerful, without any "flaws or starts," 

Just at the proper time : and though a lad. 
Had seen the world— which is a curious sight, 
And very much unlike what people write. 

XLYIII. 

Fair virgins blush 'd upon him ; wedded dames 

Bloom 'd also in less transitory hues ; 
For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 

The painting and the painted ; j^outh, ceruse, 
Against his heart preferr'd their usual claims. 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse : 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish " drapery Misses " * 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honeymoon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation, 

Thought such an opportunity as this is. 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 

Not to be overlook 'd — and gave such credit. 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, and 
paid it. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er sOnnets, 
And with the pages of the last Review 



* "Drapery Misses."— This term is probably anything now 
but a mystery. It was, however, almost so to me when I first 
returned from the East in 1811-1813. It means a pretty, a 
high-born, a fashionable young female, well instructed by 
her friends, and furnished by her milliner with a wardrobe 
upon credit, to be repaid, when married, by the husband. 
The riddle was first read to me by a young and pretty heiress, 
on my praising the "drapery" of the ^'' untochcrcd" but 
"pretty virginities" (like Mrs. Anne Page) of the t/ien day, 
560 



Line the interior of their heads or bonnets. 
Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: 

They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and upon its 
Late authors ask'd him. for a hint or two ; 

And which was softest, Russian or Castilian ? 

And whether in his travels he saw Ilion ? 

LI. 

Juan, who was a little superficial. 
And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial 
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to answer: 

His duties warlike, loving, or official, 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of green. 

LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 
A modest confidence and calm assurance, 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith, 
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith 
(Who at sixteen translated " Hercules Furens" 

Into as furious English), with her best look, 

Set down his sayings in her commonplace book. 

LIII. 
Juan knew several languages — ^as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill, in 
time 
To save his fame with each accomplish 'd belle. 

Who still regretted that he did not rhyme. 
There wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime: 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Msevia Mannish, 
Both long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIY. 

However, he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 

At great assemblies or in parties small. 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass. 

That being about their average numeral ; 
Also the eighty "greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show its. 

LY. 

In twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it. 
Although 't is an imaginary thing. 

Even I,— albeit I 'm sure I did not know it, 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, — 

Was reckon'd, a considerable time. 

The grand jSTapoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LYI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
My Leipsic, and my Mont Saint Jean seems Cain : 

" La Belle Alliance " of dunces down at zero, 
Now that the Lion 's fall'n, may rise again : 

But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
ISTor reign at all, or as a monarch reign; 

Or to some lonely isle of jailers go. 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 



which has now been some years yesterday ; she assured me 
that the thing was common in London; and as her own 
thousands, and blooming looks, and rich simplicity of array, 
put any suspicion in her own case out of the question, I con- 
fess I gave some credit to the allegation. If necessary, au- 
thorities might be cited : in which case I could quote both 
" drapery " and the wearers. Let us hope, however, that it 
is now obsolete. 



CANTO XI. 



DON JUAK 



LYII.-LXX. 



LVII. 

Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and Campbell 
Before and after; but now grown more holy, 

Tlie Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
With poets almost clergymen, or wholly ; 

And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 
Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 

Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 

A modern Ancient Pistol— by the hilts ! 

LYIII. 

Still he excels that artificial hard 

Laborer in the same vineyard, though the vine 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward. — 

Tliat neutralized dull Dorus of the :N"ine ; 
Tliat swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ; 

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line : — 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest.— 

LIX. 

Then there 's my gentle Euphues ; who, they say, 
Sets up for being a sort of moral me;* 

He '11 find it rather difficult some day 
To turn out both, or either, it may be. 

Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 
And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 

And that deep-mouth 'd Boeotian '' Savage Landor " 

Has taken for a swan rogue Southey 's gander. 

LX. 

John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, 
Just as he really promised something great, 

If not intelligible, without Greek 
Contrived to talk about tlie gods of late, 

Much as they might have been supposed to speak. f 
Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 

'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle, 

Should let itself be snuff 'd out by an article. 

LXI. 

The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will know 

The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ; — ^they 're too numerous, like the 
thirty 

Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 

LXII. 

Tliis is the literary lower empire. 

Where the praetorian bands take up the matter ; — 
A "dreadful trade," like his who "gathers sam- 
phire," 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter. 
With the same feelings as you 'd coax a vampire. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire, 
I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show them ichat an intellectual war is. 

LXIII. 

I think I know a trick or tv/o, would turn 
Their flanks :— but it is hardly worth my while, 

With such small gear to give myself concern : 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 

My natural temper 's really aught but stern, 
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile ; 

And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy, 

And glides away, assured she never hurts ye. 



* Some Reviewer had bestowed the title of " a Moral By- 
ron " on Mr, Bryan Procter, author of "Dramatic Sketches," 
etc., etc., all published under the name of "Barry Cornwall." 

tThe Biog-raphical Dictionary says,— " Being- in delicate 
health, he was induced to try the climate of Italy, where he 
36 



LXIY. 

My Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 
Amongst live poets and blue ladies, pass'd 

With some small profit through that field so sterile, 
Being tired in time, and neither least nor last, 

Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
And henceforth found himself more gayly class 'd 

Amongst the higher spirits of the day, 

The sun's true son, no vapor, but a ray. 

LXY. 

His Hiorns he pass'd in business— which dissected, 
AYas like all business, a laborious nothing 

That leads to lassitude, the most infected 
And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing, 

And on our sofas makes us lie dejected. 
And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 

Which grows no better, though 't is time it should. 

LXYI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons, 
Lounging, and boxing ; and the twilight hour 

In riding round those vegetable puncheons 
Cali'd "Parks," where there is neither fruit nor 
flower 

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings ; 
But after all it is the only "bower " 

(In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair 

Can form a sliglit acquaintance with fresh air 

LXYII. 

Then dress, then dinner, then awakes the world! 

Then glare the lam.ps, then wliirl the wheels, then 
roar 
Through street and square fast flashing chariots 
hurl'd 

Like harness 'd meteors ; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are twirl'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand happy few 
An earthly Paradise of "Or Molu." 

LXYIII. 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
With the three-thousandth curtsy; there the 
waltz, 

Tlie only dance which teaches girls to think, t 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn 'd to climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 

LXIX. 

Thrice happy he who, after a survey 
Of the good company, can win a corner, 

A door that 's in or boudoir out of the way, 
Where he may fix himself like small "Jack 
Horner," 

And let the Babel round run as it may, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or an approver, or a mere spectator. 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by ; and he 
Who, like Don Juan, takes an active share, 

Must steer with care through all that glittering sea 
Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, to 
where 



arrived in November, 1820, and died in the following- Decem- 
ber. His death has been attributed to the attacks of critics ; 
but it was, in fact, owing- to a consumptive complaint of long- 
standing." Compare, however, ante, p. 453. 
* See ante, p. 365. 

561 



CANTO XT. 



DON JTJAK 



LXXI.-LXXXIIT. 



He deems it is his proper place to be ; 

Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air. 
Or proiidlier prancing with mercurial skill, 
Where Science marshals forth her own quadrille. 

LXXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbor's bride. 

Let him take care that that which he pursues 
Is not at once too palpably descried. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 
His haste; impatience is a blundering guide, 

Amongst a people famous for reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXTI. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; 

Or, if forestall'd. get opposite and ogle :— 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle,* 
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper, 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in vogue ! 
Ill 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball. 

LXXIII. 

But these precautionary hints can touch 
Only the common run, who must pursue. 

And watch, and ward; w^hose plans a word too 
much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 

Or many (for the number 's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new% 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or nonsense,. 

Permits whate'er they please, or (11(1 not long since. 

LXXIY. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom. 
Before he can escape from so much danger 

As will environ a conspicuous man. Some 
Talk about poetry, and "rack and manger," 

And ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble ; — 

I wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXY. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is antici- 
pated ; 
Handsome but wasted, rich without a sou ; 
Their vigor in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 
Their cash comes ^rom^ their wealth goes io, a 
Jew ; 
Both senates see their nightly votes particinated 
Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew-. 
And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and 

whored. 
The ramily vault receives another lord. 

LXXYI. 

"Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty— 
"Where 

The world in w^hich a man was born ? " Alas ! 
Where is the world of eight years past? ^Twas 
there — 

I look for it — 't is gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, ere 

A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, 
And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings. 

LXXYII. 

Where is Xapoleon the grand ? 
Where little Castlereagh ? 



Grod knows : 
The devil can tell : 



* Scotch for goblin. 
562 



Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
AVho bound the bar or senate in their spell? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes? 
And where the Daughter, whom the Isles loved 
w^ell ? 

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per Cents? 

And where— oh, where the devil are the Rents? 

LXXYIII. 

Where 's Brummell ? Dish'd. Where 's Long Pole 
Wellesley ? Diddled. 
Where 's Whitbread ? Romilly ? Where 's George 
the Third? 
Where is his will ? (That 's not so soon unriddled.) 
And wiiere is"Fum" the Fourth, our"roval 
bird"? 
Gone down, it seems, to Scotland, to be fiddled 

Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
"Caw me, caw thee "—for six months hath -been 

hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 

LXXIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And wiiere my Lady That ? 

The Honorable Mistresses and Misses ? 
Some laid aside like an old Opera liat. 

Married, unmarried, and remarried: (this is 
An evolution oft performed of late). 

Where are the Dublin shouts— and London hisses ? 
Where are the Grenvilles? Turn'd as usual. Where 
My friends the Whigs ? Exactly where they were. 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses ? 

Divorced or doing thereanent. Ye annals 
So brilliant, wliere the list of routs and dances is, — 

Thou Morning Post, sole record of the panels 
Broken in carriages, and all the fantasies 

Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those chan- 
nels ? 
Some die, some fly, some languish on the Conti- 
nent, 
Because the times have hardly left them one tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes. 
Have taken up at length with younger brothers : 

Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks : 
Some maids have been made wives, some merely 
mothers : 

Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 
In short, the list of alterations bothers. 

There 's little strange in this, but something strange 
is 

The unusual quickness of these common changes. 

LXXXII. 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
I have seen more changes, down from monarchs 
to 

The humblest individual under heaven. 
That might suffice a moderate century through. 

I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 
Change grows too changeable, without being new : 

?^ought 's. permanent among the human race, 

Except the AVhigs not getting into place. 

LXXXIII. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite a Jupiter, 
Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a duke 

(No matter which) turn politician stupider, 
If that can w^ell be, than his w^ooden look. 

But it is time that I should hoist my " blue Peter," 
And sail for a new theme :— I have seen— and 
shook 

To see it— the king hiss'd, and then carest ; 

But don't pretend to settle which w^as best. 



CANTO XTT. 



DON JTJAK 



T.-V. 



LXXXIY. 

I have seen the Landholders without a rap — 
I have seen Johanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — 
I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen — 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's cap — 
I have seen a Congress doing all that 's mean — 

I have seen some na,tions, like o'erloaded asses, 

Kick off their burdens— meaning the high classes, 

LXXXY. 

I have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 
Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 

I have seen the funds at war with house and land — 
I have seen the country gentlemen turn squeak- 
ers — 

I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 
By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt liquors 

Exchanged for "thin potations" by John Bull — 

I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 

LXXXYI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe ! " 

To-morrow sees another race as gay 
And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 

" Life 's a poor plaj^er," — then " play out the play, 
Ye villains I " and above all keep a sharp eye 

Much less on what you do than what you say : 
Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 
Not what you seem, but always what you see, 

LXXXYII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 

Of what befell our hero in the land, 
Which 't is the common cry and lie to vaunt as 

A moral country V But I hold my hand — 
For I disdain to write an Atalantis ; 

But 't is as well at once to understand. 
You are not a moral people, and you know it, 
Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXYIII. 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction. 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me. 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of dic- 
tion, 

Will hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

T/w's— when I speak, I don^t hint, but speak out. 

LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage husband-hunting countess. 

Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties) 

He took to regularly peopling earth. 
Of which your lawful, awful wedlockrfount is, — 

Or whether he was taken in for damages. 

For being too excursive in his homages, — 

XC. 

Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will back 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme. 

For being as much the subject of attack 

* Cantos xii., xiii., and xiv. appeared in London, in Novem- 
ber, 1823. 

+ In an unpublished letter to Mr. Douglas Kinnaird, dated 
Genoa, January 18, 1823, we find the f ollowinj? passage :— " I 
wiU economize and do, as I have partly proved to you by my 
surplus revenue of 1822, which almost equals the ditto of the 
United States of America (vide President's Report to Con- 
gress) ; and do you second my parsimony by judicious dis- 
bursements of what is requisite, and a moderate liquidation. 



As ever yet was any work sublime. 

By those who love to say that v, hite is black. 
So much the better ! — I may stand alone. 
But would not change my free thoughts for a throne. 



CANTO THE TWELFTH,"^ 



Of all the barbarous middle ages, that 
Which is most barbarous is the m.iddle age 

Of man ! it is— I really scarce know what ; 
But v/hen we hover between fool and sage, 

And don't know justly what we would be "at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and Ave are not what we were ; — - 

II. 

Too old for youth,— too young, at thirty-five, 
To herd with boys, or hoard with good three- 
score, — 

I wonder people should be left alive ; 
But since they are, that epoch is a bore : 

Love lingers still, although 't were late to wive : 
And as for other love, the illusion 's o'er; 

And money, that most pure imagination. 

Gleams only through the dawn of its creation.f 

III. 

Oh, Gold ! Why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 
Theirs is the best bower anchor, the chain cable 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and small. 
Ye who but see the saving man at table. 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all, 
And wonder how the wealthy can be sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each cheese- 
paring. ^^ 

Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much sicker : 
Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss : 

But making money, slowly first, then quicker. 
And adding still a little through each cross - 

(Which will come over things), beats love or liquor, 
The gamester's counter, or the statesman's drosy. 

Oh, Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper, 

Which makes bank credit like a hank of vapor. 

Y. 

Who hold the balance of the world ? Who reign 
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 

Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? % 
(That make old Europe's journals squeak and 
gibber all.) 

Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glibber all ? 

The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring ?— 

Jew Rothschild, and his fellow Christian, Baring. 



Also make an investment of any spare moneys as may render 
some usance to the owner; because, however little, 'every 
little makes a mickle,' as we of the north say, with more 
reason than rhyme. I hope that you have all receipts, etc., 
etc., etc., and acknowledgments of moneys paid in liquidation 
of debts, to prevent extortion, and hinder the fellows from 
coming twice, of which they would be capable, particularly 
as my absence would lend a pretext to the pretension." 
i The Descamisados. 

563 



CAI^TO XII. 



DOX JUAK 



VI.-XLX. 



YI. 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 
Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 
But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also get involved a bit ; 
Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

]Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

YII. 

AVhy call the miser miserable ? as 

I said before : the frugal life is his, 
AVliich in a saint or cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
Canonization for the self-same cause, 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
Because, you '11 say, noiight calls forsucli a trial ; — 
Then there 's more merit in his self-denial. 

yiii. 

lie is your only poet ; — passion, pure, 
And sparkling on from heap to lieap, displays. 

Possess d, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
Xations athvrart the deep : the golden rays 

Flash up in ingots from the mine ob.-5Cure : 
On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze, 

While the mild emerald's beam shades down thedyes 

Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 

IX. 

The lands on either side are his ; the ship 
From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay,* unloads 

For iiim the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
Beneath his care of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
His very cellars miglit be kings' abodes ; 

While he, despising every sensual call. 

Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 

X. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

A hospital, a church,— and leave behind 
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face : 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation. 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 
May be the hoarder's principle of action. 

The fool will call such mania a disease : — 
Wliat is his own f Go — look at each transaction, 

Wars, revels, loves— do these bring men more ease 
Than the mere plodding through each " vulgar 
fraction"? 

Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 

Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours— who's 
wiser? ^jj 

How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 

(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines. 

But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests 
Some likeness .which the glittering cirque confines, 

Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp I — 

Yes ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 

XIII. 

" Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,— for love 
Is heaven, and heaven is love : " — so sings the bard; 



Which it were rather difficult to prove 
(A thing witli poetry in general hard). 

Perhaps there may be something in '' the grove," 
At least it rhymes to '' love : " but I 'm prepared 

To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 

If '' courts " and " camps " be quite so sentimental. 

XIY. 

But if Love don't. Cash does, and Cash alone : 
Cash rules the grove, and fells it too besides ; 
Without cash, camps were thin, and courts were 
none; 
Without cash, Malthus tells you — "take no 
brides." 
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his o^^^l 

High ground, as virgin Cyntliia sways the tides : 
And as for '' Heaven being Love," why not say 

honey 
Is wax y Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony. 

XY. 

Is not all love prohibited whatever. 

Excepting marriage ? which is love, no doubt. 
After a sort ; but somehow people never 

With the same thought the two words have help'd 
out. 
Love may exist imtli marriage, and should ever, 

And marriage also may exist without, 
But love sans banns is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XYI. 

Xowif the "court," and "camp," and "grove," 
be not 

Recruited all with constant married men. 
Who never coveted their neighbor's lot, 

I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ;— 
Strange too in my " buon camerado " Scott, 

So celebrated for his morals, when 
]My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
To me ;— of which these morals are a sample. 

XYII. 
Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 

And that 's enough ; succeeded in my youth, 
The only time when much success is needed : 

And my success produced what I, in sooth. 
Cared most about ; it need not now be pleaded — 

Whate'er it was, 't was mine ; I 've paid, in 
truth, 
Of late, the penalty of such success, 
But have not learn 'd to wish it any less. 

XYIIL 

That suit in Chancery,— which some persons plead 
In an appeal to the'unborn, whom they, 

In the faith of their procreative creed, 
Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 

To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 
To lean on for support in any way ; 

Since odds are that posterity will know 

Xo more of them, than they of her, I trow. 

XIX. 

Why, I 'm posterit.y — and so are you ; 

And whom do we remember ? Xot a hundred. 
Were every memory written down all true. 

The tenth or twentieth name would be but 
blunder'd ; 
Even Plutarch's Lives have but pick'd out a few. 

And 'gainst those few your annalists have thun- 
der 'd ; 
And Mitfordt in the nineteenth century 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek the lie. 



* China. 

+ See Mitford's Greece. 



Grtecia Verax. 
564 



ure consists in praising' tyrants, abusing- Plutarch, spelling' 
His great pleas- \ oddly, and writing quaintly; and what is strange, after all. 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAK 



XX.-XXXIII. 



XX. 

Good people ail, of every degree, 
Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 

In this twelfth Canto 't is my wish to be 
As serious as if I had for inditers 

Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set free 
The ]^egroes, and is worth a million fighters ; 

While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, 

And Malthus does the thing 'gainst which he 
writes. 

XXI. 

I'm serious — so are all men upon paper; 

And why should I not form my speculation, 
And hold up to the sun my little taper ? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
On constitutions and steamboats of vapor ; 

While sages write against all procreation, 
Unless a man can calculate his means 
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 

XXII. 

That 's noble ! That 's romantic ! For my part, 

I think that " Philo-genitiveness " is— 
' (Now here 's a word quite after my own heart. 
Though there 's a shorter a good deal than this, 

If that politeness set it not apart ; 
But I 'm resolved to say nought that 's amiss) — 

I say, methinks that " Philo-genitiveness " 

Might meet from men a little more forgiveness. 

XXIII. 

And now to business. — Oh, my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place. 
Where every kind of mischief 's daily brewing. 

Which can await warm youth in its wild race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIY. 

What with a small diversity of climate. 

Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 
I could send forth my mandate like a primate 

Upon the rest of Europe's social state ; 
But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at. 

Great Britain, which the Muse may penetrate. 
All countries have their '' Lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie. 

XXY. 

But I am sick of politics. Begin, 

•' Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 
Amongst the paths of being " taken in," 

Above the ice had like a skater glided: 
When tired of play, he flirted without sin 

With some of those fair creatures who have 
prided 
Tliemselves on innocent tantalization, 
And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 

That even the purest people may mistake 
Their way through virtue's primrose paths of 
snows ; 

And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'erflows 

Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 

With the kind world's amen — " Who would have 



his is the best modern history of Greece in any languag-e, 
and he is perhaps the best of all modern historians whatso- 
ever. Having named his sins, it is but fair to state his vir- 



XXYII. 

The little Leila, with her Orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition 
(Which saw all Western things with small surprise, 

To the surprise of people of condition, 
Who think that novelties are butterflies 

To be pursued as food for inanition). 
Her charming figure and romantic history, 
Became a kind of fashionable mystery. 

XXVIII. 
The women much divided— as is usual 

Amongst the sex in little things or great. 
Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to abuse vou 
all— 

I have always liked you better than I state : 
Since I 've grown moral, still I must accuse you all 

Of being apt to talk at a great rate ; 
And now there was a general sensation 
Amongst you, about Leila's education. 

XXIX. 

In one point only were you settled— and 
You had reason ; 't was that a young child of 
grace, ^ 

As beautiful as her own native land. 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 

Howe'er our friend Don Juan might command 
Himself for five, four, three, or two years' space, 

Would be much better taught beneath the eye 

Of peeresses whose follies had run dry. 

XXX. 

So first there was a generous emulation. 
And then there was a general competition, 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition. 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition ; 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle Ages," 

XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering bough — 

Begg'd to bring uji the little girl, and " owi," — 
For that 's the phrase that settles all things now, 

Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 
And all her points as thorough-bred to show : 

And I assure you, that like virgin honey 

Tastes their first season (mostly if they have money). 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honorable misters, 
Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters 
(AVho, by the by, when clever, are more handy 

At making matches, where "'tis gold that glis- 
ters," 
Than their he relatives), like flies o'er candy 

Buzz round " the Fortune " vsdth their busy battery. 

To turn her head with waltzing and with"ftattery ! 

XXXIII. ^ 

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation ; 

Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
''Tantaene ! " Such the virtues of high station. 

Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet 's " Dover !" 
While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares. 
Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 



tues— learning-, labor, research, wrath, and partiality. I call 
the latter \artues in a writer, because they make him write 
in earnest. 

665 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAN. 



XXXIV.-XLVITI. 



XXXIY. 

Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject three dozen. 

'T is fine to see tliem scattering refusals 
And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 

(Friends of the party), who begin accusals, 
Such as— "Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have 
chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
To his billets ? Why waltz with him V Why, I pray, 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 

XXXY. 

"Why ?— Why ?— Besides, Fred really was attacli'd ; 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough without : 
The time will come she '11 wish that she hadsnatch'd 

So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
But the old Marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 

As I '11 tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray did you see her answer to his letter V " 

XXXYI. 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
Are spurn 'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 

After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives ; 

And when at last the pretty creature gets 
Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives, 

It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 

To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXYII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer. 

Worn out with importunity ; or fall 
(But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 

To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 
A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure* 

(If 't is not vain examples to recall) 
To draw a high prize : now, howe'er he got her, I 
See nought more strange in this than t' other lottery. 

XXXYIII. 

I, for my part— (one " modern instance " more, 
" True, 't is a pity— pity 't is, 't is true ")— 

Was chosen from out an amatory score, 
Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 

But though I also had reform 'd before 
Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice. 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt, or tiresome friend, 

A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest. 
My Muse by exhortation means to mend 

All people, at all times, and in most places, 

Which puts my Pegasus to these grave paces. 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now ' 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Xot as they ought to be : for I avow, 
Tliat till we see wliat 's what in fact, w^e 're far 

From much improvement with that virtuous plough 
Which skims the surface, leaving scarce a scar 

Upon the black loam long manured by Yice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 
For like a day-dawn she was young and pure, 

* This line tnaj' puzzle the commentators more than the 
present generation. 

566 



Or like the old comparison of snows. 
Which are more pure than pleasant to be sure. 

Like many people everybody knows, 
Don Juan was delighted to secure 

A goodly guardian for his infant charge. 

Who might not profit much by being at large. 

XLII. 

Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 
(I wish that others would find out the same), 

And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter, 
For silly wards will bring their guardians blame : 

So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 
To make his little wild Asiatic tame. 

Consulting " the Society for Yice 

Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice. 

XLIII. 

Olden she w^as — but had been very young ; 

Yirtuous she was— and had been, I believe ; 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 

That but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable tliat 's wTong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so much grieve, 
As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
AYhich is the cud eschew'd by human cattle. 

XLIY. 
Moreover I've remark 'd (and I was once 

A slight observer in a modest way). 
And so may every one except a dunce. 

That ladies in their youth a little gay, ; 
Besides their knowledge of the world, and sense 

Of the sad consequence of going astray, 
Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the w'oe 
Which the mere passionless can never know. 

XLY. 

While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied passion. 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you. 
Or, what 's still worse, to put you out of fashion , — 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court 
you. 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XLYI. 

JSTow whether it be thus, or that they are stricter, 
As better knowing why they should be so, 

I think you '11 find from many a family picture, 
That daughters of such mothers as may know 

The world by experience rather than by lecture, 
Turn out much better for the Smithfield Show 

Of vestals brought into the marriage mart. 

Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLYII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd about — 
As who has not, if female, young, and pretty y 

But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk 'd 
about ; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty. 

And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd 
about : 
Then she was given to charity and pity. 

And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 

For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLYIII. 
High in high circles, gentle in her own, 

She was the mild reprover of the young, 
Whenever — which means every day— they 'd shown 

An awkward inclination to go wrong. 
The quantity of good she did 's unknown. 

Or at the least would lengthen out my song: 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAK 



XLIX.-LXII. 



In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest in her, which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favorite with her, 
Because she thought him a good heart at bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; 
Which was a wonder, if you think who got him, 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew 
whither : 
Though this might ruin others, it did not him, 

At least entirely— for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 

L. 

And these vicissitudes tell best in youth ; 

Tor when they happen at a riper age. 
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage. 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage. 
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty. 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd so 
weighty. 

How far it profits is another matter. — 
Our hero gladly saw his little charge 

Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daughter 
Being long married, and thus set at large. 

Had left all the accomplishments she taught her 
To be transmitted, like the Lord Mayor's barge, 

To the next comer ; or— as it will tell 

More Muse-like— like to Cytherea's shell. 

LIT. 

I call such things transmission ; for there is 
A floating balance of accomplishment. 

Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 
According as their minds or backs are bent. 

Some waltz ; some draw ; some fathom the abyss 
Of metaphysics ; others are content 

With music ; the most moderate shine as wits ; 

While others have a genius turn'd for fits. 

LIII. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 

Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 
May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 

With regular descent, in these our days. 
The last j^ear to the new transfers its lioards ; 

New vestals claim men's eyes with tlie same praise 
Of " elegant " et ccetera, in fresh batches — 
All matchless creatures, and yet bent on matches. 

LIY. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 

That from the first of Cantos up to this 
I 've not begun what we have to go through. 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes, 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure ; 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 
About what 's call'd success, or not succeeding : 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain they have 
chosen; 
'T is a " great moral lesson " they are reading. 

I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 
Cantos would do; but at Apollo's pleading. 



* " This ancient g'ame orig-inated, I believe, in Germany, 
and is well calculated to make young' persons ready at reck- 
oning' the produce of two g'iven numbers. It is called the 
game of the goose, because at every fourth and fifth com- 



If that my Pegasus should not be founder'd, 
I think to canter gently through a hundred. 

LYI. 

Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 
Yclept the Great World ; for it is the least, 

Although the highest : but as swords have hilts 
By which their power of mischief is increased. 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 
Thus the low world, north, south, or west, or east, 

Must still obey tlie high — which is their handle, 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing 
candle. ^^^^ 

He had many friends who had many wives, and was 
Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 

Of friendship which you may accept or pass. 
It does nor good nor harm ; being merely meant 

To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 
And draw them niglitly when a ticket 's sent ; 

And what with masquerades, and fetes, and balls, 

For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LYIII. 
A young unmarried man, with a good name 

And fortune, has an awkward part to play ; 
For good society is but a game, 

" The royal game of Goose," * as I may say^ 
Where everybody has some separate aim, 

And end to answer, or a plan to lay— 
The single ladies wishing to be double. 
The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 

LIX. 

I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits : 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes : 

For talk six times with the same single lady. 

And you may get the wedding dresses ready. 

LX. 

Perhaps you '11 have a letter from the mother. 
To say her daughter's feelings are trepann'd; 

Perhaps you '11 have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and w^hiskers, to demand 

What " your intentions are " ? — One way or other 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand : 

And between pity for her case and yours, 

You "11 add to Matrimony's list of cures. 

LXI. 

I 've known a dozen weddings made even thus, 
And some of them high names: I have also 
known 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they never dream 'd to have 
shown— 

Yet neither frighten 'd by a female fuss, 
'Not by mustachios moved, were let alone, 

And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair. 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 

LXII. 

There 's also nightly, to the uninitiated^ 
A peril— not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated : 
It is— I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage— 



partment of the table in succession a goose is depicted ; and 
if the cast thrown by the player falls upon a goose, he moves 
forward double the number of his throw."— Strutt. 

567 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAN. 



LXIIT.-LXXVr. 



But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot, 
*' Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say " No," 
And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on and off- 
ing 

On a lee shore, till it begins to blow- 
Then sees your heart wreck 'd with an inward 
scoffing. 

This works a world of sentimental woe, 
And sends new Werters yearly to their coffin ; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIY. 

*' Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us prate. 

The next of perils, though I place it stej^/iest, 
Is when, without regard to " church or state," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller! is the truth thou learn- 
est)— 
But in old England, when a young bride errs, 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 

LXY. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the same ages 
Can't form a friendship, but the world o'erawes it. 
Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d— d 
damages ! 
A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it ! — 
. Forms a sad climax to romantic homages ; 
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders, 
And evidences which regale ail readers. 

LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners ; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the fame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gyuocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having fact as well as taste. 

LXYII. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 
Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick no, 'twas not the word siok I 

meant — 
But he had seen so much good love before, 
That he was not in heart so very weak ; — I meant 
But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 
Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer stock- 
ings. 
Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double knock- 
ings. 

LXYIII. 
But coming young from lands and scenes romantic, 
Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for Pas- 
sion, 
And Passion's self must have a spice of frantic, 

Into a country where 'tis half a fashion, 
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 
Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation : 
Besides (alas! his taste — forgive and pity!) 
At first he did not think the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

I say at jvrst — for he found out at Zast, 
But by degrees, that they were fairer far 

Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 
Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 

A further proof we should not judge in haste ; 
Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
568 



To taste: — the truth is, if men would confess, 
That novelties pZease less than they imj>ress. 

LXX. 

Though travell'd, I have never had the luck to 
Trace up those shuffling negroes, Nile or Niger, 

To that impracticable place Timbuctoo, 
Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 

With such a chart as may be safely stuck to— 
For Europe ploughs in Afric like " bos piger : " 

But if I had been at Timbuctoo, there 

No doubt I should be told that l3lack is fair. 

LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
And the whole matter rests upon eyesight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You '11 attack 
Perhaps this new position — but I 'm right ; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback : — 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within ; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark. 

LXXII. 

But I 'm relapsing into metaphysics, 
That labyrinth , whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures for hectic phthisics, 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying 
flame : 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls of price, 

Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice. 

LXXIII. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 
Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — 

Not that there 's not a quantity of those 
Who have a due respect for their own wishes. 

Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows * 
Are they, at bottom virtuous even when vicious : 

They warm into a scrape, but keep of course. 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

LXXIY. 

But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them pretty 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions— probably from pity — 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXY. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb. 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning ; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which still I am learning 

To like, though I have been seven years in Italy,. 

And have, or had, an ear that served me prettily) ;— 

LXXYI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his due ; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile. 

Nor settles all things in one interview 
(A thing approved as saving time and toil) ;— 

But though the soil may give you time and trouble. 

Well cultivated, it will render double. 

* The Russians, as is well known, run out from their hot 
baths to plung-e into the Neva ; a pleasant practical antithesis, 
which it seems does them no harm. 



CANTO XII. 



DON JUAK 



LXXVII.-LXXXIX. 



LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a "j?rancle passion," 

It is a very serious thinp: indeed : 
Nine times in ten 't is but caprice or fasliion, 

Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 
The pride of a mere child with a new sash on, 

Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 
But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 
For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 

LXXYIII. 

The reason 's obvious : if there 's an eclat. 
They lose their caste at once, as do the Farias ; 

And when the delicacies of the law 
Have fill'd their papers wdth their comments 
various. 

Society, that china without flaw 
(The hypocrite !), will banish them like Marius, 

To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt :* 

For Fame 's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Ferhaps this is as it should be ; — it is 
A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 

And be thy sins forgiven : " — but upon this 
I leave the saints to settle their own score. 

Abroad, though doubtless they do mucli amiss, 
An erring woman finds an opener door 

For her return to Virtue— as they call 

That lady, who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 

For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 
Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 

People some ten times less in fact to mind it. 
And care but for discoveries, and not deeds. 

And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 
By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads. 

But aggravate the crime you have not prevented. 

By rendering desperate those who had else repented. 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder'd 
Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 

Besides, he had not seen of several hundred 
A lady altogether to his mind. 

A little " blas'e " — 't is not to be wonder 'd 
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind : 

And though not vainer from his past success, 

No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He also had been busy seeing sights— 

The Parliament and all the other houses ; 
Had sat beneath the gallery at nights. 

To hear debates whose thunder roused (not rouses) 
The world to gaze upon those northern lights, 
Which flash 'd as far as where the musk-bull 
browses ; 
He had also stood at times behind the throne- 
But Grey f was not arrived, and Chatham gone.J 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session. 
That noble sight, when really free the nation, 

A king in constitutional possession 
Of such a throne as is the proudest station. 



* "A Gaulish or German soldier sent to arrest him, over- 
awed by his aspect, recoiled from the task ; and the people of 
the place, as if moved by the miracle, concurred in aiding: his 
escape. The presence of such an exile on the ground where 
Carthag'e had stood was supposed to increase the majesty and 
the melancholy of the scene. 'Go,' he said to the lictor who 
brought him the orders o f the prfetor to depart, ' tell him that 
j'ou have seen Marius sitting on the ruins of Carthage. ' "— 
Ferguson. 

t Charles, second Earl Grey, succeeded to the peerage in 1807. 



Though despots know it not— till the progression 

Of freedom shall complete their education. 
'Tis not mere splendor makes the show august 
To eye or heart— it' is the people's trust. 

LXXXIY. 

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) 
A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, 

With fascination in his very bow, 
And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 

Though royalty was written on his brow. 
He had then the grace, too, rare in every clime, 

Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 

A finisli'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXY. 

And Juan was received, as hath been said. 

Into the best society ; and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and debonnaire : — 
The talent and good humor he display 'd. 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXYI. 

But what, and w^here, with whom, and when, and 
why. 

Is not to be put hastily together ; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know whether 
I '11 leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But harrow up his feelings till they wither. 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos. 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. § 

LXXXYII. 

Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 
Ends. Wlien the body of the book 's begun, 

You '11 find it of a different construction 
From what some people say 't will be when 
done ; 

Tlie plan at present 's simply in concoction. 
I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 

That 's your affair, not mine : a real spirit 

Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it. 

LXXXYIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles. 
Remember, reader 1 you have had before. 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles. 
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, 

Besides the most sublime of— Heaven knows what 
else; 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy. 

Will turn upon "political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

T/iat is your present theme for popularity : 
Now that the public hedge hath scarce a stake. 

It grows an act of patriotic charity. 
To show the people the best way to break. 

Mf/ plan (but I, if but for singularity. 
Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 

Meantime, read all the national-debt sinkers, 

And tell me what you think of our great thinkers. 



t- William Pitt, first earl of Chatham, died in May, 1778, 
after having been carried home from the House of Lords, 
where he had fainted away at the close of a remarkable speech 
on the American Revolutionary war. 

§ A sculptor projected to hew Mount Athos into a statue of 
Alexander, with a city in one hand, and, I believe, a river in 
his pocket, with various other similar devices. But Alex- 
ander 's gone, and Athos remains, I ti'ust ere long to look over 
a nation of freemen. 



569 



CANTO XIII. 



DON JUAK 



I.-XTV. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH, 



I. 

I NOW mean to be serious ; — it is time, 
Since lani^hter nowadays is deem'd too serious ; 

A jest at Vice by Yirtue's call'd a crime, 
And critically held as deleterious : 

Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime. 
Although when long a little apt to weary us ; 

And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 

As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('T is an old j^orman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees, by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will. 

And beauteous, even where beauties most abound, 
In Britain— which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

III. 

I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 
• I '11 leave them to their taste, no doubt the best : 
An eye 's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter, so 't is in request ; 
'T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test. 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no man, 
Till thirty, should perceive there 's a plain woman. 

lY. 

And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon 's no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull 
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's ways ; 

Also because the figure and the face 

Hint, that 't is time to give the younger place. 

Y. 

I know that some w^ould fain postpone this era. 

Reluctant as all placemen to resign 
Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera. 

For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line: 
But then they have their claret and Madeira, 

To irrigate the dryness of decline ; 
And county meetings, and the parliament, 
And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

YI. 

And is there not religion, and reform. 
Peace, war, the taxes, and what 's call'd the 
"IS^ation"? 

The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
The landed and the money 'd speculation? 

The joys of mutual hate fo keep them warm. 
Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 

Xow hatred is by far the longest pleasure ; 

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure. 

YII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, profess'd, 
Right honestly, '' he liked an honest hater !"- — 

* " Sir, I love a prood hater." See Boswell's Johnson. 
t Mepbistopheles is the name of the devil in G oethe's Faust. 
570 



The only truth that yet has been confest 
Within these latest thousand years or later. 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest :— 
For my part, I am but a mere spectator, 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistopheles ;t 

YIII. 

But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 

Though 't Avas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
It is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish 
crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 

IX. 

Of all tales 't is the saddest— and more sad. 
Because it makes us smile : his hero 's right, 

And still pursues the right ;— to curb the bad 
His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 

His guerdon : '.t is his virtue makes him mad ! 
But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 

A sorrier still is the great moral taught 

By that real epic unto all who have thought. 



Redressing injury, revenging wrong. 
To aid the damsel and destroy tlie caitiff ; 

Opposing singly the united strong. 
From foreign yoke to free the helpless native : — 

Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 
Be for mere fancy's sport a theuie creative, 

A jest, a riddle, Fame through thin and thick sought! 

And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 

XI. 

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; 

A single laugh demolish 'd the riglit arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had' heroes. While Romance could 
charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such harm, 
That all their glory, as a composition, 
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 

XII. 

I 'm " at my old lunes "—digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville ; 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
But Destiny and Passion spread the net 

(Fate is a good excuse for our own will). 
And caught them ;— what do they not catch, me- 

thinks ? 
But I 'm not OEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx. 

XIII. 

I tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 
To venture a solution : " Davus sum ; " J 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 
Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay w^orld's hum. 

Was the Queen-Bee, the glass of all that 's fair; 
Whose charms made all men speak, and women 
dumb. 

The last 's a miracle, and such was reckon'd. 

And since that time there has not been a second. 

XIY. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation. 
And wedded unto one she had loved well— 



% " Davus sum, non CEdipus."— Ter. 



CANTO XIII. 



DON JUAK 



XY.-xxviir. 



A man known in the councils of the nation, 

Cool, and quite En.^lish, imperturbable, 
Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her: the w^orld could tell 
Nought against either, and both seem'd secure- 
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

XV. 

It chanced some diplomatical relations, 
Arising out of business, often brought 

Himself and Juan in their mutual stations 
Into close contact. Though reserved, nor caught 

By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and patience. 
And talent, on his hauglity spirit wrought, 

And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 

In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XYI. 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
Reserve and pride could make him, and full slow 

In judging men— when once his judgment was 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

Had all the pertinacity pride has. 
Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow. 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its ov/n good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aversions. 
Though oft well founded, which confirm'd but 
more 

His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went be- 
fore. 

His feelings had not those strange fits, like tertians, 
Of common likings, which make some deplore 

What they should laugh at— the mere ague still 

Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'T is not in mortals to command success : 
But do you more^ Sempronius— c?on'i deserve it," 

And take my word, you won"t have any less. 
Be wary, watch the time, and always serve it; 

Give gently way, when there 's too great a press ; 
And for your conscience, only learn to nerve it ; 

For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 

'Twill make, if proved, vast efforts without paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 
As most men do, the little or the great ; 

The very lowest find out an inferior. 
At least they think so, to exert their state 

Upon : for there are very few things wearier 
Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight. 

Which mortals generously would divi(ae. 

By bidding others carry while they ride. 

XX. 

In birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

In years he had the advantage of time's sequel ; 
And, as he thought, in country much the same — 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free quill, 
At which allmodern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 

So that few members kept the house up later. 

XXI. 

These were advantages : and then he thought-^ 
It was his foible, but by no means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 
Court mysteries, having been himself a minister : 

He liked to teach that whicli he had been taught, 
And greatly shone whenever there had been a 
stir; 



And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 
Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honor'd him for his docility ; 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with suavity. 

Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 

In faults which sometimes show the soil's fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlive not the first crop— 
For then they are very diflicult to stop. 

XXIII. 

And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places ; 

Where people always did as they were bid. 
Or did what they sliould not with foreign graces. 

Of com'sers also spake they : Henry rid 
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved the races ; 

And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 

Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

XXIV. 

And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs. 
And diplomatic dinners, or at other— 

For Juan stood well both with Ins and Outs, 
As in freemasonry a higher brother. 

Upon his talent Henry had no doubts ; 
His manner show'd him sprung from a high 
mother ; 

And all men like to show their hospitality 

To him whose breeding matches with his quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square;— for we will break no 
squares 

By naming streets : since men are so censorious, 
And apt to sow an autlior's wheat with tares. 

Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 
Where none Avere dreamt of, unto love's affairs. 

Which were, or are, or are to be notorious. 
That therefore do I previously declare. 
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin * another pious reason 
For making squares and streets anonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 
Which doth not shake some very splendid house 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic treason — 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares. 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

'Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadilloes are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly. 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, until I 
Find one wdiere nothing naughty can be shown, 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart : 

Such are but I have lost the London Chart. 

XXVIII. 
At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blank Square, 

Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest. 
As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest ; 
Or wealth, which is a passport everywhere ; 

Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the best 
Recommendation ; and to be well drest 
Will very often supersede the rest. 

♦ " With every thing that pretty hin. 
My lady sweet, arise." — Shakspbars. 
571 



CANTO xiri. 



DON JUAK 



XXIX.-XLTfl. 



XXIX. 

And since " there 's safety in a multitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon has said, 

Or some one for him, in some sage, grave mood ;— 
Indeed we see the dailj^ proof display 'd 

In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud. 
Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 

Which is the only cause that we can guess 

Of Britain's present wealth and happiness ;— 

XXX. 

But as " there 's safety " grafted in the number 
'^ Of counsellors," for men,— thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber ; 
Or should it shake, the clioice will more perplex— 

Variety itself will more encumber. 
'Midst many rocks we guard more against wrecks ; 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shocks some 's 

Self-love, there 's safety in a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 
For such a shield, which leaves but little merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 

Which judged mankind at their due estiniiition ; 
And for coquetry, she disdain 'd to wear it : 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which flatters, but is flattery conve3;'d 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, 
To those who were, or pass'd for, meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious ; 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish 'd men 
AVho were or are the puppet-shows of praise, 

Tlie praise of persecution. Gaze again 
On the most favor'd ; and amidst the blaze 

Of sunset lialos o'er the laurel-brow'd. 

What can ye recognize ?— a gilded cloud. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 
That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne'er can pass the equinoctial line 
Of anything which nature would express ; 

Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess, 

That anything he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow 'd this from the Chinese— 

XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace : his '•'Nil admirari "* 
Was what he call'd the " Art of Happiness ; " 

An art on which the artists greatly vary. 
And have not yet attain 'd to much success. 

However, 't is expedient to be wary : 
Indifference cevtes don't produce distress; 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

AVere nothing but a moral inebriety. 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent : for 
[Nouo for a commonplace !) beneath the snow, 

As a volcano holds the lava more 
Within — et ccetera. Shall I go on ? — No ! 

♦ See ante, p. 513. 
572 



I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor. 

So let the often-used volcano go. 
Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others. 
It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite smothers ! 

XXXVII. 

I '11 have another figure in a trice : — 
Wliat say you to a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, 
Which leaves few drops of that immortal rain, 

Yet in the very centre, past all price. 
About a liquid glassful will remain ; 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape: 

XXXVIII. 

'T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 

And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 

And such are many— though I only meant her 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons. 

On which the Muse has always sought to enter. 
And your cold people are beyond all price. 
When once you 've broken their confounded ice. 

XXXIX. 

Bat after all they are a Northwest Passage 
Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 

And as the good ships sent upon that message 
Have not exactly ascertain 'd the Pole 

(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky presage), 
Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal; 

For if the Pole 's not open, but all frost 

(A chance still), 't is a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as well commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman: 
While those who are not beginners should liave 
sense 
Enough to make for port, .ere Time shall sum- 
mon 
With his gray signal-flag ; and the past tense, 
The dve'dvy'^Fuimus " of all things human, 
Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's spun 

out 
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted : its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind : 

The world upon tlie whole is worth the assertion 
(H but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 

XLII. 

The English winter — ending in July, 

To recommence in August — now was done. 
'T is the postilion's paradise : wheels fly ; 

On roads, east, south, north, west, there is a run. 
But for post-horses who finds sympathy ? 

Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, 
Always premising that said son at college 
Has not contracted much more debt than knowl- 
edge. 

XLIII. 
The London winter 's ended in July— 

Sometimes a little later. I don't err 
In this : whatever other blunders lie 

Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 
My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 

For parliament is our barometer : 
Let radicals its other acts attack. 
Its sessions form our only almanac. 



CANTO XIIT. 



DON JUAN, 



XLTV.-LVI. 



XLIY. 
When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage ; 
The turnpikes glow witli dust; and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of tliis bright age ; 
And tradesmen, with long bills and longer faces, 
Sigh — as the postboys fasten on the traces. 

XLY. 

They and their bills, " Arcadians both,"* are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 
What hope remains ? Of 1101)^ the full possession, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift. 
At a long date — till they can get a fresh one — 

Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large; 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 

XLYI. 

But these are trifles. Downward flies my lord, 
Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 

Away ! away ! " Fresh horses ! " are the word, 
And changed as quickly as hearts after marriage ; 

The obsequious landlord hath the change restored ; 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 

Their fee; but ere the water'd wdieels may hiss 
hence. 

The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence. 

XLYII. 

'T is granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey — 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 

Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 
Trick'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, — " Cosi viaggino i liicchU "f 
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 

If but to show I 've travell'd : and what 's travel, 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 

XLYIII. 

The London winter and the country summer 
Were wellnigh over. 'T is perhaps a pity. 

When iSTature wears the gown that doth become 
her. 
To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 
Listening debates not very wise or witty. 

Ere patriots their true country can remember ; — 

But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till September. 

XLIX. 

I 've done with my tirade. The world was gone ; 

The twice two thousand, for whom earth was 
made, 
Were vanish 'd to be what they call alone— 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests, or more ; before wiiom groan 

As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 



Lord Henry and the Lady Adeline 
Departed like tlie rest of their compeers, 

* " Arcades ambo." 

t "Thus the rich travel." 

t " Byron was too g-ood by nature for what he wished to be 
—he could not drain the blood of the cavaliers out of his 
veins— he could not cover the coronet all over with the red 
night-cap ;— hence that self-reproaching melancholy which 
was eternally crossing and unner\-ing him,— hence the dark 
heaving of soul with which he must have written, in his 
Italian villeggiatura, this glorious description of his own lost 
ancestral seat."— Lockhart, 1824. 



The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 

The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
None than themselves could boast a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and through beauties 
steers ; 
And oaks as olden as their pedigree 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree. 

LI. 

A paragraph in every paper told 
Of tlieir departure : such is modem fame : 

'T is pity that it takes no further hold 
Than an advertisement, or much the same; 

When, ere the ink be dry, tlie sound grows cold. 
The Morning Post v/as foremost to proclaim — 

" Departure, for his country seat, to-day, 

Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 

" We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
And numerous party of his noble friends ; 

'Midst whom we have heard, from sources quite 
correct, 
The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd ; 
Also a foreigner of high condition. 
The envoy 6t the secret Russian mission." 

LIII. 

And thus we see— w^io doubts the Morning Post ? 

(Whose articles are like the '" Thirty-nine," 
Which those most swear to who believe them 
most)— 
Our gay Russ Spaniard w^as ordain'd to shine, 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his liost, 
With those w^ho. Pope says, "greatly daring- 
dine." — 
'T is odd, but true, — last war the News abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or 
w^ounded; — 

LI Y. 

As thus : " On Thursday there w^as a grand dinner ; 

Present, Lords A. ii.C."— Earls, dukes, by name 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's win- 
ner; 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column : date, '" Falmouth. There has lately been 
here 

The Slap-dash regiment, so well know^n to fame, 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
Tiie vacancies are hll'd up— see Gazette." 

LY. 

To Norman Abbey w^hirl'd the noble pair, — 
An old, old monastery once, and now 

Still older mansion, t— of a rich and rare 
Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 

Few specimens yet left us can compare 
Withal : ^ it lies perhaps a little low, 

Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 

To shelter their devotion from the wind.|| 

LYI. 

It stood embosom 'd in a happy valley. 
Crown 'd by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 



§ " The front of Newstead Abbey has a most noble and 
majestic appearance ; being built in the form of the west end 
of a cathedral, adorned with rich carvings and loftj' pin- 
nacles."— Art. Newstead, in Beauties of England, vol. xii. 
See ante, illustration, Life of Byron. 

II "How sweetly in front looked the transparent water, 
and the light of religious remains (equalled by no architect- 
ure scarcely in the kingdom, except that of York cathedral), 
backed by the most splendid field beauties, diversified by the 
swells of the earth on which they were rooted I "—Thobo- 
TON's Nottinghamshire. 

573 



CAi^TO xiir. 



DON JUAK 



LVII.-LXVTT. 



Stood like Caractacus, in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunder- 
stroke ; 
And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters ; as day awoke. 
The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird/* 

LYII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,t 
Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer waters spread 

Around : the wildfowl nestled in the brake 
Aud sedges, brooding in their liquid bed: 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and 
stood 

With their green faces fix'd upon the flood. 

LYIII. 

Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade. 
Sparkling with foam, nntil again subsiding, 

Its shriller echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet ; and thus allay'd. 
Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hid- 
ing 

Its windings through the woods; now clear, now 
blue. 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 

LIX. 

A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Eome's) stood half 
apart 
In a grand arch, which once screen 'd many an aisle. 

These last had disappear'd — a loss to art: 
The first yet frow^i'd superbly o'er the soil. 

And kindled feelings in the roughest heart. 
Which mourn 'd the power of time's or tempest's 

march. 
In gazing on that venerable arch. 

LX. 

Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 

Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone ; 
But these had fallen, not when the friars fell. 

But in the war which struck Charles from his 
throne. 
When each house was a fortalice — as tell 

The annals of full many a line undone, — 
The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
For those who knew not to resign or reign. J 

LXI. 

But in a higher niche, alone, but crown 'd. 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,? 

With her Son in her blessed arms, look'd round; 
Spared by some chance when all beside was 
spoil'd; 

She made the earth below seem holy ground ; 
This may be superstition, weak or wild, 

But even the faintest relics of a shrine 

Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 

* "The beautiful park of Newstede, which once was richly 
ornamented with two thousand seven hundred head of deer, 
and numberless fine-spreading- oaks, is now divided and sub- 
divided into farms."— Thoroton's Nottinfjhamshire. 

+ See ante. Epistle to Augusta, p. 378. 

$ See ante, p. 305. 

§ " In the bow-window of the Hall there are yet the arms 
of Newstede Priory, viz., England, with a chief azure, in the 
middle whereof is the Virgin Mary with Babe or."— Thoko- 

TON. 

II "Next to the apartment called King Edward the Third's 
room, on account of that monarch having slept there, is the 
sounding gallery,— so called from a very remarkable echo 

574 



LXII. 

A mighty window, hollow in the centre. 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colorings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once could 
enter. 
Streaming from off the sun like seraph's wings, 

Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now fainter. 
The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft 
sings 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced choir 

Lie Avith their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LXIII. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, Avhich 
then 
Is musical— a dying accent driven 

Through the huge arch, which soars and sinks 
again. 
Some deem it but the distant echo given" 

Back to the night wind by the waterfall. 

And harmonized by the old choral wall : 

Lxiy. 

others, that some original shape, or form 
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this gray ruin, with a voice to charm 
Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower ; 

The cause I know not, nor can solve ; but such 

The fact :— I 've heard it,— once perhaps too much.jl 

LXY. 

Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd,1[ 
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — 

Strange faces, like to men in masquerade. 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 

The spring gusli'd through grim mouths of granite 
made, 
And sparkled into basins, wiiere it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 

Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 

LXYI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venerable. 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were stable. 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween; 

An exquisite small chapel had been able. 
Still unimpair'd, to decorate tlie scene ; ** 

The rest had been reform 'd, Teplaced, or sunk, 

And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 

LXVII. 

Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts. 

Might shock a connoisseur ; but when combined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 

Yet left a grand impression on tlie mind, 
At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts : 

We gaze upon a giant for his stature, 

Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 



which it possesses."— Art. Newstead, in Beauties of England, 
vol. xii. 

1! "From the windows of the gallery over the cloisters, we 
see the cloister court, Avith a basin in thecentx-e, used as a stew 
for fish, etc."— Art. Neivstead, in Beauties of England, vol. xii. 

** "■ The cloisters exactly resemble those of Westminster 
Abbey, only on a smaller scale; but possessing, if possible, a 
more venerable appearance. These were the cloisters of the 
ancient abbey, and many of its ancient tenants now lie in 
silent repose under the flagged pavement. The ancient 
chapel, too, is still entire; its ceiling is a very handsome 
specimen of the Gothic style of springing arches." — Art. 
Newstead, in Beauties of England, vol. xii. 



CANTO XTIT. 



DON JUAK 



LXVIIT.-LXXXT. 



LXVIII. 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 
To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 

Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation : 
And Lady Mar3^s blooming into girls. 

With fair long locks, had also kept their station : 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls : 

Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 

Whose drapery hints we may admire them freely. 

LXIX. 

Judges in very formidable ermine 

Were there, with brows that did not much invite 
The accused to think their lordships would deter- 
mine 

His cause by leaning much from might to right : 
Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to tlie sight, 
As liinting more (unless our judgments warp us) 
Of the'' Star Chamber" than of " Habeas Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armor, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead ; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed : 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of gold : 
Nimrods, whose canvas scarce contain'd the 
steed ; 

And here and there some stern high patriot stood, 

AVho could not get the place for which he sued. 

LXXI. 

But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories, 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian, 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore's :* 

Here danced Albano's boys, and here the sea shone 
In Yernet's ocean lights ; and there the stories 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXII. 
Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine ; 

There Rembrandt made his darkness equal light. 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite : — 
But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a livelier sight : 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite Da- 
nish t 
Or Dutch with thirst— What, ho ! a flask of Rhenish. 

LXXIII. 

Oh, reader! if that thou canst read,— and know, 
'T is not enough to spell, or even to read, 

To constitute a reader ; there must go 

Yirtues of which both you and I have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning — (though 
That clause is hard) ; and secondly, proceed : 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, sinning 

In this sort, end at last with the beginning. 

LXXIY. 
But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 

While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear. 
Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 

Dan Phcfibus takes me for an auctioneer. 
That poets were so from tlieir earliest date. 

By Homer's " Catalogue of ships " is clear; 
But a mere modern must be moderate — 
I spare you then the furniture and plate. 



* Salvator Rosa. 

+ If I err not, "your Dane" is one of lag-o's catalogues of 
nations "exquisite in their drinking." 



LXXY. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game ; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynx-like is his aim ; 
Full grows his bag, and wonder/"wZ his feats. 

Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheas- 
ants ! 

And ah, ye poachers ! — 'T is no sport for peasants. 

LXXYI. 

An English autumn, though it hath no vines, 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 

Hath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, and the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her. 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 

LXXYII. 

Then, if she hath not that serene decline 
AVhich makes tlie southern autumn's day appear 

As if 't would to a second spring resign 
The season, ratlier than to winter drear, — 

Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 
The sea-coal tires, the " earliest of the year ; " 

Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 

As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXYIII. 

And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 
Rife with more horns than hounds— she ha,th tlie 
chase. 

So animated that it might allure a 
Saint from his beads to join the jocund race; 

Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of 
Dura, X 
And wear the Melton jacket for a space : 

If she hath no wild boars, she hath a tame 

Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of— we give the sex the pas— 

The Duchess of Fitz-Falke; the Countess Crabby; 
The Ladies Scilly, Busey ; — Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss O 'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw; 

Also the honorable Mrs. Sleep, 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black sheep : 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank— but rank ; 

At once the " lie " and the '' elite " of crowds ; 
Who i)ass like water filter'd in a tank. 

All purged and pious from their native clouds ; 
Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank : 

No matter how or wliy,the passport shrouds 
The " passee " and the past ; for good society 
Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point ; which point 
Forms tlie most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher station; 

And so that no explosion cry " Aroint 
Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her Jason ; 

Or (to the point with Horace and with Pulci) 

" Omne tulit punctum^ quai miscuit utile dulci.-^ 



t In Assyria. 



575 



CANTO XIIT. 



DON JUAK 



LXXXTT.-XCY. 



LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of ris^ht, 
Which hath a little leanino- to a lottery. 

I 've seen a virtuous woman x)ut down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie ; 

Also a so-so matron boldly fight 
Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 

And shine the very Siria'^ of tlie spheres, 

Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I liave seen more than I '11 say :— but we will see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of tliirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I liave named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIY. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 

Who limits all his battles to the bar 
And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly, 

He shows more appetite for words than war. 
There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who had 
newly 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' star. 
There was Lord Pyrrlio, too, tiie great freethinker ; 
And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXY. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a— duke, 
"Ay, every inch a" duke; there were twelve 
peers 

Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in look 
And intellect, that neitlier eyes nor ears 

For commoners had ever tliera mistook. 
There were the six Miss Ravrbolds— pretty dears ! 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were set 

Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXXYI. 

There v/ere four Honorable Misters, v;hose 
Honor was more before their names than after; 

Tliere was the preux Chevalier de la Kuse, 
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to waft 
here. 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because— such was his magic power to please — 

The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. 

LXXXYII. 

There was Dick Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosopliy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician; 
Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner. 

There was the Reverend Rodomont Precisian, 
Who did not hate so much the sin as sinner : 

And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 

Good at all things, but better at a bet. 

LXXXYIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guardsman ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Wlio ate, last war, more Yankees than lie killVl. 
There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies 
Hardsman,t 

In his grave office so completely skill'd, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation. 

* Siria, i. 6., bitch-star. 

+ George Hardinge, Esq., M. P., one of the Welsh judges, 
died in 1816. 

576 



LXXXIX. 

Good company 's a chess-board — there are kings. 
Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns; the 
world 's a game ; 

Save that the puppets pull at their own strings, 
Methinks gay Punch liath something of the same. 

My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, 
Not stings, and flits through ether without aim, 

Alighting rarely : — were she but a hornet. 

Peril aps there might be vices which would mourn it. 

XC. 

I had forgotten — but must not forget— 

An orator, the latest of the session. 
Who had deliver'd well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trans- 
gression 
Upon debate : the papers echo'd j^et 

With his debut, wliich made a strong impression. 
And rank'd with what is every day display 'd — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

XCI. 

Proud of his " Hear hims ! " proud, too, of his vote 

And lost virginity of oratory. 
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory : 
With memory excellent to get by rote. 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story. 
Graced with some merit, and with more eifrontery, 
" His country 's pride," he came down to the country. 

XCII. 

There also were two wits by acclamation. 
Longbow from Ireland, Strongbow from the 
Tweed,t 

Both lawyers and both men of education ; 
But Strongbow's wit was of more polish 'd breed ; 

Longbov/ was rich in an imagination 
As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 

But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 

While Strongbow's best things might have come 
fromCato. ^^^^^ 

Strongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; 

But Longbow wild as an JEolian harp. 
With which the winds of heaven can claim accord. 

And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a word : 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes carp : 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

XCIY. 

If all these seem an heterogeneous mass 

To be assembled at a country seat, 
Yet think, a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Congreve's fool could vie Avith Moliere's 
beie : 
Society is smooth 'd to that excess. 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

XCY. 

Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground— 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull; 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is nought to cull 
Of folly's fruit ; for though your fools abound. 

They 're barren, and not worth the pains to pull. 
Society is now one polish 'd horde, 
Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored. 

t Curran and Ei-skinc. 



CANTO XIII. 



DON JUAN. 



XCVr.-CYIT. 



XCVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, gleaning 
The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of truth ; 

And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 
You may be Boaz, and I — modest Ruth. 

Furtlier I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening 
Forbids. A great impression in my youth 

Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 

" That Scriptures out of church are blasphemies."* 

XCYII. 

But what we can we glean in this vile age 
Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 

I must not quite omit the talking sage, 
Kit-Cat, the famous conversationist, 

Who, in his commonplace book, had a page 
Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, oh list ! " 

" Alas, poor ghost ! "—What unexpected woes 

Await those who have studied their bons-mots ! 

XCYIII. 

Firstly, they must allure the conversation. 
By many windings, to their clever clinch; 

And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 
Nor hate (abate) their hearers of an indi^ 

But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 
If possible ; and thirdly, never flinch 

When some smart talker puts them to the test. 

But seize the last word, which no doubt 's the best. 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; 

The party we have touch'd on were the guests. 
Tlieir table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts. 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man— the hungry sinner I — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner, f 

C. 

Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk and 
honey," 

Held out unto the hungry Israelites : 
To this we have added since, the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Y'outh fades, and leaves our days no longer sunny ; 

We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah I wlio would lose thee ? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee ! 

The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 
Or hunt : the young, because they liked the sport— 

The first thing boys like after play and fruit ; 
The middle-aged, to make the day more short ; 

For ennui is a growth of English root. 
Though nameless in our language :— we retort 

The fact for words, and let the French translate 

That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. 



* "Mrs. Adams answered Mr. Adams, that it was blasphe- 
mous to talk of Scripture out of church." This dogma was 
broached to her husband— the best Christian in any book.— 
See Joseph Andrews. 

+ "A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of any 
thing than he does of his dinner; and if he cannot jret that 
well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other 
things."— Johnson. 

t It would have taught him humanity at least. This sen- 
timental savage, whom it is a mode to quote (amongst the 
novelists) to show their sympathy for Innocent sports and 
old songs, teaches how to sew up frogs, and break their legs 
by way of experiment, in addition to the art of angling,— the 
crudest, the coldest, and the stupidest of pretended sports. 
They may talk about the beauties of nature, but the angler 
37 



CXI. 
The elderly walked through the library. 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures, 
Or saunter'd through the gardens piteously^ 

And made upon the hot-house several strictures, 
Or rode a nag which trotted not too high. 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
Longing at sixty for the hour of six. 

cm. 

But none were "gene: " the great hour of union 
Was rung by dinner's knell ; till then all were 

Masters of their own time— or in communion, 
Or solitary, as they chose to bear 

The hours, which how to pass is but to few 
known. 
Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his fast 

When, where, and how he chose for that repast. 

CIY. 

The ladies— some rouged, some a little pale- 
Met the morn as they might. If fine, they rode. 

Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale. 
Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad ; 

Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, 
And settled bonnets by the newest code. 

Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter. 

To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

CY. 
For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal. 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon : — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

CYI. 

Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but no dice ; — 
Save in the clubs no man of honor plays ; — 

Boats when 't was water, skating when 't was ice. 
And the hard frost destroy 'd tlie scenting days: 

And angling, too, that solitary vice. 
Whatever Izaal^ Walton sings or says: 

The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 

Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. % 

CYII. 

With evening came the banquet and the wine ; 

The conversazione; the duet. 
Attuned by voices more or less divine 

(My heart or head aches with the memory yet). 
The four Miss Rawbolds in a glee would shine ; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to the harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and arms. 



merely thinks of his dish of fish; he has no leisure to take 
his ej'es from off the streams, and a sing le hitc is worth to him. 
more than all the scenery around. Besides, some fish bite 
best on a rainy day. The whale, the shark, and the tunny 
fishery have somewhat of noble and perilous in them; even 
net fishing, trawling, etc., are more humane and useful. But 
angling!— no angler can be a good man. 

" One of the best men I ever knew,— as humane, delicate- 
minded, generous, and excellent a creature as any in the 
world,— was an angler: true, he angled with painted flies,, 
and would have been incapable of the extravagancies of T.. 
Walton." 

The above addition was made by a friend in reading over 
the MS.— "Audi alteram partem."— I leave it to counterbaL- 
ance my own observation. 

577 



CANTO XTV. 



DON JUAN, 



I.-X. 



cyiii. 

Sometimes a dance (though rarely on field days, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 

Display 'd some sylph-like figures in its maze; 
Then there was small-talk ready when required ; 

Flirtation— but decorous; the mere praise 
Of charms that should or should not be admired. 

The hunters fouglit their fox-hunt o'er again, 

And then retreated soberly— at ten. 

CIX. 

The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the spheres: 
The wits watch'd every loophole for their art, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 

A moment's good thing may have cost them years 
Before they find an hour to introduce it ; 
xVnd then, even tlien^ some bore may make them 
lose it. ^^ 

But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party; polish 'd, smooth, and cold. 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 

There now are no Squire Westerns as of old ; 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic. 

But fair as then, or fairer to behold. 
"We have no accomplish'd blackguards, like Tom 

Jones, 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

CXI. 

They separated at an early hour; 

That is, ere midnight — wdiich is London's noon : 
But in the country ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded fiower — 

May the rose call back its true color soon ! 
Good hours of fair cheeks are the fairest tinters. 
And lower the price of rouge — at least some winters. 



CANTO THE FOURTEENTH. 



I. 

If from great nature's or our own abyss 
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, 

Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss — 
But then 't would spoil much good philosophy. 

One system eats another up, and this 
Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 

For when his pious consort gave him stones 

In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

II. 

But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 
xVnd eats her parents, albeit the digestion 

Is difficult. Pray tell me, can you make fast, 
After due search, your faith to any question ? 

Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 
You bind yourself, and call some mode the best 
one. 

Xothmg more true than not to trust your senses ; 

And yet what are your other evidences ? 

IIL 

For me, I^now nought ; nothing I deny, 
Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you^ 

Except perhaps that you were born to die ? 
And both may after all turn out untrue. 
578 



An age may come. Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep. 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! 
Tlie very Suicide that pays his debt 

At once without installments (an old way 
Of paying debts, which creditors regret). 

Lets out impatiently his rushing breath. 

Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 



'T is round him, near him, here, there, everywhere, 
x\nd there 's a courage which grows out of fear. 

Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
The worst to know it -.—when the mountains rear 

Their peaks beneath your human foot, and there 
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 

The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a minute, 

Without an awful wish to plunge witliin it. 

YI. 

'Tis true, you don't— but, pale and struck with 
terror. 

Retire : but look into your past impression ! 
And you will find, though shuddering at tlie mirror 

Of yourown thougiits, in all their self-confession, 
The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 

To tiie unknown; a secret prepossession, 
To plunge with all your fears— but where ? You 

know not. 
And that 's the reason wdiy you do — or do not. 

VII. 

But what 's this to the purpose ? you will say. 

Gent, reader, nothing ; a mere speculation, 
For which my sole excuse is— 't is my way ; 

Sometimes with and sometimes without occasion, 
I write what 's uppermost, without delay ; 

This narrative is not meant for narration, 
But a mere airy and fantastic basis. 
To build up common things with common places. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, 
"Filing up a straw, 't will show the way the wind 
blows ; " 

And such a straw, borne on by human breath. 
Is poesy, according as the mind glows; 

A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 
A shadow which the onward soul beliind throws : 

And mine 's a bubble, not blo\vn up for praise. 

But just to play with, as an infant plays. 

IX. 

The world is all before me — or behind; 

For I have seen a portion of that same. 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind :— 

Of passions, too, I have proved enough to blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind. 

Who like to mix some slight alloy w*ith fame ; 
For I was rather famous in my time. 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 

X. 

I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other ; that 's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a few. 

And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In j^outh I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because I feel it growing dull. 



CANTO xrv. 



DON JUAK 



XI.-XXV, 



XI. 

But "why then publish ? "—there are no rewards 
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. 

I ask in turn, — Why do you play at cards ? 
Why drink? Why read?— To make some hour 
less dreary. 

It occupies me to turn back regards 
On what I 've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; 

And what I write I cast upon the stream, 

To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 
I think that were I certain of success, 

I hardly could compose another line : 
So long I 've battled either more or less, 

That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 
This feeling 't is not easy to express, 

And yet 't is not affected, I opine. 
In play, there are two pleasures for your choosing— 
The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction : 

She gathers a repertory of facts. 
Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts— 
And that 's one cause she meets with contradiction ; 

For too much truth, at fii^st sight, ne'er attracts ; 
And were her object only what 's calPd glory. 
With more ease too she 'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 
Love, war, a tempest— surely there 's variety ; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's-eye view, too, of that wild. Society ; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every station. 
If you have nought else, here 's at least satiety, 

Both in performance and in preparation ; 
And though these lines should only line port- 
manteaus. 
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

XY. 

The portion of this world which I at present 
Have taken up to fill the following sermon. 

Is one of which there 's no description recent : 
The reason why, is easy to determine : 

Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 
There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 

A dull and family likeness through all ages, 

Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times ; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of commonplace, even in their crimes ; 
Factitious passions, wit without much "salt, 

A want of that true nature wliich sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth monotony 
Of character, in those at least who have got any. 

XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers off parade, 
They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill ; 

But tlien tlie roll-call draws them back afraid. 
And they must be or seem what they were : still 

Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade : 
But when of the first sight you have had your fill. 

It palls — at least it did so upon me, 

This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 
When we have made our love, and gamed our gam- 

Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something 
more; 



With dandies dined ; heard senators declaiming ; 

Seen beauties brouglit to market by the score, 
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 

There 's little left but to be bored or bore. 
Witness those " ci-devant jeunes hommes " who stem 
The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth them. 

XIX, 

'T is said — indeed a general complaint— 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde, exactly as they ought to paint : 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange and quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 

And tliat their books have but one style in com- 
mon — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't Vv^ell be true, just now^ ; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential : 

I 've seen them balance even the scale with fighters, 
Especially when young, for tliat 's essential. 

Wl^.y do their sketches fail them as inditers 
Of what thev deem themselves most consequen- 
tial, 

The real portrait of the highest tribe ? 

'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 

XXI. 

^'•Haud ignara loquor ; " these are Wugm^ " quarurtx 
Pars parva/wi," but still art and part. 

Xow I could much more easily sketch a harem, 
A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, . 

Than these things; and besides, I wish to spare 
'em. 
For reasons w^hich I choose to keep apart. 

" Vetdbo Cereris sacrum qui vulgar it " — 

Which means, that vulgar people must not share it. 

XXII. 

And therefore wdiat I throw off is ideal- 
Lower 'd, leaven'd, like a history of freemasons ; 

Which bears tlie same relation to the real. 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand arcanum 's not for men to see at all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons ; 

And there is mucli which could not be appreciated 

In any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas ! worlds fall — and woman, since she f ell'd 
The world (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, liatli been a creed so strictly held), 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages! coerced, compell'd, 
Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when right, 

Condemn'd to child-bed, as men for their sins 

Have shaving too entail 'd upon their chins,— 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which in the aggregate 
May average on the whole with parturition. 

But as to women, who can penetrate 
The real sufferings of their she condition ? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 
Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion. 

Their love, tlieir virtue, beauty, education, 

But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 

XXV. 

All this were very well, and can't be better ; 

But even this is diflicult. Heaven knows, 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter. 

That but ask any woman if she 'd choose 

579 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAK 



XXVI.-XXXTX. 



(Take lier at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queeu ? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence " is a great reproach, 
"Which even those who obey would fain be 
thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
But since beneath it upon earth we are brought, 

By various joltings of life's hackney coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mystical sublimity, 

N"o matter whether russet, silk, or dimity. 

XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored. 
In my young days, tliat chaste and goodly veil, 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard. 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 

XXVIII. 
And when upon a silent, sullen day, 

With a sirocco, for example, blowing. 
When even tlie sea looks dim with ail its spray, 

And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing. 
And the sky shows that very ancient gTay, 

The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — "^ 
'T is pleasant, if then anything is pleasant, 
To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on climate, 
Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs. 

Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at. 
Because the sun, and stars, and aught that shines. 

Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 
Are there oft dull and dreary as a dan — 
Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 

XXX. 

An indoor life is less poetical ; 

And out-of-door hath showers, and mists, and 
sleet, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small. 

To spoil his undertaking, or complete. 
And work away like spirit upon matter. 
Embarrass 'd somewhat both witli fire and water. 

XXXI. 

Juan— in this respect, at least, like saints- 
Was all things unto people of all sorts. 

And lived contentedly, without complaints. 
In camps, in ships, in cottages, or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints. 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women, 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'Tis also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exc])ange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward stranger : 

* Craning.— ''To crane" is, or was, an expression used to 
denote a g-entleman's stretching- out his neck over a hedge, 
"to look before he leaped;"— a pause in his "vaulting- am- 
bition," which in the field doth occasion some delay and 
execration in those who may be immediately behind the 
equestrian skeptic. "Sir, if you don't choose to take the 
580 



But Juan had been early taught to range 

Tlie wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger, 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause, 
He clear'd hedge, ditch, and double post and rail, 

And never craned.,* and made but few ''faux pan ^''^ 
And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 

He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 
Of hunting— for the sagest youth is frail, 

node o'er tlie hounds, it may^be, now and then. 

And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But on the whole, to general admiration 
He acquitted both himself and horse : the squires 

Marveird at merit of another nation : 
The boors cried " Dang it ! who 'd have thought 
it ?" — Sires, 

The Xestors of the sporting generation. 
Swore praises, and recall 'd their former fires; 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin. 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such were his trophies — not of spear and shield, 
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' 
brushes ; 

Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 

He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
Who, after a long chase o'er hills, dales, bushes. 

And what not, though he rode beyond all price, 

Ask'd next day, " If men ever hunted twice f " f 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 

To early risers after a long chase. 
Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 

December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 
A quality agreeable to woman. 

When her soft, liquid words run on apace, 
Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 
He did not fall asleep just after dinner ; 

XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in the best part of dialogue. 

By humoring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue, 

Xow grave, now gay, but never dull or pert ; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue I — 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer; — 

In short, there never was a better hearer. 

XXXVIII. 

And then he danced ;— all foreigners excel 

The serious Angles in the eloquence 
Of pantomime ;— he danced, I say, right well, 

AVith emphasis, and also with good sense — 
A thing in footing indispensable ; 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 
Xot like a ballet-master in the van 
Of his drill 'd nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound, 
And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure : 



leap, let me ! " — was a phrase which g-enerally sent the aspir- 
ant on ag-ain; and to g-ood purpose: for thoug-h "the horse 
and rider" mig-ht fall, they made a g-ap throug-h which, and 
over him and his steed, the field mig-bt follow. 
t See his Letters to his Son. 



CANTO XIV. 



BON JUAN, 



XL-LIT. 



Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimm'd the ground, 
And rather held in than put forth his vigor ; 

And then he had an ear for music's sound. 
Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigor. 

Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero, 

He glanced like a personified Bolero ; * 

XL. 
Or like a flying Hour before Aurora, 

In Guido's femous fresco, f which alone 
Is worth a tour to Rome, although no more a 

Remnant were there of the old world's sole throne. 
The " tout ensemble " of his movements wore a 

Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
And ne'er to be described ; for to the dolor 
Of bards and prosers, words are void of color. 

XLI. 

Xo marvel then he was a favorite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired ; 
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much 
inspired. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " tracasscrie,^'' 
Began to treat him w^ith some small " agacerie.^^ 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde. 

Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 
For several winters in the grand, grand monde. 

1 'd rather not say what might be related 
Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground; 

Besides there might be falsehood in what 's stated : 
Her late performance had been a dead set 
At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 
A little black upon this new flirtation ; 

But such small licenses must lovers brook, 
Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 

Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 
'T will but precipitate a situation 

Extremely disagreeable, but common 

To calculators when they count on woman. 

XLIY. 

The circle smiled, then whisper 'd, and then sneer'd ; 

The misses bridled, and the matrons frown 'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they 
fear'd; 

Some would not deem such women could be found ; 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they heard ; 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd pro- 
found ; 
And several pitied witli sincere regret 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLY. 

But what is odd, none ever named the duke. 
Who, one might think, was something in the 
affair ; 

True, he was absent, and, 'twas rumor 'd, took 
But small concern about the when, or wliere, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gayeties, none had a right to stare : 



* A Spanish dance noted for its liveliness. 

■f " Guide's most celebrated work, in the palaces of Rome, 
is his fresco of the Aurora, in the Palazzo Rospigliosi."— 
Bryant. 

$ In Swift's or Horace Walpole's letters I think it is men- 
tioned that somebody, regretting- the loss of a friend, was 
answered by an universal Pylades : " When I lose one, I go 



Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt, 
Which never meets, and therefore can't fall out. 

XL VI. 

But, oh ! that I should ever pen so sad a line ! 

Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 
My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 

Began to think the duchess' conduct free ; 
Regretting much that she had chosen so bad a line, 

And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 
Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's fragility, 
For which most friends reserve their sensibility. 

XLYIL 

There 's nought in this bad world like sympathy : 
'Tis so becoming to the soul and face. 

Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh. 
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace. 

Without a friend, what were hum-anity. 
To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 

Consoling us w^ith — "Would you had thought twice ! 

Ah ! if you had but follow'd my advice ! " 

XLYIII. 

Oh, Job ! you had two friends : one 's quite enough, 

Especially when we are ill at ease ; 
They are but bad pilots when the weather 's rough. 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 
Let no man grumble when his friends fall oif , 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 
When your affairs come round, one way or t' other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another, t 

XLIX. 

But this is not my maxim : had it been, 
Some heartaches had been spared me : yet I care 
not— 

I w^ould not be a tortoise in his screen 
Of stubborn shell, which weaves and weather 
wear not. 

'T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 
That which humanity may bear, or bear not : 

'T will teach discernment to tiie sensitive. 

And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, 
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast. 

Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past. 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do. 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last. 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonus mores,'^ 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 
Was not confined to feeling for her friend. 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 
Unless her habits should begin to mend : 

But Juan also shared in her austerity, 
But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was penn'd : 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth. 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LII. 

These forty days' advantage of her years — 
And hers were those which can face calculation. 



to the Saint James's Coffee-house, and take another." I rec- 
ollect having heard an anecdote of the same kind.— Sir W. 
D. was a great gamester. Coming in one day to the club of 
which he was a member, he was observed to look melancholy. 
"What is the matter, Sir William?" cried Hare, of facetious 
memory. " Ah ! " replied Sir W., " I have just lost poor Lady 
D."— " Lost ! What at? Quinze or Hazard f" was the consol- 
atory rejoinder of the querist. 
581 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAK 



LTII.-LXYI. 



Boldly referring to the list of peers 

And noble births, nor dread the enumeration- 
Gave her a riglit to have maternal fears 

For a 3'Omig gentleman's fit education, 
Though she was far from that leap-year, whose leap, 
In female dates, stril^es Time all of a heap. 

LIII. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty- 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue 
Advance bej^ond, wlnle they could pass for new. 

Oh, Time ! why dost not pause ? Thy scythe, so dirty 
AVith rust, should surely cease to hack and hew. 

Eeset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 

If but to keep thy credit as a inower. 

Liy. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age. 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best : 

'T was rather her experience made her sage. 
For she had seen the world and stood its test. 

As I have said in — I forget what page ; 
My Muse despises reference, as you have guess 'd 

By this time; — but strike six from seven-and-twenty, 

xVnd you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LY. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
She put all coronets into commotion : 

At seventeen, too, the world was still enchanted 
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 

At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 

She had consented to create again 

That Adam, caU'd. " The happiest of men." 

LYI. 

Since then she had sparkled through three glowing 
winters. 

Admired, adored ; but also so correct. 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect : 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
S'le liad also snatch'd a moment since her marriage 
To bear a son and heir— and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night ; 

But none of these possessed a sting to wound her — 
Slie was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perliaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder; 
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A woman, so she 's good, what does it signify ? 

LVIII. 

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle 
Wliich with the landlord makes too long a stand. 

Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
Especially with politics on hand ; 

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand ; 

I hate it, as I hate an argument, 

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 

LIX. 

'T is sad to hack into the roots of things. 
They are so much intertwisted with the earth ; 



* The famous Chancellor Oxenstiern said to his son, on the 
latter expressing his surprise upon the great effects arising 
from petty causes in the presumed mj^stery of politics : " You 
see by this, my son, with how little wisdom the kingdoms of 
the world are governed."— [The true story is: young Oxen- 
582 



So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 

I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
To trace all actions to their secret springs 

AVould make indeed some melancholy mirth ; 
But this is not at present my concern, 
And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.* 

LX. 

With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 

The Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist— 

(For foreigners don't know that ^ faux pas 
In England ranks quite on a different list 

From those of other lands unblest with juries. 

Whose verdict for such sin a certain cure is ;— ) 

LXI. 

The I^ady Adeline resolved to take 

Such measures as she thought might best im- 
pede 
The further progress of this sad mistake. 

She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 
But innocence is bold even at the stake, 

And simple in the world, and dotli^not need 
ISTor use those palisades by dames erected, 
Whose virtue lies in never beiag detected. 

LXII. 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst : 
His Grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Commons ; but she dreaded first 
The magic of her Grace's talisman. 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIIL 
Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, 

And somewhat mechante in her amorous sphere ; 
One of those pretty, precious plagues, which haunt 

A lover with caprices soft and dear. 
That like to make a quarrel, when they can't 

Find one, each day of the delightful year : 
Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow, 
And— what is worst of all — won't let you go : 

LXIY. 

Tlie sort of thing to turn a young man's head. 
Or make a Werter of him" in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead, 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

'T is best to pause, and think, ere you rusli on, 

If that a " honnefortune " be really " bonne,''^ 

LXY. 

And first, in the overflowing of her heart. 
Which really knew or thought it knew no guile, 

She call'd lier husband now and then apart. 
And bade him counsel Juan. With a smile 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, 'Mie never interfered 
In anybody's business but tlie king's ; " 

stiern, on being told he was to pi-oceed on some diplomatic 
mission, expressed his doubts of his own fitness for such an 
oflBce. The old chancellor, laughing, answered,—" Nescis, mi 
fill, quantula scientia gubernatur mundus,"! 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAN. 



LXVII-LXXX. 



Next, that "he never judged from what appear'd, 
Without strong reason, of those sort of things : " 

Thirdly, that "Juan had more hrain than beard, 
And was not to be held in leading strings; " 

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 

" That good but rarely came from good advice." 

LXYII. 

And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
At least as far as hienseance allows . 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows ; 

That opposition only moie attaches — 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXYIII. 

And being of the council call'd " the Privy," 

Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet. 
To furnish matter for some future Livy 

To tell how he reduced the nation's debt; 
And if their full contents I do not give ye. 

It is because I do not know them yet ; 
But I shall add them in a brief appendix. 
To come between mine epic and its index. 

LXIX. 

But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle commonplace or two, 

Such as are coin'd in conversation's mint. 
And pass, for want of better, though ]iot new : 

Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't. 
And having casually glanced it through. 

Retired : and, as he went out, calmly kiss'd her, 

Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 

LXX. 

He was a cold, good, honorable man. 
Proud of his birth, and proud of everything ; 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king ; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string ; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the whole — 
I don't know what, and therefore cannot tell — 

Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call soul. 
Certes it was not body ; he was well 

Proportion 'd, as a poplar or a pole, 
A handsome man, that human miracle ; 

And in each circumstance of love or war 

Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXIL 

Still there was something wanting, as I 've said— 

That undefinable " Je ne sqais quoi,'''' 
Which, for what I know, may of yore have led 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
The Greek Eve, Helen, from the Spartan's bed: 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaiis :— 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

LXXIII. 

There is an awkward thing which much per- 
plexes, 

Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
By turns the difference of the several sexes ; 

Neither can show quite hoiv they would be loved. 
The sensual for a short time but connects us— 

The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 

♦ See "La Nouvelle Heloise." 



But both together form a kind of centaur, 
Upon whose back 't is better not to venture. 

LXXIV. 

A something all-suflicient for the heart 
Is that for which the sex are always seeking : 

But how to fill up that same vacant part ? 
There lies the rub — and this they are but weak in. 

Frail mariners afloat without a chart. 
They run before the wind through high seas 
breaking ; 

And when they have made the shore through every 
shock, 

'T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

LXXY. 

There is a flower call'd " Love in Idleness," 
For which see Shakspeare's ever blooming gar- 
den ; — 

I will not make his great description less, 
And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 

If, in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 
I touch a single leaf where he is warden ; — 

But though the flower is different, with the French 

Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " Voila la Fervenche! " * 

LXXVI. 

Eureka! I have found it ! What I mean 

To say is, not that love is idleness. 
But that in love such idleness has been 

An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 
Hard labor 's an indifferent go-between ; 

Your men of business are not apt to express 
Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the Argo, 
Convey 'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXXYII. 

^'Beatus ille procul /" from " ?iegofm,"t 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet 's wrong ; 

His other maxim, " Noscitur a socm," 
Is much more to the purpose of his song ; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious. 
Unless good company be kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whatever their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXYIII. 

Adam exchanged his paradise for ploughing, 
Eve made up millinery with fig leaves — 

The earliest knowledge from the tree so knowing, 
As far as I know, that the church receives : 

And since that time it need not cost much showing, 
That many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 

And still more woman, spring from not employing 

Some hours to make the remnant worth enjoying. 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
Bards may sing what they please about Content; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy'd; 
And hence arise the woes of sentiment. 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform 'd like dances. 

LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen ; 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it. 

Would some believe that such a tale had been :: 
But such intent I never had, nor have it ; ' 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen. 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal in generalities. 

t Hor. Epod., od. ii. 
583 



CANTO XIV. 



DON JUAK 



LXXXI.-XCV. 



LXXXI. 

"An oyster may be cross 'd in love,"* — and why.? 

Because he niopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell : 
And apropos of monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it ditRcult to dwell ; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, 
Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 

But there ^s another little thing, I own. 
Which you should perpetrate some summer's 
day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights ; 

You have freed the blacks— now pray shut up the 

^■'''"^- LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coott bully Alexander ! 

Ship off the Holy Three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that ''sauce for goose is sauce for 
gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall ? 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who eats fire gratis (since the pay 's but small) ; 
Shut up— no, -not the King, but the Pavilion,! 
Or else 't will cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route, 

As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt. 

Were there a jot of sense among mankind ; 
But till that point cVappui is found, alas I 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 't was. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect— 

•Her heart was vacant, though a splendid man- 
sion ; 
Her conduct had been perfectly correct. 

As she had seen nought claiming its expansion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier wrecked, 

Because 'tis frailer, doubtless, than a stanch 
one; 
But when the latter works its own undoing, 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's ruin. 

LXXXVI. 

She loved lier lord, or thought so ; but Ihat love 
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 

The stone of Sisyphus, if once we move 
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 

She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
Xo bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 

Their union was a model to behold, 

§erene and noble— conjugal, but cold. 

LXXXVII.- 

There was no great disparity of years, 
Though much in temper ; but they never clash 'd : 

They moved like stars united in their spheres. 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep. 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. § 



* See Sheridan'i "Critic." 

tThe bald-coot is a email bird of prey in marshes. The 
emperor Alexander was baldish. 

584 



LXXXVIII. 

Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
In anything, however she might flatter 

Herself that her intentions were the best. 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter : 

Impressions were much stronger than she guess'd. 
And gather'd as they run like growing water 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

Firmness yclept in heroes, kings, and seamen. 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly blamed 

As obstinacy, both in men and women. 
Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is tamed :— 

And 't will perplex the casuist in morality 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 

XC. 

Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 
It had been firmness ; now 't is pertinacity : 

Must the event decide T3etween the two ? 
I leave it to your people of sagacity 

To draw the line between the false and true. 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacity: 

My business is with Lady Adeline, 

Who in her way too was a heroine. 

XCI. 

She knew not her own heart ; then how should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan : 
If so, she would have had the strength to fiy 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in danger. — 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a 
stranger. ^^^^ 

She was, or thought she was, his friend — and this 
Without the farce of friendship, or romance 

Of platonism, which leads so oft amiss 
Ladies who have studied friendship but in France, 

Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 
To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 

But of such friendship as man's may to man be 

She was as capable as woman can be. 

XCIII. 

Xo doubt the secret influence of the sex 
Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 

An innocent predominance annex, 
And tune the concord to a finer mood. 

If free from passion, which all friendship checks, 
And your true feelings fully understood, 

Xo friend like to a woman earth discovers. 

So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 

XCIV. 

Love bears within its breast the very germ 
Of change : and how should this be otherwise ? 

That violent things more quickly find a term 
Is shown through nature's whole analogies : i| 

And how should tlie most fierce of all be firm ? 
Would you have endless lightning in the skies ? 

Methinks Love's very title says enough : 

How should " the tender passion " e'er be tough ? 

XCV. 

Alas! by all experience, seldom yet 
(I merely quote what I have heard from many) 

* The king's palace at Brighton. § See ante, p. 28. 

U "These violent delig-hts have violent ends. 
And in their triumph die."— -Romeo and Juliet, 



CANTO XV. 



DON JUAK 



T.-VI. 



Had lovers not some reason to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zanj^ ; 

I 've also seen some wives (not to forget 
The marriage state, the best or M'orst of any) 

Who were the very paragons of wives, 

Yet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCYI. 

I 've also seen some female /He?? cZs ('t is odd, 
But true— as, if expedient, I could prove) 

That faithful were through thick and thin, abroad, 
At home, far more than ever yet was Love — 

Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 
Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 

Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my bat- 
tles. 

Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 

XCVII. 
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
Will be discuss 'd hereafter, I opine : 

At present I am glad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense : 
Tlie surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied Spanish, 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 
"small," 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next canto ; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 
Anticipating aught about the matter : 

They '11 only make mistakes about the fair, 
And Juan too, especially the latter. 

And I shall take a much more serious air 
Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 

It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 

Will fall; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

C. 

But great things spring from little: — Would you 
think. 

That in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion. 
As few would ever dream could form the link 

Of such a sentimental situation ? 
You '11 never guess, I '11 bet you millions, milliards — 
It all sprung from a harmless game at billiards. 

CI. 

'T is strange, — but true ; for truth is alwaj'^s strange ; 

Stranger than fiction : if it could be told, 
How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 

How differently the world would men behold ! 
How oft would vice and virtue places "change ! 

The new world w^ould be nothing to the old, 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

CII. 

What " antres vast and deserts idle " ^ then 
Would be discover 'd in the human soul ! 

What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 



* Othello, act i., sc. iii. 



What Anthropophagi are nine or ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH.\ 



Ah !— What should follow slips from my reflection ; 

Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As apropos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd free. 
All present life is but an interjection. 

An " Oh ! " or " Ah ! " of joy or misery, 
Or a " Ha ! ha ! " or " Bah ! "—a yawn, or " Pooh ! " 
Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

II. 
"But, more or less, the whole 's a syncope 

Or a singultus— emblems of emotion, 
The grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, 
That watery outline of eternity, 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion, 
Which ministers unto the soul's delight. 
In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

III. 

But all are better than the sigh supprest, 
Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 

Making the countenance a mask of rest, 
And turning human nature to an art. 

Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or 
best; 
Dissimulation always sets apart 

A corner for herself ; and therefore fiction 

Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

lY. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors ? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors : 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors ; 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 



And as for love— oh, love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one would wish to read, 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There 's music in the sighing of a reed ; 

There 's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There 's music in all things, if men had ears : 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. ! 

The Lady Adeline, right honorable. 
And honor 'd, ran a risk of growing less so ; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable 
In their resolves— alas ! that I should say so ; 

They differ as wine differs from its label, 
When once decanted ;— I presume to guess so, 

But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, 

TiU old, may undergo adulteration. 

+ Cantos XV. and xvi. were published in London, Marcli, 18^. 
585 



CANTO XV. 



DON JUAK 



VII.-XX. 



YII. 

But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 
Tlie unmingied essence of the grape ; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set ; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which Nature might forego lier debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in 't 

The luck of finding everybody solvent. 

YIII. 

Oh, Death ! thou dunnest of all duns ! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek tradesman when, approaching palely. 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap : 

Bat oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he 
Advances with exasperated rap. 

And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. 

On ready money, or " a draft on Ransom."* 

IX. 

Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from duty. 

The more 's the reason why you ought to stay ; 
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations for your 
booty, ' 

You should be civil in a modest way : 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases. 

X. 

Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 
AVhere she was interested (as was said), 

Because she was not apt, like some of us, 
To like too readily, or too high bred 

To show it — (points we need not now discuss) — 
Would give up artlessly both heart and head 

Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent, 

Tor objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some parts of Juan's history, which Rumor, 
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure. 

She had heard ; but women hear with more good 
humor 
Such aberrations than we men of rigor : 

Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew more 
Strict, and his mind assumed a manlier vigor ; 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

Tiie art of living in all climes with ease.f 

XII. 

His manner was perhax)s the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or constructive 
Of coxcombry or conquest : no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective, 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose. 

And seem to say, " Resist us if you can "— 

AVhich makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 

They are wrong— that 's not the way to set about it ; 

As, if they told the truth, could well be shown. 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it ; 

In fact, his manner was his own alone : 
Sincere he was— at least you could not doubt it, 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 



* Ransom, Kinnaird & Co. were Loi'd Bja-on's bankers. 

+ See Mitf ord's Greece, vol. iii. 

$ Raphael's masterpiece is called the Transfiguration. 

§ As it is necessary in these times to avoid ambiguity, I say 
that I mean, by "Diviner still," Christ. If ever God was 
man — or man God— he was bot??. I never arraigned his creed, 
586 



The devil hath not in all his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIY. 

By nature soft, his whole address held off 
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard 

Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof. 
To shield himself than put you on your guard: 

Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough. 
But modesty 's at times its own reward. 

Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 

Will go much further than there 's need to mention. 

XY. 

Serene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd. 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud. 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs : — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority— 

XYI. 

That is, with men : with women he was what 
They pleased to make or take him for; and 
their 

Imagination 's quite enough for that : 
So that the outline 's tolerably fair. 

They till the canvas up— and " verbum sat." 
If once their fantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful. 

They can transfigure brighter than a Raphael, t 

XYII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 
Was apt to add a coloring from her own : 

'T is thus the good will amiably err, 
And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher. 
But saddest when his science is well known : 

'And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XYIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater Bacon ? 

Great Socrates '? And thou. Diviner still, ^ 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken. 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Yolumes with similar sad illustrations. 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

XIX. 

I perch upon an humbler promontory. 

Amidst life's infinite variety: 
Yv^ith no great care for what is nicknamed glory, 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
I rattle on exactly as I 'd talk 
With anybody in a ride or walk. 

XX. 

I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown iu this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there 's a conversational facility, 
Wliich may round off an liour upon a time. 



but the use — or abuse — made of it. Mr. Canning one day 
quoted Christianitj^ to sanction negro slavei'y, and Mr. Wil- 
berforce had little to say in reply. And was Christ crucified, 
that black men might be scourged ? If so, he had better been 
born a Mulatto, to give both colors an equal chance of free- 
dom, or at least salvation. 



CAIfTO XV. 



BON JTJAIJ. 



XXI.-XXXTTT. 



Of this I 'm sure at least, there 's no servility 

In mine irregularity of chime, 
Which rings what 's uppermost of new or hoary, 
Just as I feel the "Improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

" Omnia vult 'belle Matho dicere — die aliquando 
Et 6e?ie, die neutrimi, die aliquando male.'''' 

The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 
The second may be sadly done or gayly ; 

The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 
The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, daily; 

The whole together is what I could wish 

To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty 's my forte, 
And pride my feeble :— let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 
But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had Avish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ; — but I was born for opposition. 

XXITI. 
But then 't is mostly on the weaker side ; 

So that I verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blo^Ti pride 

Were shaken down, and ''dogs had had their 
day,"* 
Though at the first I might perchance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIY. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think I should have made monastic vows. 
But for my oa\ti peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock 'd my 
brows, 
Kor broken my own head, nor that of Priscian, 

Kor worn the motley mantle of a poet. 

If some one had not told me to forego it.f 

. XXY. 

But " laissez aller " — knights and dames I sing, 
Such as the times may furnish. 'T is a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing, 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 

TJie difficulty lies in coloring 

(Keeping the due proportions still in pight) 

With nature manners which are artificial, 

And rend'ring general that which is especial. 

XXYI. 

The difference is, that in the days of old 
Men made the manners; manners now make 
men — 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their fold, 
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 

l^ow this at all events must render cold 
Your writers, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

The present, with their commonplace costume. 



let 



The cat will mew, and dog will have his day."— Ham- 



XXYII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — March ! 

March, my Muse! If you cannot fly, yet flut- 
ter; 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch. 

Or starch, as are" the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research : 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter. 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
While yet America was in her non-age. J 

XXYIII. 

When Adeline, in all her growing sense 

Of Juan's merits and his situation. 
Felt on the whole an interest intense,— 

Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 
Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 
As women hate half measures, on the whole, 
She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice. 
Like all who give and eke receive it gratis. 

For which small thanks are still the market price. 
Even where the article at highest rate is : 

She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is 

For morals, marriage ; and this question carried, 

She seriously advised him to get married. 

XXX. 

Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 

He had a predilection for that tie : 
But that, at present, with immediate reference 

To his own circumstances, there might lie 
Some difficulties, as in his own preference. 

Or that of her to whom he might apply : 
That still he 'd wed with such or such a lady, 
If that they were not married all already. 

XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself, 
And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin, 

Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 
There 's nothing women love to dabble in 

More (like a stockholder in growing pelf) 
Than match-making in general : 't is no sin 

Ccrtes, but a preventative, and therefore 

That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore. 

XXXII. 

But never yet (except of course a miss 
Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 

Or wed already, who object to this) 
Was there chaste dame who had not in her head 

Some drama of the marriage unities, 
Observed as strictly both at board and bed. 

As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 

They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son. 
Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 
Or grave Lord George, with whom perhaps might 
end 



had required. Two of them were light barques, called cara- 
vels, not superior to river and coasting- craft of more modern 
+ The reader has already seen in what style the Edinburgh days. That such long and perilous expeditions into unknown 
Reviewers dealt with Lord Byron's early performance (see seas should be undertaken in vessels without decks, and that 
Appendix, No. 47, page 634)— the effect which that criticism they should live through the ^aolent temnests by which they 
produced on him at the time. ] were frequently assailed, remain among the singular circum- 

$ " Three small vessels were apparently all that Columbus , stances of those daring voyages."— Washington Irving. 

687 



CANTO XV. 



BON JUAK 



XXXIV.-XLVT. 



A line, and leave posterity undone. 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 
The prospect and their morals : and besides, 
They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIY. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty ; 

For one a songstress who hath no defect, 
For t' other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject, 
Whose sole accomplishments were quite a booty; 

A second for her excellent connections ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXY. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd marriage * 
In his harmonious settlement — (which flourishes 

Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage. 
Because it breeds no more mouths than it nour- 
ishes. 

Without those sad expenses which disparage 
AVhat Xature naturally most encourages) — 

Why call'd he " Harmony " a state sans wedlock ? 

Xow here I 've got the preacher at a dead lock. 

XXXYI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp learn'd this in Germany 
Or no, 't is said his sect is rich and godly. 

Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more broadly. 

My objection 's to his title, not his ritual. 

Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXYII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favor, malgre Malthus, generation- 
Professors of that genial art, and patrons 

Of all the modest part of propagation ; 
Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, 

That half its produce tends to emigration, 
That sad result of passions and potatoes — 
Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXYIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus ? I can't tell; 

I wish she had : his book 's the eleventh com- 
mandment. 
Which says, " Tliou shalt not marry," unless well; 

This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 
'T is not my purpose on his views to dwell, 

Xor canvass what " so eminent a hand " meant ; f 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance. 

Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas doom'd — 
As on the whole it is an even chance 

That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groomed, 
May retrograde a little in the dance 

Of marriage— (which might form a painter's fame, 

Like Holbein's " Dance of Death " J — but 'tis the 
same) :— 



* This extraordinary and flourishing German colony in 
America does not entirely exclude matrimony, as the " Shak- 
ers " do ; but lays such restrictions upon it as prevents more 
than a certain quantum of births within a certain number of 
years; which births (as Mr. Hulme observes) generally ar- 
rive " in a little flock like those of a farmer's lambs, all within 
the same month perhaps." These Harmonists (so called from 
the name of their settlement) are represented as a remarkably 
flourishing, pious, and quiet people. See the various recent 
writers on America. Also for late and interesting statistics 
588 



XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 

In her own mind, and that 's enough for woman : 
But then, with whom ? There was the sage Miss 
Reading, 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and Miss 
Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding. 
She deem'd his merits something more than com- 
mon : 
All these were unobjectionable matches. 
And might go on, if well wound up, like watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond, smooth as summer's sea. 
That usual paragon, an only daughter, 

Wiio seem'd the cream of equanimity, 
Till skimm'd— and then there was "some milk and 
water. 

With a slight shade of blue too, it might be. 
Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter ? 

Love 's riotous, but marriage should have quiet, 

And being consumptive, live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoestring, 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 

Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string ; 
But whether English dukes grew rare of late. 

Or that she had not harp'd upon the true string, 
By which such sirens can attract our great. 

She took up with some foreign younger brother, 

A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was— but why should I go on,* 
Unless the ladies should go off ?— there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one. 
Of the best class, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, | a young star who shone 
O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded ; 

XLIY. 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; left an only 
Child to the care of guardians good and kind ; 

But still her aspect had an air so lonely ! 
Blood is not water ; and where shall we find 

Feelings of youth like those which overthrown lie 
By death, when we are left, alas ! behind. 

To feel, in friendless palaces, a home 

Is w^anting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLY. 

Early in years, and yet more infantine 
In figure, she had something of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine. 
All youth— but with an aspect beyond time; 

Radiant and grave— as pitying man's decline ; 
Mournful— but mournful of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door. 

And grieved for those who could return no more. 

XLYI. 

She was a Catholic, too, sincere, austere. 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd. 



of the American Shakers at this date (1883), see Appleton's, 
Zell's, and Johnson's Encyclopasdias, and the Encyclopaedia 
Britannica. 

+ Jacob Tonson, according to Mr. Pope, was accustomed to 
call his writers "able pens," "persons of honor," and es- 
pecially "eminent hands." Vide Correspondence, etc., etc. 

$ See Disraeli's Curiosities of Literature. 

§ Aurora Raby is a description of Miss Mllbanke as she ap- 
peared to Byron. 



CANTO XV. 



DON JUAK 



XLVIT.-LXT. 



And deem'd that fallen worsliip far more dear 
Perhaps iDecause 't was fallen : her sires were 
proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the ear 
Of nations, and had never bent or how'd 

To novel power ; and as she was the last, 

She held their old faith and old feelings fast. 

XLYII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew, 
As seeking not to know it ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly slie grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew; 
Her spirit seem'd as seated on a throne 

Apart from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its own strength — most strange in one so young ! 

XLYIir. 

Xow it so happen'd, in the catalogue 

Of Adeline, Aurora w^as omitted. 
Although lier birth and wealth had given her vogue, 

Beyond the charmers we have already cited ; 
Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 

Against her being mention'd as well-fitted, 
By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 
Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLTX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
This he express'd half smiling and half serious ; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust. 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a l)aby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Kaby V" 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 
And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since he was sure his mother would fall sick. 
And the Pope thunder excommunication. 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 

LI. 

And wherefore not ? A reasonable reason. 
If good, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, 
And amplify : you lose much by concision, 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same— it wearies out. 

So the end 's gain'd, what signifies the route ? 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice. 
With all the added charm of form and feature. 

For me appears a question far too nice. 
Since Adeline was liberal by nature ; 

But nature 's nature, and has more caprices 

Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIII. 
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd. 
Which charm most people in their earlier day : 

For there are few things by mankind less brook'd, 
And womankind too, if we so may say. 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked, 
Like "Anton^^'s by Csesar," by the few 
Who look upon them as they ought to do. 



LIY. 

It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and lier mind. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest /aii?i was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the "ignes fatui " of mankind. 

It was not but 't is easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not than what it was. 

LY. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 
Of such discussion. She was there a guest.; 

A beauteous ripple of the brilliant streaiu 
Of rank and youth, though purer than the rest. 

Which flow'd on for a moment in tlie beam 
Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling crest. 

Had she known this, she would have calmly smiled— 

She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LYI. 

The dashing and proud air of Adeline 
Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 

Much as she would have seen a glow-worm shine. 
Then turn'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 

Juan was something she could not divine, 
Being no sibyl in the new world's ways; 

Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor. 

Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LYII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 
Which sometimes plays the deuce with woman- 
kind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 
Half virtues and w^hole vices being combined ; 

Faults which attract because they are not tame ; 
Follies trick 'd out so brightly that they blind:— 

These seals upon her Avax made no impression. 

Such was her coldness or her self-possession. 

LYIII. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee; 

Yet each was radiant in her proper sphere : 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea. 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere. 
Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, 

Xor would be thus : — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a flower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound up with this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our narrative. 
And, as my friend Scott says, " I sound my warri- 
son;" 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or Sara- 
cen, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as. none would 
share it, if 
There had not been one Shakspeare and Yoltaire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the surface of humanity. 

I write the world, nor care if the world read. 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and still perhaps may breed 
More foes by this same scroll : when I began it, I 

Thought that it might turn out so — now I know it, 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 
As congresses of late do) of the Lady 
589 



CANTO XV. 



DON JUAN, 



LXIT.-LXXIV. 



Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
Some acids with tlie sweets — for she was lieady ; 

But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
The silvery bell rang, not for "" dinner ready," 

But for that liour, cail'd haJf-lionr^ given to dress, 

Though ladies' robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXII. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table, 
AVith massy plate for armor, knives and forks 

For weapons ; but what iMuse since Homer "s able 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his worksj 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 
Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks, 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout. 

Than witches, b— ches, or physicians, brew. 

LXIII. 

There was a goodly " soupe a la bonne feninie^''^ 
Thoug'h God knows whence it came from ; there 
was, too, 

A turbot for relief of those w^ho cram, 
Relieved with " dindon a la Parigeux ; " 

There also was the sinner that J am ! 

How^ shall I get this gourmand stanza through ? — 

"Soupe a la Beauveau," whose relief was dory, 

Believed itself by pork, for greater glory. 

LXIV. 

But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass; for should I stretch into detail. 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 
Than when some squeamish people tleem her frail ; 

But tliough a " bonne vivante," 1 must confess 
Her stomach -s not her peccant part ; this tale 

However doth require some sliglit refection, 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXY. 

Fowls " a la Conde," slices eke of salmon, 
With " sauces Genevoises," and haunch of veni- 
son; 
Wines too, wdiicli might again have slain young 
Anmion — 
A man like whom I hope we sha'n't see many 
soon; 
They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 

Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; 
And then there was champagne v»^ith foaming 

w^hirls. 
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " a TAllemande," 
" A I'Espagnole," " timballe," and " salpicon " — 

With things I can't withstand or understand. 
Though swallow'd with much zest upon the whole ; 

And " entremets " to piddle with at hand, 
Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 

While great Lucullus' Borne triumphal muffles— - 

( TJiere 's/awie)— young partridge fillets, deck'd with 
truffles.* LXVII.- 

What are the fillets on the victor's brow 
To these ? 'They are rags or dust. Where is the 
arch 

Which nodded to the nation's spoils below ? 
Where the triumphal chariots' haughty march ? 

Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 
Further I shall not follow the research : 



* A dish "d la Lucullus." This hero, who conquered the 
East, has left his more extended celebrity to the transplan- 
tation of cherries (which he first brought into Europe), and 
the nomenclature of some very good dishes;— and I am n»t 
sure that (barring indigestion) he has not done more service 
to mankind by his cookery than by his conquests. A cherry 
590 



But oh ! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When will your names lend lustre e'en to partridges ? 

LXYIII. 

Those truffles too are no bad accessaries, 
Follovv'd by "petits puits d'amour "— a dish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 
AVhich encyclopedize both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " conhtures," it no less true is, 

There 's pretty picking in those '' petits puits. "f 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses ; 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose, from Adam's simple ration, 
That cookery could have cail'd forth such re- 
sources, 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mhigled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell ; 
Also the younger men too : for a springald 

Can't, like ripe age, in gormandise excel, 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper 
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas ! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 

All which 1 use to make my rhymes riin glibber 
Than could roast beef in our rough John J3ull way : 

I must not introduce even a spare rib here, 
" Bubble and squeak " would spoil my liquid lay, 

But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! 

The chaste description even of a "becasse ; " 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout — 

Taste or the gout^ — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach ! Ere you dine, the French will 
do; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove phiin English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout ? I have not had it— 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 

LXXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine. 
Must I pass over in my bill of fare ? 

I must, although a favorite ''' plat " of mine 
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, everywhere : 

On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine, 
The grass my table-cloth, in open air, 

On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 

Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. J 

LXXIY. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl. 

And vegetables, all in masquerade. 
The guests were placed according to their roll, 

But various as the various meats display VI: 



tree may weigh against a bloody laurel ; besides, he has con- 
trived to earn celebrity from both. 

+ "Petits puits d'amour garnis des confitures,"— a classical 
and well-known dish for part of the flank of a second course. 

$ "To-day in a palace, to morrow in a cow-house— this <^ay 
with the pasha, the next with a shepherd."— JB. Letters, 1810. 



CANTO XV. 



DON JUAK 



LXXV.-LXXXTX. 



Don Juan sat next an " a I'Espagnole " — 

Ji^To damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 
But so far like a lady, that 't was drest 
Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXY. 

By some odd chance too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline— 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seeii 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine. 
For Adeline, addressing a few words to liim, 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look through 

^^'"- LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears : 
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 

Are somehow echo'd to the pretty dears. 
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge 
springs. 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres. 
Which no one hears, so loudly though it rings, 

'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word ! 

LXXYIL 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques a preux chevalier— as it ought : 
Of all offences that 's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a 
thought. 
jSTow Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught ; 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 

LXXVIII. 

To his gay nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, as urbanity 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any vanity. 

The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride ? 
Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 

Heaven knows! But Adeline's m.aiicious eyes 

Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as if to say, " I said it ; " 
A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as 1 have seen or read iT;, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit. 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end : 

For all men propliesy what is or teas, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions. 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
.That he would rather make them more than 
less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions. 
Though probably much less a fact 1 han guess) 

So far relax'd her thoughts from their sweet prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering she began to question : this 

With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 
Thought her predictions went not much amiss, 

Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 
So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 
In motion ; but she here too much refined- 
Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 



LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 

A proud humility, if such there be. 
Which sliow'd such deference to what females say, 

As if each charming word were a decree. 
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, 

And taught him when to be reserved or tree ; 
He had the art of drawing people out, 
Without their seeing what he was about. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 
Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more sense 

Tlian whispering foplings, or than witlings loud — 
Commenced (from such slight things will great 
commence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud 
Rather by deference than compliment, 
And wins even by a delicate dissent. 

LXXXIY. 

And then he had good looks ;— that point was carried 
Nem. con. amongst the women, which I grieve 

To say leads oft to crim. con. with the married — 
A case which to the juries we may leave. 

Since with digressions we too long liave tarried. 
Now though we know of old that looks deceive. 

And always have done, somehow these good looks 

Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXY. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage. 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a printed page. 

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 
Has not the natural stays of strict old age ; 

And Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to a penchant, though discreet, for beauty. 

LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates ; 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had fantasies like these, 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should displease 
In virgins— always in a modest way. 
Observe ; for that with me 's a '' sine qua."* 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that, like the great Lord Coke 
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third too, in a nook, 
Or none at all — whicli seems a sorry jest : 

But if a writer should be quite consistent. 

How could he-possibly show things existent ? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 
Help contradicting them, and everybody, 

Even my veracious self V— But that 's a lie : 
I never did so, never will— how should I ? 

He who doubts all things nothing can deny : 
Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams are 
muddy, 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable. 
Are false, but may be render'd also true, 

* Subauditur '■'"non;" omitted for the sake of euphony. 
591 



CANTO XVI. 



DON JUAN. 



I.-ITT. 



By those who sow them in a land that 's arable. 

'T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 
'T is said it makes reality more bearable : 

But what 's reality ? Who has its clue ? 
Philosophy? JS'o; she too much rejects. 
Religion ? Yes; but which of all her sects ? 

XC. 

Some millions must be wrong, that 's pretty clear ; 

Perhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
God help us ! Since we have need on our career 

To keep our holy beacons always bright, 
'T is time that some new prophet should appear, 

Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years. 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 

XCI. 

But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics ? None can hate 

So much as I do any kind of wrangle ; 
And 5^et, such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, or future state: 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 

XCII. 
But though I am a temperate theologian, 

And also meek as a metaphysician, 
Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan 

As Eldon^ on a lunatic commission, — 
In politics my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 
It makes my blood boil like the springs of Hecla,t 
To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break law. 

XCIII. 

But politics, and policy, and piety. 
Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 

ISTot only for the sake of their variety. 
But as subservient to a moral use ; 

Because my business is to dress society. 
And stuff with sage that very verdant goose. 

And now, that we may furnish with some matter all 

Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIY. 
And now I will give up all argument ; 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Shall '' fool me to the top up of my bent :" % — 

Yes, I '11 begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed, I never knew what people meant 

By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous; — I think she is as harmless 
As some who labor more and yet may charm less. 

xcy. 

Grim reader ! did you ever see a ghost ? 

jS'o; but you have heard— I understand— be 
dumb ! 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come : 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
Tliat source of the sublime and the mysterious: — 
Tor certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCYI. 

Serious ? You laugh ;— you may : that will I not ; 

My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 
1 say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — and where ? That shall I not recall, 

* John Scott, Earl of Eldon, Chancellor of England (with 
the interruption of fourteen months) from 1801 to 1830. 
t Hecla, the famous hot spring in Iceland. 
592 



Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 

" Shadov/s the soul of Richard " may appall. 
In short, upon that subject I 've some qualms very 
Like those of the philosopher of Malmsbury. 

XCYII. 

The night — (I sing by night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale)— is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
I wish to heaven they would not look so grim ; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate— 

I think too that I have sat up too late : 

XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 't is by no means my way 
To rhyme at noon— when I have other tilings 

To think of, if I ever think — I say 
I feel some chilly midnight shudderings. 

And prudently postpone, until mid-day, 
Treating a topic which, alas! but brings 

Shadows ;— but you must be in my condition, 

Before you learn to call this superstition. 

XCIX. 

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge. 

How little do we know that which we are ! 
How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 

Of time and tide rolls on and bears afar 
Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 

Lash'd from the foam of ages ; while the graves 

Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 



CANTO THE SIXTEENTH. 



The antique Persians taught three useful things. 
To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the truth. | 

This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings— 
A mode adopted since by modern youth. 

Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 
Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 

At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever. 

But draw the long bow better now than ever. 

II. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 

" For this effect defective comes by cause," Il- 
ls what I have not leisure to inspect ; 

But this I must say in my own applause, 
Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 
In some things, mine 's beyond all contradiction 
The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

III. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From an^^thing, this epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, 
Which you might elsewliere hope to find in vain. 

'T is true there be some bitters with the sweets. 
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't complain. 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

'' De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 



$ Hamlet, act iii., sc. li. 
§ Xenophon, Cyrop. 
II Hamlet, act ii., sc. ii. 



CANTO XVI. 



DON JUAK 



IV.-XVITT. 



lY. 

But of all truths which she has told, the most 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 
What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 
Where all the dwellers of the earth must dwell ? 

'T is time to strike such puny doubters dumb as 

The skeptics who would not believe Columbus. 

Y. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoff ry's Chronicle ; 

Men whose historical superiority 
Is always greatest at a miracle. 

But Saint Augustine has. the great priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible, 

Because His so. W"ho nibble, scribble, quibble, he 

Quiets at once with " quia impossibile." 

YL 

And therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe : — if 't is improbable, you must, 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'T is always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and just 
Receive as gospel, and which grow more rooted. 
As all truths must, the more they are disputed : 

YII. 

I merely mean to say what Johnson said. 
That in the course of some six thousand years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals appears : 

And what is strangest upon this strange head, 
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears 

'Gainst such belief, there 's something stronger 
still 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 

YIII. 
The dinner and the soiree too were done. 

The supper too discuss 'd, the dames admired, 
The banqueteers had dropped oif one by one — 

The song was silent, and the dance expired : 
The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 

Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired. 
And nothing brighter gleam'd through the saloon 
Than dying tapers— and the peeping moon. 

IX. 

Tlie evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, without 
Tlie foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind ; 

X. 

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest. 
Or none ; or like — ^like- nothing that I know 

Except itself ;— such is the human breast ; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness,— like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 

If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.* 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal ! 

XI. 

But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
Undressing is a woe : our robe de chambre 

* Tho nnmposilion of the old Tyrian purple, whether from 
a shell-fish, or from cochineal, or from kermes, is still an 
38 



May sit like that of JSTessus, and recall 
Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than 
amber. 

Titus exclaim'd, '' I 've lost a day ! " Of all 
The nights and days most people can remember 

(I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd), 

I wish they 'd state how many they have gain'd. 

XII. 

And Juan, on retiring for the night, 
Felt restless, and perplex 'd, and compromised: 

He thought Aurora Raby's eyes more bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advised; 

If he had known exactly his own plight. 
He probably would have philosophized : 

A great resource to all, and ne'er denied 

Till wanted ; therefore Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

He sigh'd;— the next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow ; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
To hail her with tlie apostrophe — " Oh, thou ! " 

Of amatory egotism the Tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

XIY. 

But lover, poet, or astronomer, 
Sliepherd, or swain, whoever may behold, 

Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her ; 
Great thoughts we catch from thence (besides a 
cold 

Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; 
Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 

The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 

And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

XY. 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow : 

Tlie Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed. 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 

With all the mystery by midnight caused : 
Below his window waved (of course) a willow ; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That flash 'd and after darken'd in the shade. 

XYI. 

Upon his table or his toilet^— which 

Of these is not exactly ascertain 'd— 
(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 

Of nicety, where a fact is to be gain'd), 
A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from a niche, 

Where many a Gothic ornament remain 'd. 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
That time has left our fathers of their hall. ^ 

XYII. 

Then, as the night was clear though cold, he threw 
His chamber door wide open— and went forth 

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue. 
Long, furnish 'd with old pictures of great worth, 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 
As doubtless should be people of high birth. 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have something ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

XYIII. 

Tlie forms of the grim knight and pictured saint 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 

Backward and forward to the echoes faint 
Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

article of dispute; and even its color— some say purple, 
others scarlet : I say nothing. 

593 



CANTO XYI. 



DON JUAN. 



XIX.-XXXTTT. 



Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 
Start from the frames which fence their aspects 
stern, 
As if to ask how you can dare to keep 
A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

XIX. 

And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 

. The charms of other days, in starlight gleams. 

Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 

Along the canvas ; their eyes glance like dreams 
On ours, or spars within some dusky cave. 

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 
A picture is the past ; even ei« its frame 
Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability, 
Or on his mistress — terms sjTionymous — 

iSTo sound except the echo of his sigh 
Or step ran sadly through that antique house ; 

"When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 
A supernatui'al agent— or a mouse, 

Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 

Most people as it plays along the arras. ^ 

XXL 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, arrayM 
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, appear'd, 

Xow in the moonlight, and now lapsed in shade. 
With steps that trod as heavy, yet unheard ; 

His garments only a slight murmur made ; 
He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird. 

But slowly : and as he passed Juan by. 

Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 
Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 

Of such a spirit in these halls of old. 
But thought, like most men, there was nothing in 't 

Beyond the rumor which such spots uufold, 
Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint. 

Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 
But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 
And did he see this ? or was it a vapor ? 

XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass 'd, repass'd— the thing of air. 
Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place ; 

And Juan gazed upon it with a stare. 
Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 

As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 
Twine like a knot of snakes around his face ; 

He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not 
granted, 

To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIY. 

The third time, after a still longer pause. 
The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the hall 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause 
To think his vanishing unnatural : 

Doors there were many, through which, by the 
laws 
Of physics, bodies whether short or tall 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

xxy. 

He stood— how long he knew not, but it seem'd 
An age— expectant, powerless, with his eyes 

Strain 'd on the spot where first the figure gleam 'd ; 
Then by degrees recall'd his energies. 

And would have pass'd the whole off as a dream. 
But could not wake; he was, he did surmise, 

Waking already, and return'd at length 

Back to his chamber, shorn of half his strength. 
594 



XXVI. 

All there was as he left it : still liis taper 
Burnt, and not 6Zwe, as modest tapers use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapor ; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office : he took up an old newspaper ; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an article the king attacking. 

And a long eulogy of "patent blacking." 

XXYII. 

This savor'd of this world ; but his hand shook : 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undrest, and rather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he had seen his fantasy he fed ; 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXYIII. 

He woke betimes; and, as may be supposed, 
Ponder'd upon his visitant or vision, 

And whether it ought not to be disclosed. 
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition ; 

The more he thought, the more his mind was posed : 
In the mean time, liis valet, whose precision 

Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 

Knock'd to inform him it was time to dress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd ; and like young people he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon 't; 
Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front. 
His clothes were not curb'd to their usual cut. 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost an hair's breadth too much' on one side. 

XXX. 

And when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea. 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
Had it not happen 'd scalding hot to be. 

Which made him have recourse unto his spoon, 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter— Adelitie 

The first— but wliat she could not ,well divine. 

XXXI. 

She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as pale 
Herself; then hastily look'd down, and mut- 
ter'd 

Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 
Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter'd ; 

The Duchess of Eitz-Fulke play'd with her veil, 
And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter'd. 

Aurora Raby with her large dark eyes 

Survey 'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still. 
And everybody wondering more or less. 

Fair Adeline inquired, " If he were ill V " 
He started, and said, " Yes— no— rather— yes." 

The family physician had great skill. 
And being present, now began to express 

His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 

The cause, but Juan said, " He was quite well." 

XXXTII. 

" Quite well ; yes,— no."— These answers were mys- 
terious. 

And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
However they might savor of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 



CANTO XVI. 



DON JUAK 



XXXIV.-XLT. 



Weigh 'd on his spirit, though by no means serious : 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 
To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted 
It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who had now discuss'd his chocolate, 
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, 

Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate. 
At which he marvelPd, since it had not rain'd ; 

Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the duke 
of late? 
Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather pain'd 

With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 

Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

"You look," quoth he, "as if you had had your 
rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

"What Friar? " said Juan; and he did liis best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

" Oh ! have you never heard of the Black Friar ? * 
The spirit of these walls ? "— " In truth not I." 

" Why Fame— but Fame you know 's sometimes a 
liar — 
Tells an odd story, of which by and by : 

Whetlier with time the spectre has grown shyer. 
Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 

For such sights, though the tale is half believed. 

The Friar of late has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

" The last time was " — "I pray*," said Adeline — 

(Who watch 'd the changes of Don Juan's brow, 

And from its context thought she could divine 
Connections stronger than he chose to avow 

With this same legend)— "if you but design 
To jest, you '11 choose some other theme just now, 

Because the present tale has oft been told. 

And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXYIII. 

" Jest ! " quoth Milor ; " why, Adeline, you know 
That we ourselves — 't was in the honeymoon- 
Saw " — " Well, no matter, 't was so long ago ; 

But, come, I '11 set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian when slie draws her bow. 
She seized her harp, whose strings were kindled 
soon 
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

"But add the words," cried Henry, "which you 
made ; 

For Adeline is half a poetess," 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display 'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once, 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation,— 
The charming of these charmers, who seem 
bound. 



* " During a visit to Newstead, in 1814, Lord Byron actually- 
fancied he saw the ghost of the Black Friar, which was sup- 



I can't tell why, to this dissimulation,— 
Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 

At first, then kindling into animation. 
Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound, 

And sang with much simplicity,— a merit 

Not the less precious, that we seldom hear it. 

1. 

Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone. 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 

Made Norman Church his prey. 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 

2. 
Though he came in his might, with King Henry's 
right. 
To turn church lands to lay, 
With sword in hand, and torch to light 

Their walls, if they said nay ; 
A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd. 

And he did not seem form'd of clay. 
For he 's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in the 
church. 
Though he is not seen by day. 

8. 
And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth niglit and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 't is said, 

He flits on the bridal eve ; 
And 'tis held as faith, to tlieir bed of death 

He comes— but not to grieve. 

4. 
When an heir is born, he 's heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'T is shadow'd by his cowl ; 
But his eyes may be seen from the folds between, 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But bevrare ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway. 
For he is yet the church's heir, 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day. 

But the monk is lord by night ; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall. 

And he '11 say nought to you ; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, • 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then gramercy ! for the Black Friar ; 

Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
'And whatsoe'er may be his prayer. 

Let ours be for his soul. 

XLI. 

The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
Died from the touch that kindled them to sound ; 

And the pause follow'd, which when song expires 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 

posed to have haunted the abbey from the time of the dis- 
solution of the monasteries."— Moore. 
595 



CANTO xyi. 



DON JUAN. 



XLII.-LIII. 



And then of course tlie circle much admires, 

Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 
The tones, the feeling, and the execution. 
To the performer's diffident confusion. 

XLII. 
Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 

As if she rated such accomplishment 
As the mere pastime of an idle day. 

Pursued an instant for her own content. 
Would now and then as 't were without display. 

Yet idth display in fact, at times relent 
To such performances with haughty smile, 
To show she could ^ if it were worth her while. 

XLIII. 

Xow this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was— pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride, 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortified, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

Eor a spoilt carpet— but the " Attic Bee " 

Was much consoled by his own repartee.* 

XLIY. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 
(By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 

What dilettanti do with vast parade) 
Their sort of half profession ; for it grows 

To something like this when too oft display 'd ; 
And that it is so, everybody knows, 

Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady 
T'other, 

Show off— to please their company or mother. 

XLY. 

Oh, the long evenings of duets and trios ! 

The admirations and the speculations : 
The " Mamma Mia's ! " and the " xlmor Mio's I " 

The "'' Tanti palpiti's " on sucli occasions : 
The " Lasciami's," and quavering " Addio's ! " 

Amongst our owm most musical of nations ; 
With " Tu mi chamas's " from Portingale, 
To soothe oui" ears, lest Italy should fail.f 

XLYI. 
In Babylon's bravuras — as the liorae 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray Highlands, 
That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 

O'er far Atlantic continents or islands. 
The calentures of music which o'ercome 

All mountaineers with dreams that they are nigh 
lands, 
Xo more to be beheld but in such visions — • 
Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 

XLYII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue.''' 
Could write rhymes, and compose more than she 
wrote, 

Made epigrajms occasionally too 
Upon her friends, as everybody ought. 



* I think that it was a eatipet on which Diog-enes ti'od. with 
—"Thus I trample on the pride of Plato!" — ''With greater' 
pride,", as the other replied. But as carpets are meant to be 
trodden upon, my memory probably misg-ives me, and it 
mig'ht be a robe, or tapestry, or a table-cloth, or some other 
expensive and uneynical piece of furniture. 

+ I remember that the mayoress of a provincial town, some- 
what surfeited with a similar display from foreign parts, did 
rather indecorously break through the applauses of an intel- 
lig-ent audience — intelligent, I mean, as to music— for the 
words, besides being' in recondite languag-e (it was some 
years before the peace, ere all the world had travelled, and 
while I was a colleg-ian). were sorely disguised by the per- 
596 



But still from that sublimer azure hue. 

So much the present dye, she was remote; 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet. 
And what was worse, was not ashamed to show it. 

XLYIII. 

Aurora— since we are touching upon taste, 
Which nowadays is the thermometer 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd — 
'Was more Shaksperian, if I do not err. 

The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste 
Had more of her existence, for in her 

There was a depth of feeling to embrace 

Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as Space. 

XLIX. 
'Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace, 

The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose mind, 
If she had any, was upon her face. 

And that was of a fascinating kind. 
A little turn for mischief you might trace 

Also thereon,— but that 's not much ; we find 
Few females without some such gentle leaven. 
For fear we should suppose us quite in heaven. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic, 
Though once she was seen reading the "Bath 
Guide,'' 
And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd 
pathetic, 
Because she said her temper had been tried 
So much, the bard had really been proplietic 
Of what she had goije through with — since a 
bride. 
But of all verse, v/hat most ensured her praise 
Were sonnets to herself, or "bouts rimes." J 

LI. 

'T were difficult to say what was the object 
Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 

To bear on what appear'd to her the subject 
Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day. 

Perhaps she merely had the simple project 
To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 

Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it. 

Though why I cannot saj" — at least this minute. 

LII. 

But so far the immediate effect 
• Was to restore him to his self -propriety, 
A thing quite necessary to the elect. 

Who wish to take the tone of their society : 
In which you cannot be too circumspect, 

Whether the mode be persiflage or piety. 
But wear the newest niantle of hypocrisy, 
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy.§ 

LIII. 

And therefore Juan now began to rally 
His spirits, and without more explanation 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her Grace, too, also seized the same occasion, 



formers:— this mayoress, I say, broke out with, "Rot your 
Italianos ! for my part, I loves a simple ballat ! " Rossini will 
g-o a g-ood way to bring- most people to the same opinion some 
day. Who would imagine that he was to be the successor of 
Mozart? HoweA^er, I state this with diffidence, as a liege and 
loyal admirer of Italian music in general, and of much of 
Rossini's : but we may say, as the connoisseur did of painting 
in "The Vicar of Wakefield," th3.t "the picture would be 
better painted if the painter had taken more pains." 

t "The last Avords or rhymes of a number of verses given 
to a poet to be filled up."— Todd. 

§ " Petticoat government— female power."— Ibid. 



CANTO XVI. 



BON JUAK 



LTV.-LXVr. 



With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail -d narration 
Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 
About the present family's deaths and wooings. 

JAY. 

Of these few could say more than has been said ; 

They pass'd as such things do, for superstition 
With some, while others, who had more in dread 

The theme, half credited the strange tradition ; 
And much was talk'd on all sides on that liead : 

But Juan, when cross-question'd on the vision, 
AVhich some supposed (though he had not avow'd 

it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in a way to cloud it. 

LY. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 

The company prepared to separate; 
Some to their several pastimes, or to none, 

Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 
There was a goodly match too, to be run 

Between some greyhounds on my lord's estate 
And a young race-horse of old pedigree. 
Match 'd for the spring, whom several went to see. 

LVI. 

There was a picture-dealer who had brought 
A special Titian, warranted original. 

So precious that it was not to be bought. 
Though princes the possessor were besieging all. 

The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 
The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all 

His subjects by his gracious acceptation) 

Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LYII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
The friend of artists, if not arts,— the o^ATier, 

With motives the most classical and pure. 
So that he would have been the very donor. 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honor, 

Had brought the capo d'opera,* not for sale, 

But for his judgment— never known to fail. 

LVIII. 

There was a modern Goth, 1 mean a Gothic 
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect. 

Brought to survey these gray walls, which though 
so thick. 
Might have from time acquired some slight de- 
fect ; 

Who, after rummaging the Abbey through thick 
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect 

New buildings of correctest conformation. 

And throw down old, which he call'd restoration. 

LIX. 

The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 
Set to some thousands ('t is the usual burden 

Of that same tune, when people hum it long) — 
The price would speedily repay its worth in 

An edifice no less sublime than strong. 
By which Lord Henry's good taste would go 
forth in 

Its glory, through all ages shining sunny. 

For Gothic daring shown in English money.f 



* Capo (I'opera— chef -d'oeuv^re— masterpiece. 

+ " Ausu Romano, asre Veneto" is the inscription (and well 
inscribed in this instance) on the sea walls betAveen the Adri- 
atic and Venice. The walls were a republican work of the 
Venetians; the inscription, I believe, imperial ; and inscribed 
by Napoleon the First. It is time to continue to him that title 
— there will be a second by and by, "Spes altera mundi," if 
ne live; let him not defeat it like his father. But in any case. 



LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new purchase; 

Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage. 
And one on tithes, which sure are .Discord's 
torches. 

Kindling Religion till she throws down her gage, 
" Untying " squires " to fight against the 
churches;" J 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and ploughman, 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for jail, their place of convalescence ;' 

There was a country girl in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, since — 

Since — since — in youth, I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily 1 have paid few parish fees since) : 

That scarlet cloak, alas! unclosed with rigor, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

LXII. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery. 
One can't tell how it e'er got in or out; 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt ; 

And merely state, though not for the consistory. 
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner. 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

LXIII. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And morals of the country from caprices 
Of those who have not a license for the same ; 

And of all things, excepting tithes and leases, 
Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 

Preserving partridges and jjretty wenches 

Are puzzles to the most precautious beiicLes. 

LXIY. 

The present culprit was extremely pale. 
Pale as if painted so ; her cheek being red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale 
'Tis white, at least when they just rise from bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming frail, 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are for quality. 

LXY. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner. 

Which the poor thing at times essay 'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility. 
Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner. 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXYI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'd here and 
there. 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study ; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the men sent 



he will be preferable to Imbeciles. There is a glorious field 
for him, if he know how to cultivate it.— [Napoleon, Duke of 
Reichstadt, died at Vienna in 1832— to the disappointment of 
many prophets.] 

* "I conjure you, by that which you profess 
(Howe'er you come to know it), answer me : 
Though ye untie the winds, and let them fight 
Against the churches."— Macbeth. 
597 



CAXTO XVI. 



BON JUAK 



LXVII.-LXXX. 



From to\NTi, viz., arcliiteot and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXYII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall. 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss'd (he hated beer j'clept the "small ") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 

LXYIII. 

You see here was enough of occupation 
For tlie Lord Henry,link'd with dogs and horses, 

There was much bustle too, and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses ; 

Because, as suits their rank and situation, 
Those who in counties haA^e great land resources 

Have ''public days," when all men may carouse, 

Though not exactly what 's call'd *' open house." 

LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, ?minvited 
(Thus we translate a general invitation) 

All country gentlemen,* esquired or knighted, 
May drop in without cards, and take their station 

At the full board, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation ; 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connection. 

Talk o'er themselves the past and next election. 

LXX. 

Lord Henry was a great electioneerer, 
Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 

But county contests cost him rather dearer, 
Because the neighboring Scotch Earl of Gift- 
gabbit 

Had English influence, in the self -same sphere here ; 
His son, the Honorable Dick Dicedrabbit, 

Was member for the *' otlier interest " (meaning 

The same self-interest, with a different leaning). 

LXXI. 

Courteous and cautious therefore in his county. 
He was all things to all men , and dispensed 

To some civility, to others bounty, 
And promises to all — which last commenced 

To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 
Not calculating how much they condensed ; 

But what with keeping some, and breaking others, 

His word had the same value as another's. 

LXXIL 

A friend to freedom and freeholders— yet 
Xo less a friend to government — he held, 

That he exactly the just medium hit 
'Twixt place and patriotism— albeit compell'd, 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure (though unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd). 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish 'd, 

But that with them all law would be demolish 'd. 

LXXIII. 

He was "free to confess "—(whence comes this 
phrase ? 

Is 't English ? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit nowadays 

Had made more progress than for the last century. 
He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to venture 
high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater than the profit. 



LXXIY. 
Heaven, and his friends, knew that a private life 

Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 
But could he quit his king in times of strife, 
Which threaten'd the whole country" with perdi- 
tion ? 
When demagogues would with a butcher's knife 
Cut through and through (oh, damnable inci- 
sion!) 
The Gordian or the Gfordi-an knot, whose strings 
Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. 

LXXY. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list 
And champion him to the utmost " — he would 
keep it, 
Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd : 

Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 
But should the day come when place ceased to 
exist, 
The country would have far more cause to weep 
it : 
For how could it go on ? Explain who can ! 
Me gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXYI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 
Than those who were not paid for independence. 

As common soldiers, or a common shore. 

Have in their several arts or parts ascendance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore, 
Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXYII. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
And thought. I say no more— I 've said too 
much ; 

For all of us have either heard or read— 
Otf — or upon the hustings — some slight such 

Hints from the independent heart or head 
Of the ofiicial candidate. I '11 touch 

Xo more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 

And grace is said ; the grace I should have sung — 

LXXYIII. 

But I 'm too late, and therefore must make play. 

'T was a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 'twas a public feast and public day, — 

Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And everybody out of their own sphere. 

LXXIX. 

The squires familiarly formal, and 
My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand 
Their plates— without it might be too much 
bending 

From their high places by the sideboard's stand — 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both man and master too — their places. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers keen, 
Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhounds deign 'd 
to lurch : 

Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 
Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble screen. 
There were some massy niembers of the church, 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches. 

And several who sung fewer psalms than catches. 



CANTO XVT. 



DON JUAK 



Lxxxr.-xcv. 



LXXXI. 

There were some country wags too — and, alas i 
Some exiles from the town, who had been driven 

To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 

And lo ! upon that day it came to pass, 
I sate next that O'erwhelming son of heaven, 

The very powerful parson, Peter Pith,* 

The loudest wit I e'er was deafen 'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 
A brilliant diner out, though but a curate, 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate 

(Oh, Providence I how wondrous are thy ways! 
Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes ob- 
durate?), 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o 'er Lincoln, 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermops, and his sermons jokes ; 

But both were thrown away amongst th.e fens ; 
For wit hath no great friend in aguish folks. 

Xo longer ready ears and sliort-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax : 

The poor priest was reduced to common sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long. 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick throng. 

LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song, " between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we 've seen — 
But we '11 say nothing of affairs of state) ; 

A differeuce '' 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery ware and plate. 

As between English beef and Spartan broth— 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXY. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 
Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those wiio have few resources of their own, 
And ouly think, or act, or feel, with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXYI. 

But "en avant ! " The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know% 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of yore 
AVith vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and truffles : 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting ruffles. 

LXXXYII. 

Dully pass'd o'er the dinner of the day ; 

And Juan took his place, he knew not where. 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait. 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair : 
Though knives and forks clank 'd round as in a fray. 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there. 
Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXYIII. 

On which, at the third asking of the banns. 
He started ; and perceiving smiles around 

* Query, Sydney Smith, author of Peter Plymley's Letters? 
—Printer's I)e\dl. 



Broadening to grins, he color'd more than once. 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man inore than laughter from a dunce — 
Intlicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurry, that, ere he could curb it. 

He had paid his neighbor's prayer with half a turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third. 

Were angry— as they well might, to be sure, 
They wonder 'd how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ; 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 

XC. 

They little knew, or might have sympathized. 
That he the night before had seen a ghost, 

A prologue which but slightly harmonized 
AVith the substantial company engrossed 

By matter, and so much materialized, 
That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 

Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 

Such bodies could have souls, or souls such bodies. 

XCI. 

But what confused him more than smile or stare, 
From all the 'squires and 'squiresses around, 

Who wonder 'd at the abstraction of his air, 
Especially as he had been renown'd 

For some vivacity among the fair, 
Even in the country circle's narrow bound 

(For little things upon my lord's estate 

Were good small talk for others still less great) — 

XCII. 

Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his. 
And something like a smile upon her cheek. 

Now this he really rather took amiss ; 
In those who rarely smile, their smile bespeaks 

A strong external motive ; and in this 
Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique 

Or hope, or love, with any of the wiles 

Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 
'T was a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity ; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very wise, and still less witty. 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city— 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night 's ghost been driven from their defences. 

XCIY. 
But what was b^d, she did not blush in turn, 

Xor seem embarrass 'd— quite the contrary; 
Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 

And she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye. 
Yet grew a little pale— with what ? concern ? 

I know not ; but her color ne'er was high— 
Though sometimes faintly flush'd — and always 

clear, 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 

XCY. 

But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, condescending 
To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 

And dignity with courtesy so blending. 
As all must blend whose part it is to aim 

(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 
At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's 
Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 
599 



CANTO XVT. 



DON JUAN, 



XCVI.-CIX. 



XCVI. 
Though this was most expedient on the whole, 

And usual— Juan, when he cast a glance 
On Adeline while playing her grand role. 

Which she went through as though it were a dance, 
Betraying only now and then her soul 

By a look scarce perceptibly askance 
(Of weariness or scorn), began to feel 
ISome doubt how much of Adeline w^as real ; 

XCYII. 

So well she acted all and every part 
By turns— with that vivacious veiFatility, 

Wliich many people take for want of heart. 
They err — 't is merely what is call'd mobility.* 

A thing of temperament and not of art, 
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility ; 

Andfalse— though true ; for surely they "re sincerest, 

AVho are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCYIII. 
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers, 

Heroes sometimes, though seldom— sages never; 
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 

Little that 's great, but much of what is clever; 
Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all Exchequer chancellors endeavor, 
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigors. 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 

XCIX. 

Tlie poets of arithmetic are they 

Who, though they prove not two and two to be 
Five, as they might do in a modest way," 

Have plainly made it out that four are three, 
Judging by what they take, and what they pay 

Tlie Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
Tliat most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 

C. 

While Adeline displayed her airs and graces, 
Tlie fair Fitz-Fulke seem 'd very much at ease ; 

Though too well bred to quiz men to their faces. 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could seize 

Tlie ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees— 

And store it up for mischievous enjoyment ; 

And this at present was her kind employment. 

CI. 

However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came. 
Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired : with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same. 
Delighted with their dinner and their host, 
But with the Lady Adeline the most. 

CII. 

Some praised her beauty : others her great grace ; 

The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 
Was obvious in each feature of her face. 

Whose traits were radiant with tlie rays of verity. 
Yes ; she was truly worthy her high place ! 

No one could envy her deserved prosperity. 



* In French *' mobilite." I am not sure that niobilitj' is 
English : but it is expressive of a quality which rather belongs 
to other climates, though it is sometimes seen to a great ex- 
tent in our own. It may be defined as an excessive suscep- 
tibility of immediate impressions— at the same time without 
.loiiing the past: and is, though sometimes apparently useful 
'.to the possessor, a most painful and unhappy attribute.— 
■"That Lord Byron was fully aware not only of the abund- 
.ance of this quality in his own nature, but of the danger in 
GOO 



And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 
Draperied her form wdth curious felicity ! 

cm. 

Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises. 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation. 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and 
faces. 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Theirhideous wives, their horrid selves and dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 

CIY. 

True, she said little— 'twas the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram ; 
But tlien 'tw^as to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's '"' faint praise," so wont to damn. 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an absent friend I 
I ask but this of mine, to — -not defend. 

CY. 

There were but two exceptions to this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one 

Aurora, with her pare and placid mien; 
And Juan, too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he had heard or seen, 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 

He would not join them in a single sally. 

CYI. 

'Tis true he saw Aurora look as though 
She approved his silence ; she perhaps mistook 

Its motive for that charity we owe 
But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Further ; it might or it might not be so. 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie. 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

CYII. 

The ghost at least had done him this much good. 

In making him as silent as a ghost, 
If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most ; 
And certainly Aurora had renew 'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost. 
Or harden 'd : feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
Are so divine, that I must deem them real; — 

CYIII. 

The love of higher things and better days ; 

The unbounded liope, and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's ways; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise, 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne'er entrance 
The heart in an existence of its own. 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 

CIX. 

Who would not sigh Ai at rau KiSeptiav 

That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 



which it placed consistency and singleness of character, did 
not require this note to assure you. The consciousness, in- 
deed, of his own natural tendency to yield thus to every 
chance impression, and change with every passing impulse, 
was not only for e%er present in his mind, but had the effect 
of keeping him in that general line of consistenc3% on certain 
great subjects, which he continued to preserve throughout 
life."— MOOBE. 



CANTO XVT. 



DON JUAK 



CX.-CXXTIT. 



Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian : 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 

Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 
trnwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 

Of Eros: but though thou hast play'd us many tricks, 

Still we respect thee, '' Alma Venus Genetrix i" 

ex. 

And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 

Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his ; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willow^s 
Waved o'er his couch ; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep. 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest. 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress ; 

Completely " sans culotte," and without vest; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 

But apprehensive of his spectral guest. 
He sate with feelings awkward to express 

(By those who have not had such visitations), 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

CXII. 

And not in vain he listen 'd ;— Hush ! what 's that ? 

I see— I see— Ah, no !— 't is not— yet 't is— 
Ye powers ! it is the— the— the — Pooh ! the cat ! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat. 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous. 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIII. 

Again — what is 't ? The wind ? Ko, no,— this 
time 
It is the sable Eriar as before, 
Witli awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime. 

When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made his blood 
curdle. 

CXIV. 

A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,* 
Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight clat- 
ter, 

Like showers which on the midnight gusts will 
pass, 
Sounding like very supernatural water. 

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas! 
For immaterialism 's a serious matter; 

So that even those whose faith is the most great 

In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

CXY. 

Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb. 
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum : 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated) his mouth. What open'd next ?— the door. 

CXVI. 

It open'd with a most infernal creak. 
Like that of hell. '• Lasciate ogni speranza 

* See the account of the ghost of the uncle of Prince 
Chaiies of Saxony, raised by Schroepfer— " Karl — Karl— was 
willstdu rait mir?" 



Yol ch' entrate !" The hinge seem'd to speak. 
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza ; 

Or— but all words upon such themes are weak : 
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero— for what is substance to a spirit ? 

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near it ? 

cxyii. 

The door flew wide, not swiftly ,^but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight— 

And then swung back ; nor close,— but stood awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 

Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright. 

And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood 

The sable Friar in his solemn hood. 

CXYIII. 

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 

The night before ; but being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken ; 

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking ; 
His own internal ghost began to awaken 

Witliin him, and to quell his corporal quaking- 
Hinting that soul and body on the whole 
Were odds against a disembodied soul. 

CXIX. 

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath 
fierce, 

And he arose, advanced — ^the shade retreated ; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated. 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce, 

At whatsoever risk of being defeated : 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, until 
He reach 'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. 

cxx. 

Juan put forth one arm— Eternal powers ! 

It touch 'd no soul, nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 

Checker'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 
He shudder 'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appall. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host's identit} ! 

CXXI. 

But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes glared. 
And rather variably for stony death ; 

Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared. 
The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 

A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd ; 
A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, 

Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy shroud 

The moon peep'd, just escaped from a gray cloud. 

CXXII. 
And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust 

His other arm forth— Wonder upon wonder! 
It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust. 

Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
He found, as people on most trials must, 

That he had made at first a silly blunder, 
And that in his confusion he had caught 
Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 

CXXIII. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul 
Asever lurk'd beneath a holy hood : 

A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 
Forth into something much like flesh and blood ; 

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl. 
And they reveal'd— alas ! that e'er they should I 

In full, voluptuous, but not o'er grown bulk, 

The phantom of her frolic Grace— Fitz-Fulke ! 
601 



ATTEIBUTED POEMS. 



TO JESST.^ 

There is a mystic thread of life 
So clearly wreathed with mine alone, 

That destiny's relentless knife 
At once must sever both or none. 

There is a form, on which these eyes 
Have often gazed with fond delight — 

By day that form their joy supplies, 
And dreams restore it through the night. 

There is a voice, whose tones inspire 
Such thrills of rapture through my breast— 

I would not hear a seraph choir, 
Unless that voice could join the rest. 

There is a face^ whose blushes tell 
Affection's tale upon the cheek — 

But pallid at one fond farewell, 
Proclaims more love than words can speak. 

There is a Zip, which mine hath press'd, 
And none had ever press'd before, 

It vow'd to make me sweetly blest, 
And mine— mine only press'd it more. 

There is a bosom— all my own — 
Hath pillow'd oft this aching head ; 

A mouth which smiles on me alone, 
An eye, whose tears with mine are shed. 

Tliere are two hearts, whose movements thrill 

In unison so closely sweet. 
That, pulse to pulse responsive still, 

They both must heave, or cease to beat. 

There are two souls, whose equal flow 

In gentle streams so calmly run. 
That when they part — they part! — ah ! no, 

They cannot part — those souls are one. 



XIJ^ES 



FOUND IN THE TEAVELIiEKS' BOOK AT CHA- 
MOTJNI. 

How many number'd are, how few agreed, 
In age, or clime, or character, or creed ! 
Here wandering Genius leaves a deathless name, 
And Folly writes— for others do the same. 
Italian treachery, and English pride, 
Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side ! 
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow ; _ 
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow. 
Knew men tlie objects of this varied crew. 
To stare how many, and to feel how few ! 
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school. 
And travelling problems, that admire by rule ; 
The timorous poet wooes his modest muse. 
And thanks his stars he 's safe from all reviews ; 
The pedant drags from out his motley store 
A line some hundred hills have heard before. 
Here critics too (for where 's the happy spot 
So blest by nature as to have them not ?) 
Spit theirVile slander o'er some simple phrase 
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise ; 
Some pompous hint, some comment on mine host, 
Some direful failure, or some empty boast : 

* These stanzas are said to have been addressed hy Lord 
Bvron to Lady Byron a few months before their separation. 
— P. E. 

602 



Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men, 
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen. 
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame, 
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came : 
Here beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock. 
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block, 
Sees the white giant, in his robe of light. 
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height ; 
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains 
And calmer beauties of the classic plains. 
And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek 
Ease for his breast, and color for his cheek, 
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky. 
And views and wonders on his way — to die. 

But he, the author of these idle lines. 
What passion leads him, and what tie confines ? 
For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, 
What joy elates him, and what grief consumes ? 
Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old. 
What matters! — bootless were his story told. 
Some praise at least one act of sense may claim ; 
He wrote these verses, but he hid his name. 



TO LADY GABOLINE LAMB. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt. 

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me ? 
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt 

On one unbroken dream of thee ? 
But love like ours must never be, 

And I will learn to prize thee less, 
As thou hast fled, so let me flee, 

And change the heart thou mayst not bless. 

They '11 tell thee, Clara ! I have seem'd. 

Of late, another's charms to woo. 
Nor sigh'd, nor frown 'd, as if I deem'd 

That thou wert banish 'd from my view. 
Clara ! this struggle— to undo 

What thou hast done too well, for me— 
This mask before the babbling crew— 

This treachery — was truth to thee ! 

I have not wept while thou wert gone, 

Nor worn one look of sullen woe ; 
But sought, in many, all that one 

(Ah! need I name her !) could bestow. 
It is a duty which I owe 

To thine— to thee— to man— to God, 
To crush, to quench this guilty glow, 

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. 

But, since my breast is not so pure. 

Since still the vulture tears my heart, 
Let me this agony endure. 

Not thee, oh ! dearest as thou art ! 
In mercy, Clara ! let us part. 

And I will seek, yet know not how. 
To shun, in time, the threatening dart ; 

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. 

But thou must aid me in the task, 

And nobly thus exert thy power; 
Then spurn me hence— 't is all I ask— 

Ere time mature a guiltier hour; 
Ere wrath's impending vials shower 

Remorse redoubled on my head ; 
Ere flres unquenchably devour 

A heart whose hope has long been dead. 

Deceive no more thyself and me. 
Deceive not better hearts than mine ; 



ATTRIBUTED P0E3IS. 



Ab, shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, 
From woe like ours— from shame like thine ! 

And if there be a wrath divine, 
A pang beyond this fleeting breath, 

E'en now all future hope resign : 
Such thoughts are guilt — such guilt is death ! 



THE PBINCE OF WHALES. 

lo Psean ! lo ! sing 
To the finny people's king- 
Not a mightier whale than this 
In the vast Atlantic is ; 
Not a fatter fish than he 
Flounders round the Polar sea ; 
See his blubber— at his gills 
What a world of drink he swills, 
From his trunk as from a spout ! 
Which next moment he pours out. 
Such his person : next declare. 
Muse ! who his companions are. 
Every fish of generous kind 
Scuds aside or slinks behind, 
But about his person keep 
All the monsters of the deep; 
Mermaids, with their tales and singing, 
His delighted fancy slinging; 
Crooked dolphins, they surround liim ; 
Dog-like seals, they fawn around him : 
Following hard, the progress mark 
Of tlie intolerant salt sea-shark — 
For his solace and relief 
Flat fish are his courtiers chief; — 
Last and lowest of his train. 
Ink-fish, libellers of the main, 
Their black liquor shed in spite — 
(Such on earth the things that write). 
In his stomach, some do say 
No good thing can ever stay ; 
Had it been the fortune of it 
To have swallow 'd the old prophet. 
Three days there he 'd not have dwell 'd, 
But in one have been expell'd. 
Hapless mariners are they 
Who, beguiled, as seamen say, 
Deeming it some rock or island, 
Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land. 
Anchor in his scaly rind ; 
Soon the difference they find. 
Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them — 
Does to ruthless waves bequeath them. 
Name or title, what has he ? 
Is he regent of the sea ? 
From the difficulty free us, 
Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnseus! 
With his wondrous attributes 
Say — what appellation suits ? 
By his bulk and by his size, 
By his oily qualities, 
Tliis, or else my eye-sight fails. 
This should be the Prince of Whales. 



ON THE LETTEE I. 
(written in a lady's scrap-book.) 

I am not in youth, nor in manhood, nor age. 

But in infancy ever am known ; 
I 'm a stranger alike to the fool and the sage, 
And though I 'm distinguish 'd in history's page, 

I always am greatest alone. 

I am not in earth, nor the sun, nor the moon ; 

You may search all the sky— I 'm not there : 
In the morning and evening— though not in the noon , 
You may plainly perceive me— for, like a balloon, 

I am midway suspended in air. 



I am always in riches, and yet I am told 
Wealth ne'er did my presence desire ; 
I dwell with the miser, but not with his gold. 
And sometimes I stand in his chimney so cold, 
Though I serve as a part of the fire. 

I often am met in political life— 

In my absence no kingdom can be ; 

And they say there can neither be friendship nor 
strife. 

No one can live single, no one take a wife, 
Without interfering with me. 

My brethren are many, and of my whole race 

Not one is more slender and tall ; 
And though not the eldest, I hold the first place, 
And even in dishonor, despair, and disgrace, 

I boldly appear 'mong them all. 

Though disease may possess me, and sickness and 
• pain, 

I am never in sorrow or gloom ; 
Though in wit and in wisdom I equally reign, 
I 'm the heart of all sin, and have long lived in vain. 

Yet I ne'er shall be found in the tomb. 



TO MY DEAB MABY ANNE. 

» 

Adieu to sweet Mary for ever ! 

From her I must quickly depart : 
Though the fates us from each other sever, 

Still her image shall dwell in my heart. 

The flame that within my breast burns 
Is unlike what in lovers' hearts glows; 

The love which for Mary I feel 
Is far purer than Cupid bestows. 

I wish not your peace to disturb, 

I wish not your joys to molest ; 
Mistake not my passion for love, 

'T is your friendship alone I request. 

Not ten thousand lovers could feel 
The friendship my bosom contains; 

It will ever within my heart dwell. 
While the warm blood flows through my veins. 

May the Kuler of Heaven look down. 

And my Mary from evil defend ! 
May she ne'er know adversity's frown ! 

May her happiness ne'er have an end ! 

Once more, my sweet Mary, adieu ! 

Farewell ! I with anguisli repeat ; 
For ever I '11 think upon you, ■ 

While this heart in my bosom shall beat. 



STANZAS. 



I heard thy fate v^ithout a tear, 
Thy loss with scarce a sigh ; 

And yet thou wert surpassing dear — 
Too loved of all to die. 

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye 

The tears refuse to start ; 
But every drop its lids deny 

Falls dreary on my heart. 

Yes — deep and heavy, one by one, 
They sink, and turn to care ; 

As cavern 'd waters w^ear the stone, 
Yet, dropping, harden there. 

They cannot petrify more fast 
Than feelings sunk remain'. 

Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past, 
But never melt again. 
603 



APPENDIX. 



NOTES TO THE POEMS 



(ttlulde l^rold's piligrimaje. 



NOTE 1. 

*■ See page 7. Stanza xli. 

Battle of Talavera. 

•* To feed the crow on Talavera' s plain^ 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain." 

We think it right to restore here a note which Lord BjTon 
himself suppressed Avith reluctance, at the urgent request of 
a friend. It alludes, inter alia^ to the then recent publication 
of Sir Walter Scott's "Vision of Don Roderick," of which 
work the profits had been handsomely given to the cause of 
Portuguese patriotism: "We have heard wonders of the 
Portuguese lately, and their gallantry. Pray Heaven it con- 
tinue ! yet 'would it were bed-time, Hal, and all were well !' 
They must fight a great many hours, by ' Shrewsbury clock,' 
before the number of their slain equals that of our country- 
men butchered by these kind creatures, now metamoi'phosed 
Into 'cacadores,' and what not. I merely state a fact, not 
confined to Portugal ; for in Sicily and Malta we are knocked 
on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sic- 
ilian or Maltese is ever punished ! The neglect of protection 
is disgraceful to our government and governors ; for the 
murders are as notorious as the moon that shines upon them, 
and the apathy that overlooks them. The Portuguese, it is to 
be hoped, are complimented with the ' Forlorn Hope,'— if the 
cowards are become brave (like the rest of their kind, in a 
corner), pray let them display it. But there is a subscription 
for these ' 5pao-»'-6eiA.oi' (they need not be ashamed of the 
epithet once applied to the Spartans) ; and all the charitable 
patronymics, frojn ostentatious A. to diflident Z., and 11. Is. 
Od. from ' An admirer of Valor,' are in requisition for the 
lists at Lloj-d's, and the honor of British benevolence. Well ! 
we have fought, and subscribed, and bestowed peerages, and 
buried the killed by our friends and foes ; and, lo ! all this is 
to be done over again ! Like Lien Chi (in Goldsmith's Citizen 
of the World), as we 'grow older, we grow never the better.' 
It would be pleasant to learn who will subscribe for us, in or 
about the year 1815, and what nation will send fifty thousand 
men, first to be decimated in the capital, and then decimated 
again (in the Irish fashion, nine out of teti) in the 'bed of 
honor;' which, as Sergeant Kite saj^s, is considerably larger 
and more commodious than ' the bed of Ware.' Then they 
must have a poet to write the ' Vision of Don Perceval,' and 
generously bestow the profits of the well and Avidely printed 
quarto, to rebuild the 'Backwynd ' and the ' Canongate,' or 
furnish new kilts for the half-roasted Highlanders. Lord 
Wellington, however, has enacted marvels ; and so did his 
Oriental brother, whom I saw charioteering over the French 
flag, and heard clipping bad Spanish, after listening to the 
speech of a patriotic cobbler of Cadiz, on the event of his 
own entry into that city, and the exit of some five thousand 
bold Britons out of this 'best of all possible worlds.' Sorely 
were we puzzled how to dispose of that same victory of Tala- 
vera ; and a victory it surely was somewhere, for everybody 
claimed it. The Spanish despatch and mob called it Cuesta's, 
and made no great mention of the viscount; the French 
604 



called it theirs (to my great discomfiture,— for a French con- 
sul stopped my mouth in Greece with a pestilent Paris Ga- 
zette, just as I had killed Sebastiana 'in buckram.' and King 
Joseph 'in Kendal green ')— andwe have not yet determined 
what to call it, or ichose ; for. certes, it was none of our own. 
Howbeit, Massena's retreat is a great comfort; and as we 
have not been in the habit of pursuing for some years past, 
no wonder we are a little awkward at first. No doubt Ave 
shall improve ; or, if not, we have only to take to our old 
way of retrograding, and there we are at home." 



NOTE 2. 

See page 14. Stanza ocii. 

Removal of the Works of Art from Athens. 

"But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast. 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared.'' 

At this moment (January 3, 1810), besides what has been al- 
ready deposited in London, an Hydriot vessel is in the Pi- 
raeus to receive every portable relic. Thus, as I heard a 
young Greek observe, in common with many of his country- 
men—for, lost as they are, they yet feel on this occasion- 
thus may Lord Elgin boast of having ruined Athens. An 
Italian painter of the first eminence, named Lusieri, is the 
agent of devastation ; and like the Greek j^nder of Verres in 
Sicily, who followed the same profession, he has proved the 
able instrument of plunder. Between this artist and the 
French consul Fauvei, who wishes to rescue the remsiins for 
his own government, there is now a Wolent dispute concern- 
ing a car employed in their convej'ance, the wheel of which 
—I wish they were both broken upon it!— has been locked up 
by the consul, and Lusieri has laid his complaint before the 
waj^wode. Lord Elgin has been extremely happy in his 
choice of Signor Lusieri. During a residence of ten yeai-s 
in Athens, he never had the curiosity to proceed as far as 
Sunium (now Cape Colonna), till he accompanied us in our 
second excursion. However, his works, as far as they go, 
are most beautiful; but they are almost all unfinished. 
While he and his patrons confine themselves to tasting med- 
als, appreciating cameos, sketching columns, and cheapening 
gems, their little absurdities are as harmless as insect or .fox- 
hunting, maiden speechifying, barouche-driving, or any 
such pastime ; but when they carry away three or four ship- 
loads of the most valuable and massy relics that time and 
barbarism have left to the most injured and most celebrated 
of cities; when they destroj', in a vain attempt to tear down 
those works which have been the admiration of ages, I know 
no motive which can excuse, no name which can designate 
the perpetrators of this dastardly devastation. It was not 
the least of the crimes laid to the charge of Verres, that he 
had plundered Sicily, in the manner since imitated at Athens. 
The most unblushing impudence could hardly go further 
than to aflSx the name of its plunderer to the walls of the 
Acropolis; while the wanton and useless defacement of the 
whole range of the basso-relievos, in one compartment of the 
temple, will never permit that name to be pronounced by an 
observer without execration. 

On this occasion I speak impartially : I am not a collector 
or admirer of collections, consequently no rival ; but I ha\ o 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRI3IAGE. 



some early prepossessions in favor of Greece, and do not 
think the honor of England advanced by plunder, whether 
of India or Attica. 

Another noble lord has done better, because he has done 
less ; but some others, more or less noble, yet "• all honorable 
men," have done hesU because, after a deal of excavation 
and execration, bribery to the waywode, mining and coun- 
termining, they have done nothing at all. We had such ink 
shed, and wine shed, which almost ended in bloodshed! 
Lord E.'s "pi-ig"— see Jonathan Wild for the definition of 
"priggism"— quarrelled with another, Gropius'^ by name (a 
very good name too for his business), and muttered some- 
thing about satisfaction, in a verbal answer to a note of the 
poor Prussian: this was stated at table to Gropius, who 
laughed, but could eat no dinner afterwards. The rivals 
were not reconciled when I left Greece. I have reason to 
remember their squabble, for they wanted to make me their 
arbitrator. 



NOTE 3. 

See 'page 16. Stanza xxxviii. 

Albania and the Albanians. 

" Land of Albania !- let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men!" 

Albania comprises part of Macedonia, IlljTia, Chaonia, and 
Epirus. Iskander is the Turkish Avord for Alexander; and 
the celebrated Scanderbeg (Lord Alexander) is alluded to in 
the third and fourth lines of the thirtj^-eighth stanza. I do 
not know whether I am correct in making Scanderbeg the 
countryman of Alexander, who was born at Pella in Mace- 
don, but Mr. Gibbon terms him so, and adds Pyrrhus to the 
list, in speaking of his exploits. 

Of Albania Gibbon remarks, that a country " within sight 
of Italy is less known than the interior of America." Cir- 
cumstances, of little consequence to mention, led Mr. Hob- 
house and myself into that country before we visited any 
other part of the Ottoman dominions ; and with the excep- 
tion of Major Leake, then officially resident at Joannina, no 
other Englishmen have ever advanced beyond the capital 
into the interior, as that gentleman very lately assured me. 
Ali Pacha was at that time (October, 1809) carrying on war 
against Ibrahim Pacha, whom he had driven to Berat, a 
strong fortress, which he was then besieging; on our arrival 
at Joannina we were invited to Tepaleni, his highness's birth- 
place, and favorite serai, only one day's distance from Berat; 
vA this juncture the vizier had made it his headquarters. Af- 
ter some stay in the capital, we accordingly followed ; but 
though furnished with every accommodation, and escorted 
by one of the vizier's secretaries, we were nine days (on ac- 
count of the rains) in accomplishing a journey Avhich, on our 
return, barely occupied four. On our route we passed two 
cities, Argyrocastro and Libochabo, apparently little inferior 
to Yanina in size; and no pencil or pen can ever do justice 
to the scenery in the vicinity of Zitka and Delvinachi, the 
frontier village of Epirus and Albania proper. 

On Albania and its inhabitants I am unwilling to descant, 
because this will be done so much better by my fellow trav- 
eller, in a work which may probably precede this in publica- 
tion, that I as little wish to follow as I would to anticipate 
him. But some few observations are necessary to the text. 
The Ai'naouts, or Albanese, struck me forcibly bj^ their re- 
semblance to the Highlanders of Scotland, in dress, figure, 
and manner of living. Their very mountains seemed Cale- 
donian, with a kinder climate. The kilt, though white; the 
spare, active form ; their dialect, Celtic in its sound, and their 
hardy habits, all carried me back to Morven. No nation are 
so detested and dreaded by their neighbors as the Albanese ; 
the Greeks hardly regard them as Christians, or the Turks as 
Moslems; and in fact they are a mixture of both, and some- 
times neither. Their habits are predatory— all are armed; 
and the red-shawled Arnaouts, the Montenegrins, Chimariots 

1 This Sr. Gropius was employed by a noble lord for the sole pur- 
pose of sketching, in which he excels ; but I am sorry to say, that 
he has, through the abused sanction of that most respectable name, 
been treading at humble distance in the steps of Sr. Lusieri. — A 
shipful of his trophies was detained, and I believe confiscated, at 
Constantinople in 1810. I am most happy to be now enabled to 
state, that " this was not in his bond :" that be was employed solely 
as a painter, and that his noble patron disavows all connection with 



and Gegdes are treacherous ; the others differ somewhat in 
garb, and essentially in character. As far as my own experi- 
ence goes, I can speak favorably. I was attended by two, an 
Infidel and a Mussulman, to Constantinople and every other 
part of Turkey which came within my observation; and 
more faithful in peril, or indefatigable in service, are rarely 
to be found. The Infidel was named Basilius, the Moslem, 
Dervish Tahiri ; the former a man of middle age, and the lat- 
ter about my own. Basilius was strictly charged by Ali 
Pacha in person to attend us ; and Dervish was one of fifty 
who accompanied us through the foi'ests of Acarnania to the 
banks of Achelous, and onward to Messalonghi in ^tolia. 
There I took him into my own service, and never had occa- 
sion to repent it till the moment of my departure. 

When, in 1810, after the departure of my fi-iend Mr, Hob- 
house for England, I Avas seized Avith a scA^ere fcA'er in the 
Morea, these men saved my life by frightening aAvay my 
physician, Avhose throat they threatened to cut if I was not 
cured Avithin a glA-en time. To this consolatory assurance of 
posthumous retribution, and a resolute refusal of Dr. Roma- 
nell's prescriptions, I attributed my recovery. 1 had left my 
last remaining English serA^ant at Athens; my dragoman 
Avas as ill as myself, and my poor Arnaouts nursed me Avith 
an attention Avhich Avould haAC done honor to ciAalization. 
They had a A^ariety of adA^entures ; for the Moslem, Dervish, 
being a remarkably handsome man, Avas ahvays squabbling 
with the husbands of Athens; insomuch that four of the 
principal Turks paid me a visit of remonstrance at the con- 
A'ent, on the subject of his haAang taken a Avoman from the 
bath— whom he had laAvfully bought, hoAvever— a thing quite 
contrary to etiquette. Basilius also Avas extremely gallant 
amongst his own persuasion, and had the greatest A^enera- 
tion for the church, mixed with the highest contempt of 
churchmen, Avhom he cuffed upon occasion in a most het- 
erodox manner. Yet he ncA'er passed a church without 
crossing himself; and I remember the risk he ran In enter- 
ing Saint Sophia, in Stambol, because it had once been a 
place of his worship. On i-emonstrating AA-ith him on his 
inconsistent proceedings, he iuA-ariably answered, " Our 
church is holy, our priests are thieves;" and then he crossed 
himself as usual, and boxed the ears of the first "papas" 
who refused to assist in any required operation, as was 
always found to be necessary where a priest had any influ- 
ence with the cogia bashi of his Aillage. Indeed, a more 
abandoned race of miscreants cannot exist than the lower 
orders of the Greek clergy. 

When preparations Avere made for my return, my Alban- 
ians Avere summoned to receiA-e their pay. Basilius took his 
Avith an awkward shoAv of regret at my intended departure, 
and marched away to his quarters Avith his bag of piastres. 
I sent for DerAish, but for some time he was not to be found ; 
at last he entered, just as Signor Logotheti, father to the ci- 
dcA-ant Anglo-consul of Athens, and some other of my Greek^ 
acquaintances, paid me a A-isit. DerAish took the money,' 
but on a sudden dashed it to the ground; and clasping his 
hands, which he raised to his forehead, rushed out of the 
room weeping bitterly. From that moment to the hour of 
my embarkation, he continued his lamentations, and all our 
efforts to console him only produced thisansAver, "M' a<}>eit'ei," 
" He leaA-es me." Signor Logotheti, Avho never wept before 
for anything less than the loss of a para (about the foui-th of 
a farthing), melted ; the padre of the couA^ent, my attendants, 
my visitors— and I A'erily believe that even Sterne's " foolish 
fat scullion " Avould haAC left her " fish-kettle " to sympathize 
with the unaffected and unexpected sorroAV of this barba- 
rian. 

For my OAvn part, when I remembered that, a short time 
before my departure from England, a noble and most inti- 
mate associate had excused himself from taking leave of me 
because he had to attend a relation "to a milliner's," I felt 
no less surprised than humiliated by the present occurrence 
and the past recollection. That DerAish would leaAC me 
Avith some regret was to be expected ; AA^hen master and man 
haA'e been scrambling OA^er the mountains of a dozen prov- 
inces together, they are unwilling to separate; but his pres- 
ent feelings, contrasted with his natiA^e ferocity, improA'ed 

him, except as an artist. If the error in the first and second edi- 
tion of this poem has given the noble lord a moment's pain, I am 
very sorry for it: Sr. Gropius has assumed for years the name of 
his agent; and though I cannot much condemn myself for sharing 
in the mistake of so many, I am happy in being one of the first to 
be undeceived. Indeed, I have as much pleasure in contradicting 
this as I felt regret in stating it.— Note to third edition. 

605 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



my opinion of the human heart. I believe this almost feudal 
fidelity is frequent among-st them. One day, on our journey 
over Parnassus, an Englishman in my service gave him a 
push in some dispute about the baggage, which he unluckily 
mistook for a blow ; he spoke not, but sat down, leaning his 
head upon his hands. Foreseeing the consequences, we en- 
deavored to explain away the affront, which produced the 
following answer : — " I have been a robber ; I am a soldier ; no 
captain ever struck me ; you are my master, I have eaten 
your bread, but by that bread ! (an usual oath) had it been 
otherwise, I would have stabbed the dog your servant, and 
gone to the mountains." So the affair ended, but from that 
day forward he never thoroughly forgave the thoughtless 
fellow who insulted him. Der\-ish excelled in the dance of 
his country, conjectured to be a remnant of the ancient 
Pyrrhic : be that as it may, it is manlj% and requires wonder- 
ful agility. It is very distinct from the stupid Romaika, the 
dull round-about of the Greeks, of which our Athenian party 
had so many specimens. 

The Albanians in general (I do not mean the cultivators of 
the earth in the provinces, who have also that appellation, 
but the mountaineers) have a fine cast of countenance ; and 
the most beautiful women I ever beheld, in stature and in 
features, we saw levelling the road broken down by the tor- 
rents between Delvinachi and Libochabo. Their manner of 
walking is truly theatrical; but this strut is probably the 
effect of the capote, or cloak, depending from one shoulder. 
Their long hair reminds you of the Spartans, and their cour- 
age in desultory warfare is unquestionable. Though they 
have some cavalry amongst the Gegdes, T never saw a good 
Arnaout horseman ; my own preferred the English saddles, 
which, however, they could never keep. But on foot they 
are not to be subdued by fatigue. 



NOTE 4. 
See page 19. Stanza Ixxii. 

SPECISrEN OF THE AliBANIAN OR AbNAOUT DIALECT OF THE 
IliliYBIC. 

" Tr7u7e thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream' d.'' 

As a specimen of the Albanian or Arnaout dialect of the 
niyric, I here insert two of their most popular choral songs, 
which are generally chanted in dancing by men or women 
indiscriminately. The first words are merely a kind of 
chorus witho ut meaning, like some in our own and all other 
languages. 

1. Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 1. Lo, Lo, I come, I come ; be 
Naciarura, popuso. thou silent. 

2. Naciarura na ci^-in 2. I come, I run ; open the door 
Ha pen derini ti hin. that I may enter. 

3. Ha pe uderi escrotini 3. Open the door by halves, 
Ti vin ti mar servetinl. that I may take my tur- 
ban. 

4. Caliriote me surme 4. Caliriotes ^ with the dark 
Ea ha pe pse dua five. eyes, open the gate that I i 

maj' enter. 1 

5. Buo, Bo, Bo, Bo, Bo, 5. Lo, Lo, I hear thee, my soul. 
Gi egem spirta esimiro. 

6. Caliriote vu le funde 6. An Arnaout girl, in costly 
Ede vete tunde tunde. garb, walks with graceful 

pride. 

7. Caliriote me surme 7. Caliriot maid of the dark 
Ti mi put e poi mi le. eyes, give me a kiss. 

8. Se ti puta citi mora 8. If I have kissed thee, what 
Si mi ri ni veti udo gia. hast thou gained ? My soul 

Is consumed with fire. 

9. Va le ni il che cadale 9. Dance lightly, more gently, 
Celo more, more celo. and gently still. 

10. Plu hariti tirete 10. Make not so much dust to 

Plu huron cai pra seti. destroy your embroid- 

ered hose. 
The last stanza would puzzle a commentator : the men have 
certainly buskins of the most beautiful texture, but the 
ladies (to whom the above is supposed to be addressed) have 
nothing under their little yellow boots and slippers but a 



well-turned and sometimes very white ankle. The Arnaout 
girls are much handsomer than the Greeks, and their dress 
is far more picturesque. They preserve their shape much 
longer also, from being always in the open air. It is to be 
observed, that the Arnaout is not a written language : the 
Avords of this'song, therefore, as well as the one which fol- 
lows, are spelt according to their pronunciation. They are 
copied by one who speaks and understands the dialect per- 
fectly, and who is a native of Athens. 

1. Ndi sef da tinde ulavossa 1. I am wounded by thy love, 
Vettimi upri vi lofsa. and have loved but to 

scorch myself. 

2. Ah vaisisso mi privi lofse 2. Thou hast consumed me ! 
Si mi rini mi la vosse. Ah, maid! thou hast struck 

me to the heart. 



Uti tasa roba stua 
Sitti eve tulati dua. 



4. Roba stinori ssidua 
Qu mi sini vetti dua. 

5. Qurmini dua civileni 
Roba ti siarmi tildi emi. 



1 The Albanese, particularly the women, are frequently termed 
" Caliriotes ;" for what reason I inquired in vain. 

606 



3. I have said I wish no dowry, 
but thine eyes and eye- 
lashes. 

4. The accursed dowry I want 
not, but thee only. 

5. Give me thy charms, and 
let the portion feed the 

flames. 

6. TJtara pisa vaisisso me 6. I have loved thee, maid, 

simi rin ti haptl with a sincere soul, but 

Eti mi hire a piste si gui thou hast left me like a 

dendroi tiltati. withered tree. 

7. TJdi Aoira udorini udiri 7. If I have placed my hand on 

cicova cilti mora thy bosom, what have I 

Udorini taltl hollna u gained ? my hand is with- 

ede caimoni mora. drawn, but retains the 

flame. 
I believe the two last stanzas, as they are in a different 
measure, ought to belong to another ballad. An idea some- 
thing similar to the thought in the last lines was expressed 
by Socrates, whose arm haAing come in contact with one of 
his " iiTTo/coATTiot,'' Critobulus or Cleobulus, the philosopher 
complained of a shooting pain as far as his shoulder for some 
days after, and therefore very properly resolved to teach his 
disciples in future without touching them. 



NOTE 5. 

See page 19. Stanza locxiii. 

Thoughts on the Present State of Greece. 

" Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great I" 

I. 

Before I say anything about a city of which everybody, 
traveller or not, has thought it necessary to say something, 
I will request Miss Owenson, when she next borrows an 
Athenian heroine for her four volumes, to have the goodness 
to marry her to somebody more of a gentleman than a 
"Disdar Aga" (who by the by Is not an aga), the most im- 
polite of petty officers, the greatest patron of larceny Athens 
ever saw (except Lord E.), and the unworthy occupant of the 
Acropolis, on a handsome annual stipend of one hundred 
and fifty piastres (eight pounds sterling), out of which he has 
only to pay his garrison, the most ill-regulated corps in the 
Ill-regulated Ottoman Empire. I speak it tenderly, seeing I 
was once the cause of the husband of "Ida of Athens" nearly 
suffering the bastinado; and because the said "Disdar" is a 
tui'bulent husband, and beats his wife ; so that I exhort and 
beseech Miss Owenson to sue for a separate maintenance in 
behalf of "Ida." Ha%-ing premised thus much, on a matter 
of such import to the readers of romances, I may now leave 
Ida, to mention her birthplace. 

Setting aside the magic of the name, and all those asso- 
ciations which it would be pedantic and superfluous to re- 
capitulate, the very situation of Athens Avould render it the 
favorite of all who have eyes for art or nature. The climate, 
to me at least, appeared a pei-petual spring; during eight 
months I never passed a day without being as many hours 
on horseback ; rain is extremely rare, snow never lies in the 
plains, and a cloudy day is an agreeable rarity. In Spain, 
Portugal, and every part of the East which I Aasited, except 
Ionia and Attica. I perceived no such superiority of climate 
to our own; and at Constantinople, where I passed May, 



NOTES TO CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



June, and part of July (1810), you migrht *' damn the climate, 
and complain of spleen," five days out of seven. 

The air of the Morea is heavj' and unwholesome, but the 
moment j'^ou pass the isthmus in the direction of Megrara the 
change isstriking-Jy perceptible. But 1 fear Hesiod will still 
be found correct in his description of a Boeotian winter. 

We found at Livadia an "esprit fort" in a Greek bishop, 
of all freethinkers ! This worthy hypocrite rallied his OAvn 
religion with great intrepidity (but not before his flock), a«d 
talked of amass as a " coglioneria." It was .impossible to 
think better of him for this ; but, for a Boeotian, he was brisk 
with all his absurdity. This phenomenon (with the excep- 
tion indeed of Thebes, the remains of Chferonea, the plain 
of Platea, Orchomenus, Livadia, and its nominal cave of 
Trophonius) was the only remarkable thing we saw before we 
passed Mount Cithferon. 

The fountain of Dirce turns a mill : at least my companion 
(who, resolving to be at once cleanly and classical, bathed in 
it) pronounced it to be the fountain of Dirce, and anybodj- 
who thinlcs it worth while maj' contradict him. At Castri 
we drank of half a dozen streamlets, some not of the purest, 
before we decided to our satisfaction Avhich was the true 
Castalian, and even that had a villainous twang, probably 
from the snow, though it did not throw us into an epic fever, 
like poor Dr. Chandler. 

From Fort Phjie, of which large remains still exist, the 
plain of Athens, Pentelicus, Hj'mettus, the ^gean, and the 
Acropolis, burst upon the eye at once; in my opinion, a 
more glorious prospect than even Cintra or Istambol. Not 
the view from the Troad, with Ida, the Hellespont, and the 
more distant Mount Athos, can equal it, though so superior 
in extent. 

I heard much of the beauty of Arcadia, but excepting the 
view from the monasterj^ of IVIegaspelion (which is inferior 
to Zitza in a command of countrj'), and the descent from the 
mountains on the way from Tripolitza to Argos, Arcadia has 
little to recommend it beyond the name. 

" Sternitur, et duZces moriens reminiscitur Argos." 

Virgil could have put this into the mouth of none but an 
Argive, and (with reverence be it spoken) it does not deserve 
the epithet. And if the Polynices of Statins, "In mediis 
audit duo litora campis," did actually hear both shores in 
crossing the isthmus of Corinth, he had better ears than hav^ 
ever been worn in such a journey since. 

"Athens," says a celebrated topographer, "is still the most 
polished city of Greece." Pei-haps it may be of Greece, but not 
of the Greeks; for Joannina in Epirus is universally allowed, 
amongst themselves, to be superior in the wealth, refine- 
ment, learning, and dialect of its inhabitants. The Athen- 
ians are remarkable for their cunning ; and the lower orders 
are not improperly chai'acterized in that proverb, which 
classes them with " the Jews of Salonica, and the Turks of 
the Negropont." 

Among the various foreigners resident in Athens, French, 
Italians, Germans, Ragusans, etc., there Avas never a differ- 
ence of opinion in their estimate of the Greek character, 
though on all other topics they disputed with great acri- 
mony. 

M. Fauvel, the French consul, who has passed thirty years 
principally at Athens, and to whose talents as an artist, and 
manners as a gentleman, none who have known him can 
refuse their testiraonj% has frequently declared in my hear- 
ing that the Greeks do not deserve to be emancipated; rea- 
soning on the groiinds of their " national and individual de- 
pravity !" while he forgot that such depravity is to be attri- 
buted to causes which can only be removed by the measure 
he reprobates. 

M. Roque, a French merchant of respectability long settled 
in Athens, asserted with the most amusing gravity, " Sir, 
they are the same canaille that existed in the days of Themis- 
tocles .'" an alarming remark to the " Laudator temporis acti." 
The ancients banished Themistocles ; the moderns cheat 
Monsieur Roque : thus great men haA'e ever been treated ! 

In short, all the Franks who are fixtures, and most of the 
Englishmen, Germans, Danes, etc., of passage, came over by 
degrees to their opinion, on much the same grounds that a 
Turk in England would condemn the nation by wholesale, 
because he was wronged by his lackey, and overcharged by 
his washerwoman. 

Certainly it was not a little staggering when the Sieurs 
Fauvel and Lusieri, the two gi-eatest demagogues of the day, 
who diWde between them the power of Pericles and the 
populai'ity of Cleon, and puzzle the poor waywode with per- 



petual differences, agreed in the utter condemnation, " nulla 
virtute redemptum," of the Greeks in general, and of the 
Athenians in particular. 

For my own humble opinion, I am loth to hazard it, know- 
ing as I do that there be noAvin MS. no less than five tours of 
the first magnitude and of the most threatening aspect, all 
in tjTpographical array, by persons of Avlt and honor, and 
regular commonplace books : but, if I may say this Avithout 
offense, it seems to me rather hard to declare so positiAcly 
and pertinaciously, as almost everybody has declared, that 
the Greeks, because they are A-ery bad, will ncA'er be better. 

Eton and Sonnini haAe led us astray hy their panegyrics 
and projects ; but, on the other hand, De PauAv and Thornton 
haA'e debased the Greeks beyond their demerits. 

The Greeks Avill never be independent ; they will ncA^er be 
sovei-eigns as heretofore, and God forbid they ever should ! 
but they may be subjects Avithout being slaves. Our colonies 
are not independent, but they are free and industrious, and 
such may Greece be hereafter. 

At present, like the Catholics of Ireland and the Jcavs 
throughout the Avorld, and such other cudgelled and hetero- 
dox people, they suffer all the moral and physical ills that 
can afflict humanity. Their life is a struggle against truth ; 
they are vicious in their OAvn defense. They are so unused 
to kindness, that Avhen they occasionally meet with it they 
look upon it with suspicion, as a dog often beaten snaps at 
your fingers if you attempt to caress him. "They are un- 
grateful, notoriouslj% abominably ungrateful!" — this is the 
general crj'. Noav, in the name of Nemesis! for what are 
they to be grateful? AVhere is the human being that ever 
conferred a benefit on Greek or Greeks? They are to be 
grateful to the Turks for their fetters, and to the Franks for 
their broken promises and lying counsels. They are to be 
grateful to the artist A\rho engraves their niins, and to the 
antiquarj- who carries them aAvay; to the traA^eller Avhose 
janissary flogs them, and to the scribbler whose journal 
abuses them! This is the amount of their obligations to 
foreigners. 

II. 
Franciscan Convent, Athens, January 23, 1811. 

Amongst the remnants of the barbarous policy of the ear- 
lier ages, are the traces of bondage Avhich yet exist in differ- 
ent countries ; Avhose inhabitants, hoAvcAer diA'ided in religion 
and manners, almost all agree in oppression. 

The English haA-e at last compassionated their negroes, and, 
under a less bigoted goA-ernment, may probably one day 
release their Catholic brethren : but the interposition of f or- 
eignei'S alone can emancipate the Greeks, Avho, otherAvise, 
appear to haA-e as small a chance of redemption from the 
Turks, as the Jcavs have from mankind in general. 

Of the ancient Greeks Ave knoAV more than enough ; at least 
the j-ounger men of Europe deA'ote much of their time to the 
study of the Greek Avritex's and histoi-y, which Avould be more 
usefully spent in mastering their oaa^u. Of the moderns Ave 
are perhaps more neglectful than they deserA^e ; and Avbile 
CA-ery man of any pretensions to learning is tiring ou.t his 
youth, and often his age, in the study of the language and of 
the harangues of the Athenian demagogues in faA'or of free- 
dom, the real or supposed descendants of these sturdy repub- 
licans are left to the actual tyranny of their masters, although 
a very slight effort is required to strike off their chains. 

To talk, as the Greeks themselves do, of their lising again 
to their pristine superiority, Avould be ridiculous; as the rest 
of the Avorld must resume its barbarism, after reasserting the 
soA'ereigntj^ of Greece : but there seems to be no A-ery great 
obstacle, except in the apathy of the Franks, to their becom- 
ing an useful dependency, or CA-en a free state with a proper 
guarantee ;— under correction, hoAvcA-er, be it spoken, for 
many and Avell-informed men doubt the practicability even 
of this. 

The Greeks haA^e ncA-er lost their hope, though thej' are 
noAvmore diAided in opinion on the subject of their probable 
deliA'erers. Religion recommends the Russians; but they 
haA-e tAvice been deceiAcd and abandoned by that power, and 
the dreadful lesson they receiA-ed after the MuscoAite deser- 
tion in the Morea has ncA-er been forgotten- The French 
they dislike ; although the subjugation of the rest of Europe 
will, probably, be attended by the deliverance of continental 
Greece. The islanders look to the English for succor, as 
they haA^e very lately possessed theraseh^es of the Ionian re- 
public, Corfu excepted. But whocA-er appear with arms in 
their hands will be welcome; and Avhen that day arrives, 
HeaA-en haA-e mercy on the Ottomans ! they cannot expect it 
from the Giaours. 

607 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



But instead of considering what they have been, and specu- 
lating on what thej' may be, let us look at thera as they are. 

And here it is impossible to reconcile the contrariety of 
opinions: some, particulariy the merchants, decrying the 
Greeks in the strongest language others, generally travellers, 
turning periods in their eulogy, and publishing very curious 
speculations grafted on their former state, which can have no 
more effect on their present lot, than the existence of the 
Incas on the future fortunes of Peru. 

One very ingenious person terms them the "natural allies 
of Englishmen ;" another, no less ingenious, will not allow 
them to be the allies of anybody, and denies their very de- 
scent from the ancients ; a third, more ingenious than either, 
builds a Greek empire on a Russian foundation, and realizes 
(on paper) all the chimeras of Catherine II. As to the ques- 
tion of their descent, what can it import whether the Mainotes 
are the lineal Laconians or not? or the present Athenians as 
indigenous as the bees of Hymettus, or as the grasshoppers, 
to which they once likened themselves? What Englishman 
cares if he be of a Danish, Saxon, Norman, or Trojan blood ? 
or who, except a Welshman, is afllicted with a desire of being 
descended from Caractacus? 

The poor Greeks do not so much abound in the good things 
of this world, as to render even their claims to antiquity an 
object of envy ; it is very cruel, then, in Mr. Thornton to 
disturb them in the possession of all that time has left them ; 
viz., their pedigree, of which they are the more tenacious, as 
it is all they can call their own. It would be worth while to 
publish together, and compare the works of Messrs. Thornton 
and De Pauw, Eton and Sonnlni ; paradox on one side, and 
prejudice on the other. Mr. Thornton conceives himself to 
have claims to public confidence from a fourteen years' resi- 
dence at Pera ; perhaps he may on the subject of the Turks, 
but this can give him no more insight into the real state of 
Gi'eece and her inhabitants, than as many years spent in 
Wapping into that of the Western Highlands. 

The Greeks of Constantinople live in Fanal; and if Mr. 
Thornton did not oftener cross the Golden Horn than his 
brother merchants are accustomed to do, I should place no 
great reliance on his information. I actually heard one of 
these gentlemen boast of their little general intercourse with 
the city, and assert of himself, with an air of triumph, that 
he had been but four times at Constantinople in as many 
5'cars. 

As to Mr. Thornton's voyages in the Black Sea with Greek 
vessels, they gave him the same idea of Greece as a cruise to 
Berwick in a Scotch smack would of Johnny Grot's house. 
Upon what grounds then does he arrogate the right of con- 
demning by wholesale a body of men, of whom he can know 
little ? It is rather a curious circumstance that Mr. Thorn- 
ton, who so lavishly dispraises Pouqueville on every occasion 
of mentioning the Turks, has yet recourse to him as author- 
ity on the Greeks, and terms him an impartial observer. 
Now, Dr. Pouque^'ille is as little entitled to that appellation as 
Mr. Thornton to confer it on him. 

The fact is, we are deplorably in want of information on 
the subject of the Greeks, and in particular their literature ; 
nor is there any probability of our being better acquainted, 
till our intercourse becomes more intimate or their inde- 
pendence confirmed ; the relations of passing travellers are as 
little to be depended on as the invectives of angry factors ; 
but till something more can be attained, we must be content 
with the little to be acquired from similar sources.* 

However defective these may be, they are preferable to the 



* A word, era passanl, with Mr. Thornton and Dr. Pouqueville, 
who have been guilty between thera of sadly clipping the sultan's 
Turkish. Dr. Pouqueville tells a long story of a Moslem who swal- 
lowed corrosive sublimate in such quantities that he acquired the 
nnme of " Suleymnn Yeijen," i. e., quoth the doctor, '' S'lleymnn, the 
eo'er of corrosive sublima/e." "Aha," thinks Mr. Thornton (antrry 
with the doctor for the fiftieth time), " have I caught you ?" Then, 
in a note twice the thickness of the doctor's anecdote, he questions 
the doctor's proficiency in the Turkish tongue, and his veracity in 
his own. " For," observes Mr. Thornton (after inflicting on us the 
tough participle gf a Turkish verb), " it means nothing more than 
SiiJeyman (he eater," and quite cashiers the supplementary " sub- 
Ihnnte." Now both are right, and both are wrong. If Mr. Thornton, 
when he next resides "fourteen years in the factory," will consult 
his Turkish dictionary, or ask any of his Stamboline acquaintance, 
he will discover that " Sit fey ma' n yeyen," put together discreetly, 
mean the " Swallower of sublimate''' without any " Suleyman" in the 
case; "<?u?ey7rwi" signifying "corro5?re 5M/;/»'ni'^r/e," and not being a 
proper name on this occasion, although it be an orthodox name 

608 



paradoxes of men who have read superficially of the ancients 
and seen nothing of the moderns, such as De Pauw; who, 
when he asserts that the British breed of horses is ruined by 
Newmarket, and that the Spartans were cowards in the field, 
betrays an equal knowledge of English horses and Spartan 
men. His " philosophical observations " have a much better 
claim to the title of "poetical." It could not be^ expected 
that he who so liberally condemns some of the most cele- 
brated institutions of the ancient, should have mercy on the 
modern Greeks ; and it fortunately happens, that the absurd- 
ity of his hypothesis on their forefathers refutes his sentence 
on themselves. 

Let us trust, then, that, in spite of the prophecies of De 
Pauw, and the doubts of Mr. Thornton, there is a reasonable 
hope of the redemption of a race of men, who, whatever may 
be the errors of their religion and policy, have been amply 
punished by three centuries and a half of captivity. 

III. 

Athens, Franciscan Convent, March 17, 1811. 
•' I must have some talk with this learned Thebao." 

Some time after my return from Constantinople to this city 
I received the thirty-first number of the Edinburgh Review 
as a great faA'or, and certainlj-- at this distance an acceptable 
one, from the captain of an English frigate off Salamis. In 
that number. Art. 3, containing the re\iew of a French 
translation of Strabo, there are introduced some remarks on 
the modern Greeks and their literature, with a short account 
of Coray, a co-translator in the French version. On those 
remarks I mean to ground a few observations; and the spot 
where 1 now write Avill, I hope, be suflicient excuse for intro- 
ducing them in •a work in some degree connected Avith the 
subject. Coray, the most celebrated of living Greeks, at least 
among the Franks, was born at Scio (in the Review Smyrna 
is stated, I have reason to think, incorrectly), and besides the 
translation of Beccaria and other works mentioned by the 
Reviewer, has published a lexicon in Romaic and French, if 
I may trust the assurance of some Danish travellers lately 
arrived from Paris; but "the latest we have seen here in 
French and Greek is that of Gregory Zolikogloou.t Coray 
has recently been involved in an unpleasant controversy 
with M. Gail,$ a Parisian commentator and editor of some 
translations from the Greek poets, in consequence of the In- 
stitute having awarded him the prize for his A'ersion of Hip- 
pocrates' " Uepi vSoiTov," etc., to the disparagement, and conse- 
quently displeasure, of the said Gail. To his exertions, lite- 
rary and patriotic, great praise is undoubtedly due; but a 
part of that praise ought not to be withheld from the two 
iDrothers Zosimado (merchants settled in Leghorn), who sent 
him to Paris, and maintained him, for the express purpose of 
elucidating the ancient, and adding to the modern, researches 
of his countrymen. Coray, however, is not considered by 
his countrymen equal to some who lived in the two last cen- 
turies ; more particularly Dorotheus of Mitylene, whose Hel- 
lenic writings are so much esteemed by the Greeks, that 

Moletius terms him " Mera toi/ @0VKv5iSr}p Kai aevocjxiiVTa 

apto-Tos 'EAAjJrcov." (P. 224 Ecclcsiastical History, vol. iv.) 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, the translator of Fontenelle, and 
Kamarases, who translated Ocellus Lucanus on the Universe 
jnto French, Christodoulus, and more particularly Psalida, 
whom I have conversed with in Joannina, ai'e also in high 
repute among their literati. The last mentioned has pub- 
lished in Romaic and Latin a work on "True Happiness," 



enough with the addition of n. After Mr. Thornton's frequent 
hints of profound Orientalism, he might have found this out before 
he sang such pseans over Dr. Pouqueville. 

After this I think "Travellers veistts Factors" shall be our motto, 
though the above Mr. Thornton has condemned " hoc genus omne," 
for mistake and misrepresentation. "Ne Sutor ultra crepidam," 
"No merchant beyond his bales."— N. B. For the benefit of Mr. 
Thornton : "Sutor" is not a proper name. 

t I have in ray possession an excellent lexicon " TpiyAwo-o-ov," 

which I received in exchange from S. G , Esq., for a small gem : 

my antiquarian friends have never forgotten it, nor forgiven rae. 

X In Gail's pamphlet against Coray, he talks of " throwing the 
insolent Hellenist out of the window." On this a French critic ex- 
claims, " Ah, my God I throw an Hellenist out of the window ! what 
sacrilege I" It certainly would be a serious business for those 
authors who dwell in the attics; but I have quoted the passage 
merely to prove the similarity of stylo among the controversiali.sts 
of all polished countries; London or Edinburgh could hardly par- 
allel this Parisian ebullition.' 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



dedicated to Catherine 11. ButPolyzois, who is stated by the 
Keviewer to be the only modern except Coray who has dis- 
ting-uished himself by a knowledge of Hellenic, if he be the 
Poij'zois Lampanitziotes of Yanina, who has published a 
number of editions in Romaic, was neither more nor less than 
an itinerant vender of books ; with the contents of which he 
had no concern beyond his name on the title-page, placed 
there to secure his property in the publication ; and he was, 
moreover, a man utterly destitute of scholastic acquirements. 
As the name, however, is not uncommon, some other Polyzois 
may have edited the Epistles of Aristsenetus. 

It is to be regretted that the system of continental blockade 
has closed the few channels through which the Greeks re- 
ceived their publications, particularly Venice and Trieste. 
Even the common grammars for children are become too 
dear for the lower orders. Amongst their original works the 
Geography of Meletius, Archbishop of Athens, and a multi- 
tude of theological quartos and poetical pamphlets, are to be 
met with ; their grammars and lexicons of two, three, and 
four languages are numerous and excellent. Their poetry is 
in rhyme. The most singular piece I have lately seen is a 
satire in a dialogue between a Russian, English, and French 
traveller, and the wajnvode of Wallachia (or blackbey, as 
they term him), an archbishop, a merchant, and cogia bashi 
(or primate), in succession ; to all of whom under the Turks 
the writer attributes their present degeneracy. Their songs 
are sometimes pretty and pathetic, but their tunes generally 
unpleasing to the ear of a Frank; the best is the famous 
"AeuTc jratSe? Twi/ EAArj^ajv," by the unfortunate Riga. Sut 
from a catalogue of more than sixty authors, now before me, 
only fifteen can be found who have touched on any theme 
except theology. 

I am intrusted with a commission by a Greek of Athens 
named Marmarotouri to make arrangements, if possible, for 
printing in London a translation of Barthelemi's Anacharsis 
in Romaic, as he has no other opportunity, unless he de- 
spatches the MS. to Vienna by the Black Sea and Danube. 

The Reviewer mentions a school established at Hecatonesi, 
and suppressed at the instigation of Sebastiana: he means 
Cidonies, or, in Turkish, Haivali ; a town on the continent, 
where that institution for a hundred students and three pro- 
fessors still exists. It is true that this establishment was 
disturbed by the Porte, under the ridiculous pretext that the 
Greeks were constructing a fortress instead of a college ; but 
on investigation, and the payment of some purses to the 
Divan, it has been permitted to continue. The principal pro- 
fessor, named Veniamin (i. e. Benjamin), is stated to be a man 
of talent, but a freethinker. He was born in Lesbos, studied 
in Italy, and is master of Hellenic, Latin, and some Frank 
languages ; besides a smattering of the sciences. 

Though it is not my intention to enter further on this topic 
than may allude to the article in question, I cannot but 
observe that the ReAaewer's lamentation over the fall of the 
Greeks appears singular, when he closes it with these words : 
" The change is to be attnbuted to their misfortunes rather than 
to any ^physical degradation.'" It may be true that the 
Greeks are not physically degenerated, and that Constanti- 
nople contained on the day when it changed masters as many 
men of six feet and upwards as in the hour of prosperity ; but 
ancient history and modern politics instruct us that some- 
thing more than physical perfection is necessary to preserve 
a state in vigor and independence ; and the Greeks, in par- 
ticular, are a melancholy example of the near connection 
between moral degradation and national decay. 

The Reviewer mentions a plan "'we believe" by Potemkin 
for the purification of the Romaic ; and I have endeavored in 
vain to procure any tidings or traces of its existence. There 
was an Academy in St. Petersburg for the Greeks ; but it was 
suppressed by Paul, and has not been revived by his successor. 

There is a slip of the pen, and it can only be a slip of the 
pen, in p. 58, No. 31, of the Edinburgh Review, where these 
words occur: "We are told that when the capital of the East 
yielded to Solyman."— It may be presumed that this last 



* In a former number of the Edinburgh Review, 1808, it is observed; 
" Lord Byron passed some of his early years in Scotland, where he 
might have learned that pibroch does not mean a bagpipe, any more 
than duet means a fiddle." Query.— Was it in Scotland that the 
young gentleman of the Edinburgh Review learned that Solyman 
means Mahomet II. any more than criticism means infallibility f— hut 
thus it is, 

"Caedimus inque vicem prsebemus crura sagittis." 

The mistake seemed so completely a lapse of the pen (from the great 

39 



word will, in a future edition, be altered to Mahomet II.* 
The " ladies of Constantinople," it seems, at that period spoke 
a dialect "which would not have disgraced the lips of an 
Athenian." I do not know how that might be, but am sorry 
to say the ladies in general, and the Athenians in particular, 
are much altered; being far from choice either in their 
dialect or expressions, as the whole Attic race are barbarous 
to a proverb :— 

" n A6i]va, rrpoTTj X'^P^i 
Ti yaiSapovs rpe^ets Tutpa." 

In Gibbon, vol. x., p. 161, is the following sentence : " The 
vulgar dialect of the city was gross and barbarous, though 
the compositions of the church and palace sometimes affected 
to copy the purity of the Attic models." Whatever may be 
asserted on the subject, it is dilficult to conceive that the 
" ladies of Constantinople," in the reign of the last Cagsar, 
spoke a purer dialect than Anna Comnena wrote three cen- 
turies before: and those royal pages are not esteemed the 
best models of composition, although the princess vAwrrav 
etxev AKPlBn2 ArriKi^ova-av. In the Fanal, and in Yanina, the 
best G reek is spoken : in the latter there is a flourishing school 
under the direction of Psalida. 

There is now in Athens a pupil of Psalida's, who is making 
a tour of observation through Greece ; he is intelligent, and 
better educated than a fellow-commoner of most colleges. 
I mention this as a proof that the spirit of inquiry is not dor- 
mant among the Greeks. 

The Reviewer mentions Mr. Wright, the author of the 
beautiful poem "Horae lonicas," as qualified to give details 
of these nominal Romans and degenerate Greeks, and also of 
their language; but Mr. Wright, though a good poet and an 
able man, has made a mistake where he states the Albanian 
dialect of the Romaic to approximate nearest to the Hel- 
lenic ; for the Albanians speak a Romaic as notoriously cor- 
rupt as the Scotch of Aberdeenshire, or the Italian of Naples. 
Yanina (where, next to the Fanal, the Greek is purest), 
although the capital of All Pacha's dominions, is not in 
Albania, but Epirus; and beyond Dehanachi in Albania 
proper up to Argyro Castro and Tepaleen (beyond which I 
did not advance) they speak worse Greek than even the 
Athenians. I was attended for a year and a half by two of 
these singular mountaineers, whose mother tongue is Illyric, 
and I never heard them or their countrymen (whom I have 
seen, not only at home, but to the amount of twenty thousand 
in the army of Vely Pacha) praised for their Greek, but often 
laughed at for their provincial barbarisms. 

I have in my possession about twenty-five letters, amongst 
which some from the Bey of Corinth, written to me by 
Notaras, the cogia bachi, and others by the dragoman of the 
Caimacam of the Morea (which last governs in Vely Pacha's 
absence), are said to be favorable specimens of their epistolary 
style. I also received some at Constantinople from private 
persons, written in a most hyperbolical style, but in the true 
antique character. 

The Reviewer proceeds, after some remarks on the tongue 
in its past and present state, to a paradox (page 59) on the 
great mischief the knoAvledge of his own language has done 
to Coray, who, it seems, is less likely to understand the ancient 
Greek because he is perfect master of the modern! This 
observation follows a paragraph i-ecommending, in explicit 
terms, the study of the Romaic, as "a powerful auxiliary," 
not only to the traveller and foreign merchant, but also to 
the classical scholar; in short, to everj^body except the only 
person who can be thoroughly acquainted with its uses ; and 
by a parity of reasoning, our old language is conjectured to 
be probably more attainable bj' "foreigners" than by our- 
selves ! Now, I am inclined to think that a Dutch Tyro in 
our tongue (albeit himself of Saxon blood) would be sadly 
perplexed with " Sir Tristrem," or any other given " Auchin- 
leck MS.," with or without a grammar or glossary; and to 
most apprehensions it seems evident that none but a native 
can acquire a competent, far less complete, knowledge of our 



similarity of the two words, and the total absence of error from the 
former pages of the literary leviathan) that I should have passed it 
over as in the text, bad I not perceived in the Edinburgh Review 
much facetious exultation on all such detections, particularly a 
recent one, where words and syllables are subjects of disquisition 
and transposition ; and the above-mentioned parallel passage in my 
own case irresistibly propelled me to hint how much easier it is to 
be critical than correct.. The gentlemen, having enjoyed many a tri- 
umph on such victories, will hardly begrudge me a slight ovation for 
the present. 

609 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Obsolete idioms. We may give the critic credit for his ing-e- 
nuity, but no more believe him than we do Smollett's Lis- 
mahag-o, who maintains that the purest English is spoken in 
Edinburgh. That Corny may err is very possible; but if he 
does, the fault is in the man rather than in his mother tongue, 
which is, as it ought to be, of the greatest aid to the native 
student— Here the Reviewer proceeds to business on Strabo's 
translators, and here I close my remarks. 

Sir W. Drummoud, Mr. Hamilton, Lord Aberdeen, Dr. 
Clarke, Captain Leake, Mr. Gell, Mr. Walpole, and many 
others now in England, have all the requisites to furnish 
details of this fallen people. The few observations I have 
offered, I should have left where I made them, had not the 
article in question, and above jxll the spot where I read it, 
induced me to advert to those pages, which the advantage of 
my present situation enabled me to clear, or at least to make 
the attempt. 

I have endeavored to waive the personal feelings which 
rise in despite of me, in touching upon any pai-t of the Edin- 
burgh Re\"iew ; not from a wish to conciliate the favor of its 
writers, or to cancel the remembrance of a syllable I have 
formerly published, but simply from a sense of the impro- 
priety of mixing up private resentments with a disquisition 
of the present kind, and more particularly at this distance of 
time and place. 



NOTE 6. 

See -page 19. Stanza Ixxiii. 

On the Present State of Turkey and the Turks, 

The difficulties of travelling in Turkey have been much 
exaggerated, or rather have considerably diminished, of late 
years. The Mussulmans have been beaten into a kind of 
sullen civility, very comfortable to voj'agers. 

It is hazardous to say much on the subject of Turks or 
Turkey; since it is possible to live amongst them twenty 
years without acquiring information, at least from them- 
selves. As far as my own slight experience carried me, I 
have no complaint to make ; but am indebted for many civil- 
ities (I might almost say for friendship), and much hospital- 
ity, to All Pacha, his son Vely Pacha of the Morea, and. several 
others of high rank in the pro\ances. Suleyman Aga, late 
governor of Athens, and now of Thebes, was a l>oix vivant, 
and as social a being as ever sat cross-legged at a tray or a 
table. During the carnival, when our English party were 
masquerading, both himself and his successor were more 
happy to " receive masks" than any dowager in Grosvenor 
Square. 

On one occasion of his supping at the convent his friend 
and visitor, the Cadi of Thebes, vv^as carried from table per- 
fectly qualified for any club in Christendom; while the 
worthy waywode himself triumphed in his fall. 

In all money transactions with the Moslems, I ever found 
the strictest honor, the highest disinterestedness. In trans- 
acting business with them, there are none of those dirty 
peculations, under the name of interest, difference of ex- 
change, commission, etc., etc., uniformly found in appljing 
to a Greek consul to cash bills, even on the fii-st houses in 
Pera. 

With regard to presents, an established custom in the East, 
you will rarely find j'oarself a loser; as one worth acceptance 
is generally returned by another of similar value— a horse, 
or a shawl. 

In the capital and at court the citizens and courtiers are 
formed in the same school with those of Christianity; but 
there does not exist a more honorable, friendly, and high- 
spirited character than the true Turkish provincial aga, or 
Moslem country gentleman. It is not meant here to desig- 
nate the governors of towns, but those agas who, by a kind 
of feudal tenure, possess lands and houses, of more or less 
extent, in Greece and Asia Minor. 

The lower orders are in as tolerable discipline as the rab- 
ble in countries with greater pretensions to ci\ilization. A 
Moslem, in walking the streets of our country towns, would 
be more incommoded in England than a Frank in a similar 
situation in Turkey, llegimentals are the best travelling 
dress. 

Tue best accounts of the religion and different sects of 
Islamism may be found in D'Ohsson's French ; of their man- 
ners, etc., perhaps in Thornton's English. The Ottomans, 
with all their defects, are not a people to be despised. Equal, 
at least, to the Spaniards, they are superior to the Portu- 
610 



guese. If it be difficult to pronounce what they are, we can 
at least say what they are not : they are iwt treacherous, they 
are not cowardly, they do not burn heretics, they are not 
assassins, nor has an enemy advanced to their capital. They 
are faithful to their sultan till he becomes unfit to govern, 
and devout to their God without an inquisition. Were they 
driveft-from Saint Sophia to-morrow, and the French or Rus- 
sians enthroned in their stead, it would become a question 
whether Europe would gain by the exchange. England 
would certainl}' be the loser. 

With regard to that ignorance of which they are so gene- 
rally and sometimes justly accused, it may be doubted, al- 
ways excepting France and England, in what useful points 
of linowledge they are excelled by other nations. Is it in the 
common arts of life? In their manufactures? Is a Turkish 
sabre inferior to a Toledo? or is a Turk worse clothed or 
lodged, or fed and taught, than a Spaniard ? Are their pachas 
woi'se educated than a grandee ? or an effendi than a knight 
of Saint Jago? I think not. 

I remember Mahraout, the grandson of Ali Pacha, asking 
whether ray fellow-traveller and raj^self were in the upper or 
lower House of Parliament. Now, this question from a boy 
of ten years old proved that his education had not been 
neglected. It may be doubted if an English boy at that age 
knows the difference of the divan from a college of dervises ; 
but I am very sure a Spaniard does not. Hov/ little Mahmout, 
surrounded, as he had been, entirelj- by his Turkish tutors, 
had learned that there was such a thing as a Parliament, it 
were useless to conjecture, unless we suppose that his in- 
structors did not confine his studies to the Koran. 

In all the mosques there are schools established, which are 
very regularly attended ; and the poor are taught without 
the church of Turkey being put into peril. I believe the 
system is not yet printed (though there is such a thing as a 
Turkish press, and books printed on the late military insti- 
tution of the Nizam Gedidd) ; nor have I heard whether the 
Mufti and the Molias have subscribed, or the Caimacam and 
the Tefterdar taken the alarm, for fear the ingenuous youth 
of the turban should be taught not to "praj'to God their 
way." The Greeks also — a kind of Eastern Ii-ish papists- 
have a college of their own at Maynooth,— no, at Haivali; 
where the heterodox receive much the same kind of counte- 
nance from the Ottoman as the Catholic college from the 
English legislature. Who shall then affirm that the Turks 
are ignorant bigots, when thej' thus e\ince the exact propor- 
tion of Christian charity which is tolerated in the most pros- 
perous and orthodox of all possible kingdoms? But though 
they allow all this, they will not suffer the Greeks to partici- 
pate in their pri\-ileges : no, let them fight their battles, and 
pay their haratch (taxes), be drubbed in this world, and 
damned in the next. And shall we then emancipate our 
Irish Helots? Mahomet forbid! We should then be bad 
Mussulmans, and worse Christians : at present we unite the 
best of both— Jesuitical faith, and something not much in- 
ferior to Turkish toleration. 



NOTE 7. 

See page 30. Stanza xci. 

*^Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of eat-th-o'ergazing mountains" etc. 

It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impres- 
sive doctrines of the divine Founder of Christianity were de- 
livered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To waive the 
question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence,— the 
most effectual and splendid specimens were not pronounced 
within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and popu- 
lar assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added 
to their effect on the mind of both orator and hearers, may 
be conceived from the difference between what we read of 
the emotions then and there produced, and those we our- 
selves experience in the perusal in the closet. It is one thing 
to read the Iliad at Sigeeum and on the tumuli, or by the 
springs with Mount Ida above, and the plain and rivers and 
Archipelago around you ; and another to trim yoiu" taper 
over it in a snug library— ^7ii.5 I know. Were the early and 
rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed 
to any cause bej'ond the enthusiasm excited by its vehement 
faith and doctrines (the truth or error of which I presume 
neither to canvass nor to question), I should venture to 
ascribe it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



unstudied and extemporaneous effusions of its teachers. — 
The Mussulmans, whose eri-oneous devotion (at least in the 
lower orders) is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are 
accustomed to repeat their prescribed orisons and prayers, 
wherever they may be, at the stated hours— of course, fre- 
quently in the open air, kneeling- upon a lig-ht mat (which 
they carry for the purpose of a bed or cushion as required) ; 
the ceremony lasts some minutes, during which thej' are 
totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication ; noth- 
ing can disturb them. On me the simple and entire sincerity 
of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be Avithin 
and xipon them, made a far greater impression than any 
general rite which was ever performed in places of worship, 
of which I have seen those of almost every persuasion under 
the sun ; including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, 
the Catholic, the Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and 
the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom there are 
numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free 
exercise of their belief and its rites: some of these I had a 
distant view of at Patras; and, from what I could make out 
of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, 
and not very agreeable to a spectator. 



NOTE O. 
See %>age 31, Stanza c. 

^''Clarens! hy heavenly feet thy paths are trnd, — 
Undying Love's, ivho here ascends a tliroiie 
To vMcli the steps are moiintaiits; where the god 
Is a pervading life a)id light," etc, 

Housseau's Heloi'se, Lettre 17, part 4, note. "Ces mon- 
tagnessontsihautesqu'une derai-heure apreslesoleil couche, 
leui-s sommets sent eclaires de ses rayons; dont le rouge 
forme sur ces cimes blanches luie hcllc co7ileur de 70!-e, qu'on 
apercoit de fort loin."— This applies more particularly to the 
heights over Meillerie.— " J'allai a Vevay loger a la Clef, et 
pendant deux jours que j'y restai sans Aoir personne, je pris 
puir cette ville un amour qui m'a sui^i dans tous mes 
voyages, et qui m'y a fait etablir enfin les heros de mon 
roman. Je dirais volontiei-s a ceux qvii ont du gout et qui 
sont sensibles; Allez a Vevay— visitez le pays, examinez les 
sites, promenez-vous sur le lac, et dites si la Nature n"a pas 
fait ce beau pays pour une Julie, pour une Claire, et pour un 
St. Preux; mais ne les y cherchez pas." — Les Confessiowi, 
livre iv., p. 306. Lyon, ed. 1796.— In ,Tuly, 1818, I made a 
voyage round the Lake of Geneva; and, as far as mj' own 
observations have led me in a not uninterested nor inatten- 
tive survey of all the scenes most celebrated by Rousseau in 
his " Heloise," I can safely saj% that iu this there is no ex- 
aggei-ation. It would be difficult to see Ciarens (with the 
scenes around it, Vevay, Chillon, Boveret, Saint Gingough, 
Meillerie, E^'ian, and the entrances of the Rhone) without 
being forcibly struck with its peculiar adaptation to the per- 
sons and events with which it has been peopled. But this is 
not all : the feeling with which all around Clai'ens, and the 
opposite rocks of Meillerie, is invested, is of a still higher 
and more compi'ehensive order than the mere sympathy with 
indi\-idual passion ; it is a sense of the existence of love in its 
most extended and sublime capacity, and of our own partici- 
pation of its good and of its glory: it is the great principle 
of the universe, which is there more condensed, but not less 
manifested ; and of which, though knowing ourselves a part, 
w-e lose our indi\iduality, and mingle in the beauty of the 
whole.— If Rousseau had never written, nor lived, the same 
associations would not less have belonged to such scenes. He 
has added to the interest of his works by their adoption ; he 
has shown his sense of their beauty by the selection; but 
they have done that for him which no human being could do 
for them.— I had the fortune (good or e^^\ as it might be) to 
sail from Meillerie (where we landed for some tim.e) to Saint 
Gingough during a lake storm, which added to the magnifl- 
eence of all ai'ouud, althoiigh occasionally accompanied by 
danger to the boat, which was small and overloaded. It was 
over this very part of the lake that Rousseau has driven the 
boat of St. Preux and Madame Wolmar to Meillerie for 
shelter during a tempest. On gaining the shore at Saint Gin- 
gough, I found that the wind had been sufficiently strong to 
blow down some fine old chestnut trees on the lower part of 
the mountains. On the opposite height of Ciarens is a chateau. 
The hills are covered with vineyards, and interspersed with 
some small but beautif^il woods; one of these was named the 
" Bosquet de Julie ; " and it is remarkable that, though long 



ago cut down by the brutal selfishness of the monks of Saint 
Bernard (to whom the land appertained), that the ground 
might be enclosed into a vineyard for the miserable drones 
of an execrable superstition, the inhabitants of Ciarens still 
point out the spot where its trees stood, calling it by the name 
which consecrated and sur\aved them. Rousseau has not 
been particulai-ly fortunate in-the preservation of the "local 
habitations" he has given to "airy nothings." The prior of 
Great Saint Bernard has cut down some of his woods for the 
sake of a few casks of wine, and Buonaparte has levelled 
part of the rocks of ^feillerie in impro\ing the road to the 
Simplon. The road is an excellent one ; but I cannot quite 
agree with the remark which I heard made, that " La route 
vaut mieux que les souvenirs." 



NOTE 9. 

See page 34. Stanza u 

State Dungeons of Venice. 

"I stood in Venice, on tlie Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand." 

The communication between the ducal palace and the pris- 
ons of Venice is by a gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, high 
above the water, and divided by a stone wall into a passage 
and a ceil. The state dungeons, called pnzzi, or wells, were 
sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner when 
taken out to die was conducted across the gallery to the 
other side, and being then led back into the other compart- 
ment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low 
portal through which the criminal was taken into this ceil 
is now walled up; but the passage is still open, and is still 
known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are 
under the flooring of the chamber at the foot of the bridge. 
They were formerly twelve; but on tlve first arrival of the 
French, the Venetians hastily blocked or broke up the deeper 
of these dungeons. You maj"^ still, however, descend by a 
trap-door, and crawl down through holes, half choked by 
rubbish, to the depth of two stories below the fii-st range. If 
you are in Avant of consolation for the extinction of patrician 
power, perhaps you may find it there ; scarcely a raj^ of light 
glimmers into the narrow gallery which leads to the cells, 
and the places of confinement themselves are totally dark. 
A small hole in the wall admitted the damp air of the pass- 
ages, and serA'cd for the introduction of the prisoner's food. 
A wooden pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was the only 
furniture. The conductoi-s tell you that a light was not 
allowed. The cells are about five paces in length, two and a 
half in width, and seven feet in height. They are directly 
beneath one another, and respiration is somewhat difficult 
in the lower holes. Only one prisoner Avas found when the 
republicans descended into these hideous recesses, and he is 
said to have been confined sixteen years. But the inmates 
of the dungeons beneath had left ti-aces of their repentance, 
or of their despair, which are still visible, and may, perhaps, 
owe something to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained 
appeared to have offended against, and others to have be- 
longed to, the sacred body, not only from their signatures, 
but from the churches and belfries which they have scratched 
upon the walls. The reader may not object to see a specimen 
of the records prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly 
as they could be copied by more than one pencil, three of 
them are as follows :— 

1. NON TI FIDAR AD ALCTTNO PENSA e TACI 
SE FUGIR VUOl DE PPIONI INSIDIE LACCI 
IL PENTIRTI PENTIHTI NULLA GIOVA 

MA BEN DI VALOR TUO LA VERA PROVA 

1607. ADI 2. GENARO. FUI RE- 
TENTO P' LA BESTIEMMA P' AVER DATO 
DA MANZAR A UN MOBTO 

lACOMO . GRITTI . SCRISSE. 

2. UN PARLAR POCHO et 
NEGARE PRONTO et 

UN PENSAR AL FINE PUO DARE LA VITA 
A NOI ALTRI MESCHINI 

1605. 

EGO lOHN BAPTISTA AD 

ECCLESIAM CORTELLARIUS. 

3. DE CHI MI FIDO GUARDAMI DIO 

DE CHI NON MI FIDO MI GUARDARO lO 
A TA H A NA 

V . LAS . C . K . R. 
611 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The copyist has followed, not corrected, the solecisms; 
some of which are, however, not quite so decided, since the 
letters were evidently scratched in the dark. It only need be 
observed, that hestemmia and mangiar may be read in the 
fii'st inscription, which was probably written by a prisoner 
confined for some act of impiety committed at a funeraJ ; 
that Cortcllarins is the name of a parish on ten-a fii-ma, near 
the sea; and that the last initials e\ddently are put for Viva 
la santa Chiesa Kattolica Bomana. 



NOTE3 10. 

See page 34. Stanza Hi. . 

Songs or the Gondoi^iers. 

" In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more." 

The well-known song of the gondoliers, of alternate stan- 
za-:- from Tasso's Jerusalem, has died with the independence 
of Venice. Editions of the poem, with the original in one 
column, and the Venetian variations on the other, as sun:? 
by the boatmen, were once common, and are still to bo 
found. The following extract will serve to show the differ- 
ence between the Tuscan epic and the "Canta alia Bar- 
cariola." 

ORIGINAL. 

Canto r anne pietose, e '1 capitano 

Che '1 gran Sepolcro libpro di Cristo. 
Wolto egli opro col senno, e con la raano 

Molto sofFri nel glorioso acquisto ; 
E in van 1' Inferno a lui s' oppose, e in vano 

S' anno d' Asia, e di Libia il popol misto, 
Che il Ciel gli di6 favore, e sotto a i Santi 
Segni ridusse 1 suoi compagnl erranti. 

VENETIAN. 

L' arme pietose de cantar gho vogia, 

E de Goffredo la immortal braura 
Che al fin 1' ha libera co strass'a. e dugia 

Del nostro buon Gesu la SepoUiira 
De mezo mondo unito, e de quel Bogia 

Missier Pluton non 1' ha bu mai paura; - 
Dio r ha agiuta, e i corapagni sparpagnai 
Tutti '1 gh' i ha messi insiemo i di del Dai. 

Some of the elder gondoliei's will, however, take up and con- 
tinue a stanza of their once familiar bard. 

On the 7th of last January, the author of Childe Harold, 
and another Englishman, the writer of this notice, rov/ed to 
the Lido with two singers, one of whom was a carpenter, and 
the other a gondolier. The former placed himself at the 
prow, the latter at the stern of the boat. A little after leav- , 
ing the quay of the Piazzetta, they began to sing, and con- 
tinued their exercise until we arrived at the island. They j 
gave us, amongst other essays, the death of Clorinda, and the | 
palace of Armida; and did not sing the Venetian, but the ; 
Tuscan verses. The carpenter, however, who was the clev- 
erer of the two, and was frequently obliged to prompt his 
companion, told us that he could translate the original. He | 
added, that he could sing almost three hundred stanzas, but 
had not spirits (morbin was the word he used) to learn any ' 
more, or to sing what he already knew : a man must have 
Idle time on his hands to acquire, or to repeat, and, said the 
poor fellow, "look at my clothes and at me ; I am starring." j 
This speech was more affecting than his performance, which j 
habit alone can make attractive. The recitative was shrill, I 
sci-eaming, and monotonous; and the gondolier behind as- ( 
sisted his voice by holding his hand to one side of his mouth. 
The carpenter used a quiet action, which be evidently en- 
deavored to restrain; but was too much interested in his i 
subject altogether to repress. From these men we learnt | 
that singing is not confined to the gondoliers, and that, nl- ' 
though the chant is seldom, if ever, voluntary, there are still [ 
several amongst the lower classes who are acquainted with a 
few stanzas. 

It does not appear that it is usual for the performers to 
row and sing at the same time. iMthoiijrh the verses of the 
Jerusalem are no longer casually heard, there is yet much 
music upon the Venetian canals ; and upon holidays, those 
strangers who are not near and informed enough to distin- 
guish the words, may fancy that manv of the gondolas still j 
resound with the strains of Tasso. T'^o Avriter of some re- j 
marks which appeared in the "Curiosities oi Literature" [ 
012 



must excuse his being twice q noted ; for, with the exception 
of some phrases a little too ambitious and extravagant, he 
has furnished a very exact, as well as agreeable, descrip- 
tion :— 

" In Venice the gondoliers know by heart long passages 
froxn Ariosto and Tasso, and often chant them with a pecu- 
liar melody. But this talent seems at present on the de- 
cline :— at least, after taking some pains, I could find no more 
than two persons who delivered to me in this way a passage 
from Tasso. I must add, that the late Mr. Beny once 
chanted to me a passage in TasoO in the manner, as he as- 
sured me, of the gondoliers. 

" There are always two concerned, who alternatelj'^ sing the 
strophes. We know the melody eventually by Rousseau, to 
whose songs it is printed ; it has properly no melodious move- 
ment, and is a sort of medium between the canto fermo and 
the canto figurato ; it approaches to the former by recitativi- 
cal declamation, and to tlie latter by passages and coux-se, by 
which one syllable is detained and embellished. 

"I entered a gondola by moonlight; one singer placed 
hiinself forwards and the other aft, and thus proceeded to 
Saint Georgio. One began the song : when he had ended his 
strophe, the other took up the laj', and so continued the song 
alternately. Throughout the Avhole of it, the same notes 
invariably returned ; but, according to the subject-matter of 
the strophe, they laid a greater or a smaller stress, sometimes 
on one, and sometimes on another note, and indeed changed 
the enunciation of the whole strophe as the object of the 
poem altered. 

" On the whole, however, the sounds were hoarse and 
screaming: they seemed, in the manner of all rude uncivil- 
ized men, to make the excellency of their singing in the 
force of their voice : one seemed desirous of conquering the 
other by the strength of his lungs; and so far from receiv- 
ing delight from this scene (shut up as I was in the box of 
the gondola), I found myself in a very impleasant situation. 

"My companion, to whom I communicated this circum- 
stance, being very desirous to keep up the credit of his coun- 
trymen, assured me that this singing was very delightful 
when heard at a distance. Accordingly we got out upon the 
shore, leaving one of the singers in the gondola, while the 
other went to the distance of some hundred paces. They now 
began to sing against one another, and I kept walking up 
and down between them both, so as always to leave him who 
was to begin his part. I frequently stood still and hearkened 
to the one and to the other. 

" Here the scene was properly introduced. The strong de- 
clamatory, and, as it were, shrieking sound, met the ear from 
far, and called forth the attention ; the quickly succeeding 
transitions, which necessarily required to be sung in a lower 
tone, seemed like plaintive strains succeeding the vocifer- 
ations of emotion or of pain. The other, Avho listened atten- 
tively, immediatelj' began Avhere the former left off, answer- 
ing him in milder or more A'ehement notes, according as the 
purport of the strophe required. The sleepy canals, the lofty 
buildings, the splendor of the moon, the deep shadows of the 
few gondolas that moved like spirits hither and thither, in- 
creased the striking peculiaritj' of the scene; and amidst all 
these circumstances, it was easy to confess the character of 
this wonderful harmony. 

" It suits perfectlj' vt'ell with an idle solitary mariner, Ijing 
at length in his vessel at rest on one of these canals, Avaiting 
for his company, or for a fare, the tiresomeness of which 
situation is somewhat allCAiated by the songs and poetical 
stories he has in memory. He often raises his voice as loud 
as he can, which extends itself to a vast distance over the 
tranquil mirror; and as all is still around, he is, as it were, in 
a solitude in the midst of a large and populous town. Here 
is no rattling of carriages, no noise of foot passengers ; a silent 
gondola glides now and then b5' him, of which the splashings 
of the oars are scarcely to be heard. 

"At a distance he hears another, perhaps iitterly unknown 
to him. Melody and verse immediately attach the two stran- 
gers ; he becomes the responsive echo to the former, and ex- 
erts himself to be heard as he had heard the other. By a tacit 
couA-ention they alternate verse for verse; though the song 
should last the whole night through, they entertain them- 
selves without fatigue ; the hearers, who are passing between 
the two, take part in the amusement. 

"This vocal performance sounds best at a great distance, 
and is then inexpressibly charming, as it only fulfills its de- 
sign in the sentiment of remoteness. It is plaintiA-e, but not 
dismal in its sound, and at times it is scarcely possible to re- 
frain from tears. My companion, who otherwise was not a 
very delicately organized person, said quite unexpectedly:— 



NOTES TO CIIILDE HAROLD'S TILGRIMAGE. 



' E singolare come quel canto intenerisce, e molto piu quundo 
lo cantano meg-lio.' 

" I was told that the women of Libo, the long- row of islands 
that divides the Adriatic from the Lag-oons,* particularly the 
women of the extreme districts of Malamocco and Palestrina, 
sing- in like manner the works of Tasso to these and similar 
tunes. 

"They have the custom, when their husbands are fishing- 
out at sea, to sit along- the shore in the evenings, and vocifer- 
ate these songs, and continue to do so with g-reat violence, till 
each of them can distinguish the responses of her own hus- 
band at a distance." i* 

The love of music and of poetry distinguishes all classes of 
Venetians, even amongst the tuneful sons of Italy. The city 
itself can occasionally furnish respectable audiences for two 
and even three opera-houses at a time; and there are few 
events in private life that do not call forth a printed and 
circulated sonnet. Does a physician or a lawyer take his 
degree, or a clergj'man preach his maiden sermon, has a sur- 
geon performed an operation, would a harlequin announce 
his departure or his benefit, are jou to be congratulated on a 
marriage, or a birth, or a lawsuit, the Muses are invoked to 
furnish the same number of syllables, and the individual 
triumphs blaze abroad in virgin white or parti-colored pla- 
cards on half the corners of the capital. The last curtsey of 
a favorite "prima donna" brings down a shower of these 
poetical tributes from those upper regions, from which, in our 
theatres, nothing but cupids and snow-storms are accustomed 
to descend. There is a poetry in the very life of a Venetian, 
which, in its common course, is varied with those surprises 
and changes so recommendable in fiction, but so different 
from thesober monotony of northern existence; amusements 
are raised into duties, duties are softened into amusements, 
and every object being considered as equally making a part 
of the business of life, is announced and performed with the 
same earnest indifference and gay assiduity. The Venetian 
gazette constantly closes its columns with the following triple 
advertisement :— 

Charade. 

Exposition of the most Holy Sacrament in the church 
of . 

T]xcatre9. 

Saint Moses, opera. 

Saint Benedict, a comedy of characters. 

Saint Luke, repose. 
When it is recollected what the Catholics believe their con- 
secrated wafer to be, we may perhaps think it worthy of a 
more respectable niche than between poetry and the play- 
bouse. 



NOTE 11. 

See vo^Qe 35. Stanza oci. 

The Lion and Horses of Saint Mark's. 

^^ Saint Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand." 
The Lion has lost nothing by his journey to the Tnvalidcs 
but the gospel which supported the paw ; that is now on a 
level with the other foot. The Horses also are returned to 
the iH-chosen spot whence they set out, and are, as before, 
half hidden under the porch window of Saint Mark's church. 
Their history, after a desperate struggle, has been satisfac- 
torily explored. The decisions and doubts of Erizzo and 
Zanetti, and lastly of the count Leopold Cicognara, would 
have given them a Roman extraction, and a pedigree not 
more ancient than the I'eign of Nero. But M. de Schlegel 
stepped in to teach the Venetians the value of their own 
treasures, and a Greek vindicated, at last and for ever, the 
pretension of his countrjnnen to this noble production.:}; M. 
Mustoxidi has not been left without a reply ; but, as yet, he 
has received no answer. It should seem that the horses are 
irrevocably Chian, and were transferred to Constantinople 
by Theodosius. Lapidary writing is a favorite play of the 

* The writer meant Lido, which is not a long row of islands, but a 
long island : liitiis, the shore. 

t Curiosities of Literature, vol. li., p. 156, edit. 1807 ; and Appendix 
xxix. to Black's Life of Tasso. 

X Sui quattro cavalli della Basilica di S. Marco in Venezia. Let- 
tera di Andrea Mustoxidi Corcirese. Padua, 1816. 



Italians, and has conferred reputation on more than one of 
their literary characters. One of the best specimens of Bo- 
doni's typography is a respectable volume of inscriptions, all 
written by his friend Pacciaudi. Several were prepared for 
the i-ecovered horses. It is to be hoped the best was not 
selected, when the following words were ranged in gold 
letters above the cathedral porch : — 

QUATUOR * EQUORUM ' SIGNA * A ' VENETIS * BYZANTIO ' 
CAPTA * AD • TEMP * D ' MAR ' A ' R * S ' MCCIV ' POSITA ' QU.^ ' 
noSTILIS • CUPID ITAS * A * MDCCIIIC ' ABSTULERAT • ERANC ' 1 * 
IMP • PACIS • ORBI ■ DATJE * TROPH^UM ' A * MDCCCXV ' VICTOR * 
REDUXIT. 

Nothing shall be said of the Latin : but it may be permitted 
to observe, that the injustice of the Venetians in transport- 
ing the horses from Constantinople was at least equal to that 
of the French in carrying them to Paris, and that it would 
have been more prudent to have avoided aU allusions to 
either robbery. An apostolic prince should, perhaps, have 
objected to affixing over the principal entrance of a metro- 
politan church an inscription ha^^ng a reference to any 
other triumphs than those of religion. Nothing less than 
the pacification of the world can excuse such a solecism. 



NOTE 12. 
See page 35. Stanza xii. 

SUBMISSION OF BARBAROSSA TO POPE ALEXANDER III. 

" The Suahian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
An Emperor tramples where an Emperor Knelt.''' 

After many vain efforts on the part of the Italians entirely 
to throw off the yoke of Frederic Barbarossa, and as fruitless 
attempts of the emperor to make himself absolute master 
throughout the whole of his Cisalpine dominions, the bloody 
struggles of four-and-twenty years were happily brought to 
a close in the city of Venice. The articles of a treaty had 
been previously agreed upon between Pope Alexander III. 
and Barbarossa; and the former, having received a safe-con- 
duct, had already arrived at Venice from Ferrara, in com- 
pany with the ambassadors of the king of Sicily and the con- 
suls of the Lombard league. There still remained, however, 
many points to adjust, and for several days the peace was 
believed to be impracticable. At this juncture it was sud- 
denly reported that the emperor had arrived at Chioza, a 
town fifteen miles from the capital. The Venetians rose 
tumultuously, and insisted upon immediately conducting 
him to the city. The Lombards took the alarm, and departed 
towards Treviso. The pope himself was apprehensive of 
some disaster if Frederic should suddenly advance upon him, 
but was reassured by the prudence and address of Sebastian 
Ziani, the doge. Several embassies passed between Chioza 
and the capital, until, at last, the emperor, relaxing some- 
what of his pretensions, " laid aside his leonine ferocity, and 
put on the mildness of the lamb." § 

On Saturday the 23d of July, in the year 1177, six Venetian 
galleys transferred Frederic, in great pomp, from Chioza to 
the island of Lido, a mile from Venice. Eai-lj'' the next 
morning the pope, accompanied by the Sicilian ambassadors 
and by the envoys of Lombardy, whom he had recalled from 
the main land, together with a great concourse of people, re- 
paired from the patriarchal palace to Saint Mark's church, 
and solemnly absolved the emperor and his partisans from 
the excommunication pronounced against him. The chan- 
cellor of the empire, on the part of his master, renounced 
the anti-popes and their schismatic adherents. Immediately 
the doge, with a great suite both of the clergy and the laity, 
got on board the galleys, and waiting on Frederic, rowed him 
in mighty state from the Lido to the capital. The emperor 
descended from the galley at the quay of the Piazzetta. The 
doge, the patriarch, his bishops and clergy, and the people of 
Venice with their crosses and their standards, marched in 
solemn procession before him to the church of Saint Mark. 
Alexander was seated before the vestibule of the basilica, 
attended by his bishops and cardinals, bj' the patriarch of 
Aquileja, by the archbishops and bishops of Lombardy, all 



? " Quibus auditis, imperator, operante eo, qui corda principum 
sicut vult et quando vult humiliter inclinat, leonina feritate 
deposita, ovinara mansuetudinem induit." — Roraualdi Saleruitaui 
Chronicon, apud Script. Her. Ital. torn. vii. p. 229. 



613 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



of them in state, and clothed in their church robes. Frederic 
approached — "• moved by the Koly Spirit, venerating the 
Almig-hty in the person of Alexander, laying aside his im- 
perial dignity, and throwing off his mantle, he prostrated 
himself at full length at the feet of the pope. Alexander, 
■with teai"S in his eyes, raised him benignantly from the 
ground, kissed him, blessed him ; and immediately the Ger- 
mans of the train sang, with a loud voice, 'We praise thee, 
O Lord.' The emperor then, taking the pope by the right 
hand, led him to the church, and having received his bene- 
diction, returned to the ducal palace." * The ceremony of 
humiliation was repeated the next day. The pope himself, 
at the request of Frederic, said mass at Saint Mark's. The 
emperor again laid aside his imperial mantle, and, taking a 
wand in his hand, officiated as verrjer, dri^^ng the laity from 
the choir, and preceding the pontiff to the altar. Alexander, 
after reciting the gospel, preached to the people. The em- 
peror put himself close to the pulpit in the attitude of lis- 
tening ; and the pontiff, touched bj' this mark of his attention 
(for he knew that Frederic did not undei-stand a word he 
said), commanded the patriarch of Aquileja to translate the 
Latin discourse into the German tongue. The creed was 
then chanted. Fi-ederic made his oblation, and kissed the 
pope's feet, and, mass being over, led him by the hand to his 
Avhite horse. He held the stirrup, and would have led the 
horse's rein to the water-side, had not the pope accepted of 
the inclination for the performance, and affectionatelj' dis- 
missed him with his benediction. Such is the substance of 
the account left by the archbishop of Salerno, who was 
pi'esent at the ceremonj', and whose story is confirmed by 
every subsequent narration. It would be not worth so mi- 
nute a recoi-d, were it not the triumph of liberty as well as 
of superstition. The states of Lombardy owed to it the con- 
firmation of their pri\-ileges; and Alexander had reason to 
thank the Almighty, who had enabled an infirm, unarmed 
old man to subdue a terrible and potent sovereign.t 



NOTE 13. 

See page 35. Stanza xii. 

Henry Dandolo. 

" Oil for one hour of hUnd old Dandolo I 
r/j' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe." 

The reader will recollect the exclamation of the High- 
lander, Oh for one hour of Dundee! Henry Dandolo when 
elected doge, in 119:2, was eighty-five years of age. When he 
commanded the Venetians at the taking of Constantinople 
he was consequently ninety-seven years old. At this age he 
annexed the fourth and a half of the whole empire of Roma- 
nia,$ for so the Roman empire was then called, to the title 
and to the territories of the Venetian doge. The three- 
eighths of this empire were preserved in the diplomas until 
the dukedom of Giovanni Dolfino, who made use of the 
above designation in the j'ear 1357 .§ 

Dandolo led the attack on Constantinople in person: two 
ships, the Paradise and the Pilgrim, were tied together, and 
a drawbridge or ladder let down from their hig-ber yards to 
the walls. The doge was one of the fii-st to rush into the 
city. Then was completed, said the Venetians, the prophecy 
of the Erythi-sean sibyl:— "A gathering together of the 
powerful shall be made amidst the waves of the Adriatic, 
under a blind leader; they shall beset the goat— thej' shall 
profane Byzantium — they shall blacken her buildings— her 
spoils shall be dispersed ; a new goat shall bleat until they 
have measured out and run over fiftj^-four feet, nine inches, 
and a half." i! Dandola died on the 1st day of June, 1205, hav- 
ing reigned thirteen years, six months, and five days, and 
was buried in the church of Saint Sophia, at Constantinople. 
Strangely enough it must sound, that the name of the rebel 
apothecarj^ who received the doge's sword, and annihilated 
the ancient government, in 1T9G-7, was Dandolo. 



* Eer. Ital. torn. vii. p. 231. 

t See the above -cited Romuald of Salerno. In a second sermon 
■which Alexander preached, on the 1st day of Ansrnst, before the 
emperor, he compared Frederic to the prodigal son, and himself to 
the forgiving father. 

X Mr. Gibbon has omitted the important (e, and has written 
Romani instead of Eoraanise. Decline and Fall, chap. Ixi., note 9. 
But the title acquired by Dandolo runs thus in the Chronicle of his 
namesake, the doge Andrew Dandolo :—" Ducali titulo addidit, 
' Quartae partis et dimidise totius imperii Romanise.' "—And. Dand. 

614 



NOTE 14. 

See page 35. Stanza sciii. 

The War op Chioza. 

" But is notDoria's mencLce come to pass f 
jlre they not bridled f 

After the loss of the battle of Pola, and the taking of 
Chioza on the 16th of August, 1379, by the united armament 
of the Genoese and Francesco da Carrara, Signer of Padua, 
the Venetians were reduced to the utmost despair. An em- 
bassy was sent to the conquerors with a blank sheet of paper, 
praying them to prescribe whatterms they pleased, and leave 
to Venice only her independence. The Prince of Padua was 
inclined to listen to these proposals; but the Genoese, who, 
after the victory at Pola, had shouted, " To Venice, to 
Venice, and long live Saint George !" determined to annihil- 
ate their rival ; and Peter Doria, their commander-in-chief, 
returned this answer to the suppliants ; " On God's faith, gen- 
tleman of Venice, ye shall have no peace fi-om the Signer of 
Padua, nor from our commune of Genoa, until we have first 
put a rein upon those unbridled horses of yours, that are 
upon the porch of your evangelist Saint Mark. When we 
have bridled them, we shall keep you quiet. And this is the 
pleasui-e of us and of our commune. As for these mj'' 
brothers of Genoa, that you have brought ■with you to give 
up to us, I will not have them ; take them back ; for, in a few 
days hence, 1 shall come and let them out of prison myself, 
both these and all the othere." In fact, the Genoese did ad- 
vance as far as Malamocco, within five miles of the capital ; 
but their own danger and the pride of their enemies gave 
courage to the Venetians, who made prodigious efforts, and 
many individual sacrifices, all of them carefully recorded by 
their historians. Vettor Pisani was put at the head of thirtj'- 
four galleys. The Genoese broke up from Malamocco, and 
retired to Chioza in October ; but they again threatened 
Venice, which was reduced to extremities. At this time, the 
1st of January, 1380, arrived Carlo Zeno, who had been cruis- 
ing on the Genoese coast with fourteen galleys. The Vene- 
tians were nov/ strong enough to besiege the Genoese. 
Doria was killed on the 22d of January, by a stone bullet 195 
pounds weight, discharged from a bombard called the 
Trevisan. Chioza was then closely InA'ested ; 5000 auxiliaries, 
amongst whom were some English condottieri, commanded 
by one Captain Ceecho, joined the Venetians. The Genoeses . 
in their turn, prayed for conditions, but none were granted, 
until, at last, they surrendered at discretion ; and, on the 24th 
of June, 1380, the doge Contarini made his triumphal entry 
into Chioza. Four thousand prisoners, nineteen galleys, 
many smaller vessels and barks, with all the ammunition and 
arras, and outfit of the expedition, fell into the hands of the 
conquerors, who, had it not been for the inexorable answer 
of Doria, would have gladly reduced their dominion to the 
city of Venice. An account of these transactions is found 
in a work called the War of Chioza, written by Daniel 
Chinazzo, who was in Venice at the time. 



NOTE 15. 

See page 35. Stanza nev, 

Venice under the Government of Austria. 

" Thin streets, and foreign «,«7>ecfs, such as must 
Too oft remind her uho and what inthralls." 

The population of Venice at the end of the seventeenth 
century amounted to nearly two hundred thousand soitIs. 
At the last census, taken two years ago, it was no more than 
about one hundred and three thousand; and it diminishes 
daily. The commerce and the official employments, which 
were to be the unexhausted source of Venetian grandeur, 

Chronicon, cap. iii. pars, xxxvii. ap. Script. Ker. Ital. torn. xii. p. 331. 
And the Romanise is observed in the subsequent acts of the doges; 
indeed, the continental possessions of the Greek empire in Europe 
were then generallykno'wn by the name of Romania, and that ap- 
pellation is still seen in the maps of Turkey, as applied to Thrace. 

? See the continuation of Dandolo's Chronicle, ibid., p. 498. Mr 
Gibbon appears not to include Dolfino, following Sanuto, ■who says, 
"il qual titolo si uso fin al Doge Giovanni Dolfino." See Vite de' 
Duchi di Venezia, ap. Script. Rer. Ital. tom. xxii. 530, 641. 

11 Chronicon, ap. Script. Rer. Ital, pars xxxiv. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



have both expired. Most of the patrician mansions are de- 
serted, and would g-radually disappear had not the govern- 
ment, alarmed hy the demolition of seventy-two during- the 
last two years, expressly forbidden this sad resource of 
poverty. Many remnants of the Venetian nobility are now 
scattered and confounded with the wealthier Jews upon the 
banks of the Brenta, whose Palladian palaces have sunk, or 
are sinking, in the general decay. Of the "gentiluomo Ve- 
neto," the name is still known, and that is all. He is but the 
shadow of his former self, but he is polite and kind. It 
surelj' maybe pardoned to him if he is querulous. Whatever 
may have been the vices of the republic, and although the 
natural term of its existence maj^ be thought by foreigners 
to have arrived in the due course of mortality, only one 
sentiment can be expected from the Venetians themselves. 
At no time were the subjects of the republic so unanimous 
in their resolution to rally round the standard of Saint Mark, 
as when it was for the last time unfurled, and the cowardice 
and the treachery of the few patricians who recommended 
the fatal neutrality were confined to the persons of the 
traitors themselves. The present race cannot be thought to 
regret the loss of their aristocratical forms, and too despotic 
government; they think only on their vanished indepen- 
dence. They pine away at the remembrance, and on this sub- 
ject suspend for a moment their gay good humor. Venice 
may be said, in the Avords of the scripture, "to die dailj'^;" 
and so general and so appai-ent is the decline, as to become 
painful to a stranger, not reconciled to the sight of a whole 
nation expiring as it were before his eyes. So artificial a 
creation, ha\ing lost that principle which called it into life 
and supported its existence, must fall to pieces at once, and 
sink more rapidly than it rose. The abhorrence of slaverj' 
which drove the Venetians to the sea has, since their disaster, 
forced them to the land, where they may be at least over- 
looked amongst the crowd of dependents, and not present 
the humiliating spectacle of a whole nation loaded with 
recent chains. Their liveliness, their affability, and that 
happy indifference which constitution alone can give (for 
philosophy aspires to it in vain), have not sunk under cir- 
cumstances ; but many peculiarities of costume and manner 
have by degrees been lost, and the nobles, with a pride com- 
mon to all Italians who have been masters, have not been 
persuaded to parade their insignificance. That splendor 
which Avas a proof and a portion of their power, they AA'Ouid 
not degrade into the trappings of their subjection. They 
retired from the space which they had occupied in the eyes 
of their feUow-citizens ; their continuance in Avhich would 
haA-e been a symptom of acquiescence, and an insult to those 
who suffered by the common misfortune. Those who re- 
mained in the degraded capital might be said rather to haunt 
the scenes of their departed power, than to liAe in them. 
The reflection, "Av^ho and Avhat enthralls," will hardly bear a 
comment from one Avhois, nationally, the friend and the ally 
of *he conqueror. It may, however, be allowed to say thus 
much, that to those Avho Avish to recover their independence, 
an5' masters must be an object of detestation ; and it may be 
safely foretold that this unprofitable aversion Avill not haA^e 
been corrected befoi-e Venice shall have sunk into the slime 
of her choked canals. 



NOTE 16. 

See 'page 36. Stanza xoex. 

Laura, 

^^ Watering the tree which hears his lady's name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame." 
Thanks to the critical acumen of a Scotchman, we now 

* See An Historical and Critical Essay on the I^ife and Character 
of Petrarch; and a Dissertation on an Historical Hypothesis of the 
abbe de Sade. 

t Life of Beattie, by Sir W. Forbes, vol. ii., p. 106. 

t Mr. Gibbon called his Memoirs "a labor of love" (see Decline 
and Fall, chap. Ixx., note 1\ and followed him Avith confidence and 
delight. The compiler of a very voluminous work must take raucb 
criticism upon trust. Mr. Gibbon has done so, though not as readily 
as some other authors. 

§ The sonnet had before awakened the suspicions of Mr. Horace 
Walpole. See his letter to Warton in 17S3. 

II " Par ce petit man&ge, cette alternative de faveurs et de rigueurs 
bien ragnagee, uue femme tendre et sage amuse, pendant vingt et 
un ans, le plus grand poete de son siecle, sans faire la moindre br&che a 
son honneur." Mem. pour la Vie de Petrarque, Preface aux Fran? ais. 

^ In a dialogue A^'ith Saint Augustine, Petrarch has described Laura 



know as little of Laura as ever.* The discoveries of the abbe 
de Sade, his triumphs, his sneers, can no longer instruct or 
amuse. We must not, hoAvever, think that these memoirs 
are as much a romance as Belisarius or the Incas, although 
we are told so by Dr. Beattie, a great name, but a little au- 
thority .+ His " labor " has not been in A^ain, notwithstanding 
his "love" has, like most other passions, made him ridicu- 
le us.t The hypothesis which overpowered the struggling 
Italians, and carried along less interested critics in its cur- 
rent, is run out. We haA^e another proof that Ave can be never 
sure that the paradox, the most singular, and therefore hav- 
ing the most agreeable and authentic aii% will not give place 
to the re-established ancient prejudice. 

It seems, then, first, that Laura was born, lived, died, and 
was buried, not in Avignon, but in the country. The foun- 
tains of the Sorga, the thickets of Cabrieres, may resume 
their pretensions, and the exploded de la Bastie again be 
heard Avith complacency. The hypothesis of the abbe had no 
stronger props than the parchment sonnet and medal found 
on the skeleton of the Avif e of Hugo de Sade, and the manu- 
script note to the Virgil of Petrarch, now in the Arabrosian 
library. If these proofs Avere both incontestable, the poeti-y 
Avas written, the medal composed, cast, and deposited within 
the space of tweh-e hours ; and these delibei-ate duties Avere 
performed round the carcass of one Avho died of the plague, 
and Avas hurried to the graA-e on the daj' of her death. These 
documents, therefore, are too decisive : thej' proA^e not the 
fact, but the forgery. Either the sonnet or the Virgilian 
note must be a falsification. The abbe cites both as incon- 
testably true; the consequent deduction is inevitable— they 
are both e\adently false.§ 

Secondly, Laura Avas ncA^er married, and was a haughty 
Aargin rather than that tender and prude^it Avife Avho honored 
AA-ignon by making that toAvn the theatre of an honest 
French passion, and played off for one-and-tAventy years her 
little machinery of alternate faA'ors and refusals II upon the 
first poet of the age. It Avas, indeed, rather too unfair that a 
female should be made responsible for eleven children upon 
the faith of a misinterpreted abbrcAiation, and the decision 
of a librarian.lT It is, howeA-er, satisfactory to think that the 
loA-e of Petrarch Avas not Platonic. The happiness which he 
prayed to possess but once and for a moment was surely not 
of the mind,** and something so A^ery real as a marriage pro- 
ject, Avith one who has been idly called a shadoAvy nymph, 
may be, perhaps, detected in at least six places of his OAvn 
sonnets. The lOA^e of Petrarch Avas neither Platonic nor 
poetical ; and if in one passage of his Avorks he calls it " amore 
veementeissimo ma unieo ed onesto," he confesses, in a letter 
to a friend, that it Avas guilty and perverse, that it absorbed 
him quite, and mastered his heart. 

In this case, however, he Avas perhaps alarmed for the cul- 
pability of his Avishes; for the abbe de Sade himself, who 
certainly would not haA-e been scrupulouslj^ delicate if he 
could haA-e proved his descent from Peti-arch as Avell as Laura, 
is forced into a stout defence of his Airtuous grandmother. 
As far as relates to the poet, Ave hax'e no securitj^ for the in- 
nocence, except perhaps in the constancy of his pursuit. He 
assures us in his epistle to posterity, that, AA^hen arriA'-ed at 
his fortieth year, he not only had in horror, but had lost all 
recollection and image of anj' "irregularity." But the birth 
of his natural daughter cannot be assigned earlier than his 
thirty-ninth year ; and either the memory or the morality 
of the poet must have failed him, when he forgot or was 
guilty of this slip.i-^ The weakest argument for the purity of 
this lOA'e has been draAvn from the permanence of its effects, 
Avhieh surA-iA'ed the object of his passion. The reflection of 
M. de la Bastie, that Airtue alone is capable of making im- 
pressions which death cannot efface, is one of those which 



as having a body exhausted A^ith repeated pfubs. The old editors 
read and printed perturb ationibus ; but M. Capperonier, librarian to 
the French king in 1762, who saAV the MS. in the Paris library, made 
an attestation that "on lit et qu'on doit lire, partubus exhaustum.'* 
De Sade joined the names of Messrs. Boudot and Bejot with M. Cap-. 
peronier, and, in the whole discussion on this ptuhs, showed himself 
a downright literary rogue. See Riflessioni, etc.. p. 267, Thomas 
Aquinas is called in to settle whether Petrarch's mistress was a chaal^ 
maid or a continent wife. 
** "Pigmalion, quanto lodar ti del 
Deir imagine tua. se mille volte 
N' avesti quel ch' i' sol una vorrei." 

Sonetto 58, qunndo giunse a Simon Valfo concetto. Le RimSy 
etc., par. i., pag. 189, edit. Yen. 1756. 
ft "A questa confessione cosi sincera diede forse occasione una 
nuQva caduta ch' ei fece." Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., v. 492. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



every body applauds, and e\ cry body finds not to be true the 
moment he examines his own breast or the records of human 
feeling'.* Such apophthegms can do nothing- for Petrarch or 
for the cause of morality, except with the very weak and the 
vei-y young-. He that has made even a little progress beyond 
ignorance and pupillage cannot be edified with any thing 
but truth. What is called vindicating the honor of an indi- 
vidual or a nation, is the most futile, tedious, and uninstruc- 
tive of all writing; although it will alwaj''S meet with more 
applause than that sober criticism which is attributed to the 
malicious desire of reducing a great man to the common 
standard of humanity, It is, after all, not unlikely that our 
historian was right in retaining his favorite hypothetic salvo, 
which secures the author, although it scarcelj^ saves the 
honor of the still unknown mistress of Petrai'ch.t 



NOTE 17. 

See page 36, Stanza xxxi. 

Petrarch. 

*'They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died.'' 

Petrarch retired to Arqua immediately on his return from 
the unsuccessful attempt to visit Urban V. at Roms, ia the 
year 1370, and, with the exception of his celebrated visit to 
Venice in company with Francesco Novello da Carrai-a, he 
appears to have passed the four last years of his life between 
that charming solitude and Padua. For four months previous 
to his death he was in a state of continual languoi', and in the 
morning of July the 19th, in the year 1374, was found dead in 
his library chair with his head resting- upon a book. The 
chair is still shown amongst the precious relics of Arqua, 
which, from the uninterrupted veneration that has been 
attached to every thing relative to this great man from the 
moment of his death to the present hour, have, it may be 
hoped, abetter chance of authenticity than the Shakspearian 
memorials of Stratford-upon-Avon. 

Arqua (for the last syllable is accented in pronunciation, 
although the analogy of the English lang-uage has been ob- 
served in the verse) is twelve miles from Padua, and about 
three miles on the right of the high road to Rovigo, in the 
bosom of the Euganean hills. After a walk of twenty min- 
utes across a fiat, well-wooded meadow, you come to a little 
blue lake, clear but fathomless, and to the foot of a succes- 
sion of acclivities and hills, clothed with vineyards and 
orchards, rich with fir and pomegranate trees, and every 
sunny fruit shrub. From the banks of the lake the road 
winds into the hills, and the church of Arqua is soon seen 
between a cleft where two ridges slope towards each other, 
and nearly enclose the Aillage. The houses are scattered at 
intervals on the steep sides of these summits ; and that of the 
poet is on the edge of a little knoll overlooking two descents, 
and commanding a Aiew, not only of the glowing gardens in 
the dales immediately beneath, but of the wide plains, above 
whose low woods of mulberry and willow, thickened into a 
dark mass by festoons of vines, tall, single cypresses, and the 
spires of towns, are seen in the distance, which stretches to 
the mouths of the Po and the shores of the Adriatic. The 
climate of these volcanic hills is warmer, and the vintage 
begins a week sooner, than in the plains of Padua. Petrarch 
is laid, for he cannot be said to be buried, in a sarcophagus 
of red marble, raised on four pilasters on an elevated base, 
and preserved from an association with meaner tombs, ft 
stands conspicuously alone, but will be soon overshadowed 
bj' four latelj' planted laurels. Petrarch's fountain, for here 
everything is Petrarch's, springs and expands itself beneath 
an artificial arch, a little below the church, and abounds 
plentifully, in the driest season, with that soft water which 
was the ancient wealth of the Euganean hills. It would be 
more attractive were it not, in some seasons, beset with 

* M. de Bimard, Baron de la Bastie in the Metnoires de I'Acade- 
mie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres for 1740 and 1751. See also 
Riflessioni, etc., p. 295. 

t "And if the virtue or prudence of Laura was inexorable, he en- 
joyed, and might boast of enjoying the nyraph of poetry." Decline 
and Fall, chap. Ixx., p. 327, vol. xii., 8vo. Perhaps the if is here 
meant for although. 

X Remarks, etc., on Italy, p. 95, note, 2d edit. 

i La Vita del Tasso. lib iii. 

i Histoire de I'Academie Fran^aise depuis 1652 jusqu'a 1700, par 

010 



hornets and wasps. No other coincidence could assimilate 
the tombs of Petrarch and Archilochus. The revolutions of 
centuries have spared these sequestered valleys, and the only 
violence which has been otfered to the ashes of Petrarch was 
prompted, not by hate, but veneration. An attempt was 
made to rob the sarcophagus of its treasure, and one of the 
arms was stolen by a Florentine through a rent which is still 
visible. The injury is not forgotten, but has served to 
identify the i)oet with the country where he was born, but 
where he would not live. A peasant, boy of Arqua being' 
asked Avho Petrarch was, replied, "that the people of the 
parsonage knew all about him, but that he only knew that 
he was a Florentine." 

Mr. Forsji;h t was not quite correct in saying that Petrarch 
never returned to Tuscany after he had once quitted it when 
a boy. It appears he did pass through Florence on his way 
from Parma to Rome, and on his return in the year 1350, and 
remained there long enough to form some acquaintance with 
its most distinguished inhabitants. A Florentine gentleman, 
ashamed of the aversion of the poet for his native coimtry, 
was eager to point out this trivial error in our accomplished 
traveller, whom he knew and respected for an extraordinary 
capacity, extensive erudition, and refined taste, joined to 
that engaging simplicity of manners Avhich had been so fre- 
quently recognized as the surest, though it is certainly not 
an indispensable, trait of superior genius. 

Every footstep of Laura's lover has been anxiously traced 
and recorded. The house in which he lodged is shown in 
Venice. The inhabitants of Arezzo, in order to decide the 
ancient controversy between their citj^ and the neighboring 
Ancisa, where Petrarch was carried when seven months old, 
and remained until his seventh year, have designated by a 
long inscription the spot where their great fellow-citizen was 
born. A tablet has been raised to him at Parma, in the 
chapel of Saint Agatha, at the cathedral, because he was 
archdeacon of that society, and Avas only snatched from his 
intended sepulture in their church by a foreign death. An- 
other tablet, with a bust, has been erected to him at Pavia, 
on account of his having passed the autumn of 1368 in that 
city, Avith his son-in-law Brossano. The political condition 
Avhich has for ages precluded the Italians from the criticism 
of the liAing, has concentrated their attention to the illustra- 
tion of the dead. 



NOTE 18. 

See page 37' Stanza xxxviii. 

Tasso. 

"I?7 face of all his foes, the Crnscan quire^ 
And Boileau, whose rash envy," etc. 

Perhaps the couplet in which Boileau depreciates Tasso 
may serve as well as any other specimen to justify the opin- 
ion given of the harmony of French Averse : — 



A Malherbe, a Racan, pref^re Theophile, 

Et le clinquant du Tasse a tout I'or de Virgile. 



-Sat. ix. 



The biographer Serassi, § out of tenderness to the rpputa- 
tion either of the Italian or the French poet, is eager to 
observe that the satirist recanted or explained away this 
censure, and subsequently allowed the author of the Jeru- 
salem to be a "genius, sublime, A-ast, and happily born for 
the higher flights of poetry." To this Ave will add that the 
recantation is far from satisfactory, when we examine the 
Avhole anecdote as reported by OliA^et. N The sentence pro- 
nounced against him by Bohours^ is recorded only to the 
confusion of the critic, whose palinodia the Italian makes 
no effort to discoA'er, and would not, perhaps, accept. As to 
the opposition which the Jerusalem encountered from the 
Cruscan academy, who degraded Tasso from all competition 
Avith Ariosto, beloAV Boiardo and Pulci, the disgrace of such 

I'Abbe d'Olivet. "Mais, ensuite, venant a I'usagequ'il a fait de ses 
talens, j'aurais montre que le bon sens n'est pas toujours ce qui 
domine chez lui," p. 182. Boileau said, he had not changed his 
opinion. " J'en ai si peu change, dit-il," etc., p. 18L 

% La ManiSre de bien Penser. Philanthes is for Tasso, and says 
in the outset, " De tons les beaux esprits que I'ltalie a port§s, le 
Tasse est peut-etre celui qui pense le plus noblement." But 
Bohours seems to speak in Eudoxus. who closes with the absurd 
comparison, " Faites valoir le Tasse taut qu'il vous plaira je m'en 
tiens pour moi 5 Virgile," etc. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGEI3IAGE. 



opposition must also in some measure be laid to the charg-e 
of Alfonso and the court of Ferrara. For Leonardo Salviati, 
the principal and nearly the sole origin of this attack, was, 
there can be no doubt, * influenced by a hope to acquire the 
favor of the House of Este : an object which he thought 
attainable by exalting- the reputation of a native poet at the 
expense of a rival, then a prisoner of state. The hopes and 
efiforts of Sahaati must serve to show the contemporary 
opinion as to the nature of the poet's imprisonment ; and 
will fill up the measure of our indignation at the tyrant 
jailer. + In fact, the antagonist of Tasso was not disap- 
pointed in the reception given to his criticism ; he was called 
to the court of Ferrara, where, having endeavored to 
heighten his claims to favor, by panegyrics on the family of 
his sovereign, $ he was in turn abandoned, and expired in 
neglected poverty. The opposition of the Cruscans was 
brought to a close in six years after the commencement of 
the controversy ; and if the academy owed its first renown to 
having almost opened with such a paradox, § it is probable 
that, on the other hand, the care of his reputation alleviated 
rather than aggravated the imprisonment of the injured 
poet. The defence of his father and of himself, for both 
were involved in the censure of Salviati, found employment 
for many of his solitary hours, and the captive could have 
been but little embarrassed to reply to accusations, where, 
amongst other delinquencies, he was charged with invid- 
iously omitting, in his comparison between France and 
Italy, to make any mention of the cupola of Saint Maria del 
Fiore at Florence. II The late biographer of Ariosto seems as 
if willing to renew the controversy by doubting the inter- 
pretation of Tasso's self-estimationll related in Serassi's life 
of the poet. But Tirabosehi had before laid that rivalry at 
rest ** by showing that between Ariosto and Tasso it is not a 
question of comparison, but of preference. 



NOTE 19. 

See page 3 7. Stanza xU. 

Ariosto. 

" The UgMning rent from Ariosto's hust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimick'd leaves." 

Before the remains of Ariosto were removed from the 
Benedictine church to the library of Ferrara, his bust, which 
surmounted the tomb, was struck by lightning, and a crown 
of iron laurels melted away. The event has been recorded 
by a writer of the last century.+i" The transfer of these 
sacred ashes, on the Gtl^of June, 1801, was one of the most 
brilliant spectacles of the short-lived Italian republic; and 
to consecrate the memory of the ceremony, the once famous 
fallen IntrepkUwere revived and reformed into the Ariostean 
academy. The large public place through which the pro- 
cession paraded was then for the first time called Ariosto 
Square. The author of the Orlando is jealously claimed as 
the Homer, not of Italy, but Ferrara.il: The mother of 
Ariosto was of Reggio, and the house in which he was born 
is carefully distinguished by a tablet Avith these words : " Qui 
nacque Ludovico Ariosto il giorno 8. di Settembre dell' anno 
1474." But the Ferrarese make light of the accident by which 
their poet was born abroad, and claim him exclusively for 
their own. They possess his bones, they show his arm-chair, 
and his inkstand, and his autographs. 



Hie illius arma. 

Hie currus fuit ' 



* La Vita, etc., lib. iii , p. 90, torn. ii. The English reader may see 
an account of the opposition of the Crusca to Tasso, in Dr. Black, 
Life, etc., chap, xvii., vol. ii. 

f For further and, it is hoped, decisive proof that Tasso was 
neither more nor less than a prisoner of state, the reader is referred 
to " Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Oanto of Childe Harold," 
page 5 and following. 

I Orazioni funebri . . . delle lodi di Don Liiigi, Cardinal d'Este . . . 
delle odi di donno Alfonso d'Este. See La Vita, lib. iii., p. 117. 

§ It was founded in 1582, and the Cruscan answer to Pellegrino's 
Caraffa, or epicapoesia, was published in 1584. 

II " Contanto pote sempre in lui il veleno della sua pessima volonta 
contro alia naziou Fiorentina." La Vita, lib. iii., pp. 96, 98, torn. ii. 

^ La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, scritta dall' Abate Girolamo Barnffaldi 
Giuniore, etc., Ferrara, 1807, lib. iii., p. 262. See " Historical Illus- 
tratious," etc., p. 26. 

** Storia della Lett., etc., lib. iii., torn, vii., par, iii., p. 1220, sect. 4, 



The house where he lived, the room where he died, are desig- 
nated by his own replaced memorial,§§ and by a recent in- 
scription. The Ferrarese are more jealous of their claims 
since the animosity of Denina, arising from a cause" which 
their apologists mysteriously hint is not unknown to them, 
ventured to degrade their soil and climate to a Boeotian in- 
capacity for all spiritual productions. A quarto volume has 
been called forth by the detraction, and this supplement to 
Barotti's Memoirs of the illustrious Ferrarese has been con- 
sidered a triumphant reply to the " Quadro Storico Statistico 
dell' Alta Italia." 



NOTE 20. 

See page 37. Stanza xli. 

Ancient Superstitions Respecting Lightning. 

^""For the true laurel-wreath which Olory weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves." 

The eagle, the sea calf, the laurel, and the white vine were 
amongst the most approved preservatives against lightning : 
Jupiter chose the first, Augustus Caesar the second, and 
Tiberius never failed to wear a wreath of the third when the 
sky threatened a thunder-storm.llll These superstitions may 
be received without a sneer in a country where the magical 
properties of the hazel twig have not lost all their credit; 
and perhaps the reader may not be much surprised to find 
that a commentator on Suetonius has taken upon himself 
gravely to disprove the imputed virtues of the crown of 
Tiberius, by mentioning that a few years before he wrote a 
laurel was actually struck by lightning at Rome.lt 

NOTE 21. 

See page 37. Stanza xU. 

"''Know, that the lightning sanctifies helow." 

The Curtian lake and the Ruminal fig-tree in the Forum, 
having been touched by lightning, were held sacred, and the 
memory of the accident was preserved by a piiteal, or altar 
resembling the mouth of a well, with a little chapel covering 
the cavity supposed to be made by the thunderbolt. Bodies 
scathed and persons struck dead were thought to be incor- 
ruptible ; *** and a stroke not fatal conferred perpetual dig- 
nitj' upon the man so distinguished by Heaven.f+t 

Those killed bj^ lightning were wrapped in a Avhite garment, 
and buried where they fell. The superstition was not con- 
fined to the worshippers of Jupiter : the Lombards believed 
in the omens furnished by lightning ; and a Christian priest 
confesses that, by a diabolical skill in interpreting thunder, a 
seer foretold to Agilulf, Duke of Turin, an event which came 
to pass, and gave him a queen and a crown.$$:}: There Avas, 
however, something equivocal in this sign, which the ancient 
inhabitants of Rome did not always consider propitious ; and, 
as the fears are likely to last longer than the consolations of 
superstition, it is not strange that the Romans of the age of 
Leo X. should have been so much terrified at some misinter- 
preted storms as to require the exhortations of a scholar, 
who arrayed all the learning on thunder and lightning to 
prove the omen favorable : beginning with the flash which 
struck the walls of Velitrae, and including that which played 
upon a gate at Florence, and foretold the pontificate of one 
of its citizens.§§§ 



ft Op. d\ Bianconi, vol. iii., p. 176, ed. Milano, 1802 ; lettera al Sig- 
nor Guido Savini Arcifisiocritico, sail' indole di uu fulmine caduto 
in Dresda I'anno 1759, 

JJ " Appassionata aramiratore ed invitto apologista dell' Omera Fer- 
rarese." The title was first given by Tasso, and is quoted to the con- 
fusion of the Tassisti, lib. iii., pp. 262, 265. La Vita di M. L. Ariosto, 
etc. 

§g " Parva sed apta mihi, sed nulli obnoxia, sed non 
Sordida, parta meo sed tamen sere domus." 

nil Plin. Nat. Hist., lib. ii., cap. 55. Columella, lib. x. Sueton. in 
Vit. August., cap. xc, et in Vit. Tiberii, cap. Ixix. 

1[1[ Note 2, p. 409. edit. Lugd. Bat. 1667. 

*** Vid. J. C. Bullenger, de Terrse Motu et Fulminib.. lib. v., cap. xi. 

fff OvSet? Kepauvtodei? aTtju.d? eerrt, oBev koX d>s ^eb? Ti.ixa.Tai. Pint, 
Sympos. vid. J. Bulleng. ut sup. 

JJJ Pauli Diaconi de Gestis Langobard., lib. iii., cap, xiv. 

Ill I. P. Valeriani de fulminuui siguiticationibus declamatio, ap. 

617 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



NOTE 22. 
See page 38. Stanza xlix. 
The Venus of Medicis. 

^'TJiere, too, the Goddess loves in stone." 

The view of the Venus of Medicis instantly sug-g-ests the 
lines in the Seasons, and the comparison of the object with 
the description proves, not onlj'the correctness of the por- 
trait, but the peculiar turn of thought, and, if tlie term may 
be used, the sexual imagination of the descriptive poet. 
The same conclusion may be deduced from another hint in 
the same episode of Musidora; for Thomson's notion of the 
pri%-lleg-es of favored love must have been either very primi- 
tive, or rather deficient in delicacj% when he made his gi-ate- 
ful njanph inform her discreet Damon that in some happier 
moment he might perhaps be the companion of her bath : — 

" The time may come you need not fly." 

The reader will recollect the anecdote told in the Life of Dr. 
Johnson. AVe will not leave the Florentine gallery without 
a word on the Tilietter. It seems strange that the character 
of that disputed statue should not be entirely decided, at 
least in the mind of any one who has seen a sarcophagus in 
the vestibule o f the basilica o f Saint Paul without the walls, at 
Rome, where the whole group of the fable of Marsyas is seen 
in tolerable preservation; and the Scythian slave whetting 
the knife is represented exactly in the same position as this 
celebrated masterpiece. The slave is not naked; but it is 
easier to get rid of this diflBculty than to suppose the knife 
in the hand of the Florentine statue an instrument for 
shaving, which it must be, if, as Lanzi supposes, the man is 
no other than the barber of Julius Coesar. "Winkelmann, 
illustrating a bas-relief of the same subject, follows the 
opinion of Leonardo Agostini, and his authoritj^ might have 
been thought conclusive, even if the resemblance did not 
strike the most careless observer.* Amongst the bronzes of 
the same princelj^ collection is still to be seen the inscribed 
tablet copied and commented upon by Mr. Gibbon.+ Our 
histoi'ian found some difficulties, but did not desist from his 
illustration : he might be vexed to hear that his criticism has 
been thrown away on an inscription now generally recog- 
nized to be a forgery. 



NOTE 23. 

See page 38. Stanza liv. 

Madame de Stael. 

*'-In Santa Grace's holy precincts lie." 

This name will recall the memory, not onlj' of those whose 
tombs have raised the Santa Croce into the centre of pil- 
grimage, the Mecca of Italy, but of her whose eloquence was 
poured over the illustrious ashes, and whose voice is now as 
mute as those she sung. Corinne is no more ; and with her 
should expire the fear, the flattery, and the envy, which 
threw too dazzling or too dark a cloud round the march of 
g-enius, and forbade the steady gaze of disinterested crit- 
icism. We have her picture embellished or distorted, as 
friendship or detraction has held the pencil : the impartial 
portrait was hardly to be expected from a contemporary. 
The immediate voice of her survivors will, it is probable, be 
far from affording a just estimate of her singular capacity. 
The gallantry, the love of wonder, and the hope of associated 
fame, which blunted the edge of censure, must cease to 
exist. The dead have no sex ; they can surprise by no new 
miracles : they can confer no privilege : Corinne has ceased 
to be a woman— she is only an author : and it may be foreseen 
that many will repas' themselves for former complaisance, 
by a severity to which the extravagance of previous praises 



Grsev. Antiq. Rora., torn, v., p. 503, The declamation is addressed 
to Julian of Medicis. 

* See Moriim. Ant. Tned.. par. i., cap. xvii., n. xlii., pag. 50; and 
Storia dell' Arti, etc., lib. xi., cap. i., torn, ii., pag. 314, not. B. 

f Nomina gentesque Antiquse Italise, p. 204, edit. oct. 

J The free expression of their honest sentiments survived their 
liberties. Titius, the friend of Antony, presented them with 
games in the theatre of Pompcy. They did not suffer the brilliancy 
of the spectacle to efface from their memory that the man who fur- 

t518 



may perhaps give the color of truth. The latest posterity, 
for to the latest posterity they will assuredly descend, will 
have to pronounce upon her various productions ; and the 
longer the vista through which they are seen, the more 
accurately minute will be the object, the more certain the 
justice, of the decision. She will enter into that existence ia 
which the great writers of all ages and nations are, as it were, 
associated in a world of their own, and, from that superior 
sphere, shed their eternal influence for the control and con- 
solation of mankind. But the individual will gradually dis- 
appear as the author is more distinctlj'seen : some one, there- 
fore, of all those whom the charms of involuntary wit, and 
of easy hospitality, attracted within the friendly circles of 
Coppet, should rescue from oblivion those virtues which, 
although they are said to love the shade, are, in fact, more 
frequently chilled than excited by the domestic cares of 
private life. Some one should be found to portray the un- 
affected gi-aces with which she adorned those dearer relation- 
ships, the performance of whose duties is rather discovered 
amongst the interior secrets, than seen in the outwai-d man- 
agement, of family intercourse ; and which, indeed, it 
requires the delicacy of genuine affection to qualify for the 
ej^e of an indifferent spectator. Some one should be found, 
not to celebrate, but to describe, the amiable mistress of an 
open mansion, the centime of a society ever varied, and alwaj's 
pleased, the creator of which, divested of the ambition and 
the arts of public rivalry, shone forth only to give fresh 
animation to those around her. The mother tenderly affec- 
tionate and tenderly beloved, the f i-iend unboundedly gen- 
erous, but still esteemed, the charitable patroness of all 
distress, cannot be forgotten by those whom she cherished, 
and pi-otected, and fed. Her loss will be mourned the most 
where she was known the best ; and to the sorrows of vei-y 
many friends, and more dependents, may be offered the dis- 
interested regret of a stranger, who. amidst the sublimer 
scenes of the Leman lake, received his chief satisfaction 
fi'om contemplating the engaging qualities of the incompar- 
able Corinne. 



NOTE 24. 

See page 38. Stanza liv, 

Alfieri. 

" here repose 

Angelo's, Alfieri's hones." 

Alfieri is the great name of this age. The Italians, without 
waiting for the hundred years, conSider him as " a poet good 
in law." His memory is the more dear to them because he 
is the bard of freedom ; and because, as such, his tragedies 
can receive no countenance from any of their sovereigns. 
They are but very seldom, and but veiy few of them, allowed 
to be acted. It was observed by Cicero, that nowhei'e were 
the true opinions and feelings of the Romans so clearly 
shown as at the theatre. 1: In the autumn of 1816, a cele- 
brated impro^dsatore exhibited his talents at the opera-house 
of Milan. The reading of theses handed in for tire subjects 
of his poetry was received by a very numerous audience, for 
the most part, in silence, or with laughter; but when the 
assistant, unfolding one of the papers, exclaimed The apo~ 
theosis of Victor AlflerU the whole theatre burst into a shout, 
and the applause was continued for some moments. The lot 
did not fall on Alfieri ; and the signor Sgricci had to pour 
forth his extemporary commonplaces on the bombardment 
of Algiers. The choice, indeed, is not left to accident quite 
so much as might be thought from a first view of the cere- 
mony; and the police not only takes care to look at the 
papers beforehand, but, in case of any prudential after- 
thought, steps in to correct the blindness of chance. The 
proposal for deifying Alfieri was received with immediate 
enthusiasm, the rather because it was conjectured there 
would be no opportunity of carrying it into effect. 



nished them with the entertainment had murdered the son of 
Pompey: they drove him from the theatre with curses. The 
moral sense of a populace, spontaneously expressed, is never wrong. 
Even the soldiers of the triumvirs joined in the execration of the 
citizens, by shouting round the chariots of Lepidus and Plancus, 
who had proscribed their brothers, De Germanis non de Gall is duo 
triumphant Consuks ; a saying worth a record, were it nothing but 
a good pun.— C. Veil. Paterculi Hist., lib. ii., cap. Ixxix., pag, 78, edit. 
Elzevir. 1639. Ibid., lib. ii., cap. Ixxvii. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



NOTE 25. 

See 'page 38. Stanza liv. 

Machiavelli, 

" Here MachiavelU's earth returned to whence it rose." 

The affectation of simplicity in sepulchral inscriptions, 
which so often leaves us uncertain whether the structure 
laefore us is an actual depository, or a cenotaph, or a simplo 
memorial, not of death, but life, has given to the tomb of 
Machiavelli no information as to the place or time of the 
birth or death, the age or parentag-e, of the historian. 

TANTO NOMINI NVLT^VM PAR ELOGIVM 
NICCOLAVS MACHIAVELLI. 

There seems at least no reason why the name should not have 
been put above the sentence which alludes to it. 

It will readily be imagined that the prejudices which have 
passed the name of Machiavelli into an epithet proverbial of 
iniquity exist no longer at Florence. His memory was per- 
secuted, as his life had been, for an attachment to liberty 
incompatible Avith the new system of despotism which suc- 
ceeded the fall of the free governments of Italy. He was 
put to the torture for being a " libertine," that is, for wishing 
to restore the republic of Florence ; and such are the undj^- 
ing efforts of those who are interested in the perversion, not 
only of the nature of actions, but the meaning of words, that 
what was once patriotism has by degrees come to signify 
debauch. We have ourselves outlived the old meaning of 
"liberality," which is now another word for treason in one 
country and for infatuation in all. It seems to have been a 
strange mistake to accuse the author of "The Prince," as 
being a pander to tyranny ; and to think that the Inquisition 
would condemn his work for such a delinquency. The fact 
is, that Machiavelli, as is usual with those against whom no 
crime can be proved, was suspected of and charged with 
atheism ; and the first and last most violent opposers of " The 
Prince" were both Jesuits, one of whom persuaded the In- 
quisition "benche fosse tardo" to prohibit the treatise, and 
the other qualified the secretary of the Florentine republic 
as no better than a fool. The father Possevin was proved 
never to have read the book, and the father Lucchesini not 
to have understood it. It is clear, however, that such critics 
must have objected not to the slavery of the doctrines, but 
to the supposed tendency of a lesson which shows how dis- 
tinct are the interests of a monarch from the happiness of 
mankind. The Jesuits are re-established in Italy, and the 
last chapter of "The Prince" may again call forth a par- 
ticular refutation from those Avho are employed once more 
in moulding the minds of the rising generation, so as to re- 
ceive the impressions of despotism. The chapter bears for 
title, " Esortazione a liberare la Italia dai Barbari," and con- 
cludes with a libertiiie excitement to the future redemption 
of Italy, " Non si deve adunque lasciar passare questa occa- 
sione, acciocche la Italia vegga dopo tanto tempo apparire 
un suo I'cdentore. N6 posso espriinere con qual amore ei 
fusse ricevuto in tutte quelle provincie, che hanno patito per 
queste illuvioni esterne, con qual sete di vendetta, con che 
ostinata fede, con che lacrime. Quali porte se li serrerebeno? 
Quali popoli 11 negherebbono la obbedienza? Quale Italiano 
li negherebbe I'ossequio? ad ognuno puzza questo barbaro 

DOMINIO." * 

NOTE 26. 

See page 38. Stanza Ivii. 

Dante. 

"" Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar." 

Dante was born at Florence, in the year 1261. He fought 
in two battles, was fourteen times ambassador, and once 
prior of the republic. When the party of Charles of Anjou 
triumphed over the Bianchi, he was absent on an embassy to 
Pope Boniface VIII., and was condemned to two years' ban- 
ishment, and to a fine of 8000 lire ; on the non-payment of 



* II Principe di Niccolo Machiavelli, etc., con la prefazione e le 
note istoriche e politiche di M. Amelot de la Houssaye e 1' esame e 
confutazione dell' opera . . . Cosmopoli, 1769. 

t Storia della Lett. Ital., torn, v., lib. iii., par. ii.. p. 448. Tirahoschi 
is incorrect: the dates of the three decrees against Dante are A. D. 
1302, 1314, and 1316. 



Avhich he was further punished by the sequestration of all 
his property* The republic, however, was not content with 
this satisfaction, for in 1773 was discovered in the archives at 
Florence a sentence in which Dante is the eleventh of a list 
of fifteen condemned In 1303 to be burnt alive ; Talis per- 
veniens igne comhuratur sic quod moriatur. The pretext for 
this judgment was a proof of unfair barter, extortions, and 
illicit gains— Baracteriarum iniquarum, extorsionum., et illic- 
itorum lucrorumf—and with such an accusation it is not 
strange that Dante should have always protested his inno- 
cence, and the injustice of his fellow-citizens. His appeal to 
Florence was accompanied by another to the emperor 
Henry ; and the death of that sovereign in 1313 was the sig- 
nal for a sentence of irrevocable banishment. He had before 
lingered near Tuscany with hopes of recall ; then travelled 
into the north of Italy, where Yerona had to boast of his 
longest residence ; and he finally settled at Ravenna, which 
was his ordinary but not constant abode until his death. 
The refusal of the Venetians to grant him a public audience, 
on the part of Guido Novell© da Polenta, his protector, is 
said to have been the principal cause of this event, which 
happened in 1331. He was buried (" in sacra minorum cede ") 
at Ravenna, in a handsome tomb, which was erected by 
Guido, restored by Bernardo Bembo in 1483, prsetor for that 
republic which had refused to hear him, again restored by 
Cardinal Corsi, in 1693, and replaced by a more magnificent 
sepulchre, constructed in 1780 at the expense of the cardinal 
Luigi Valenti Gonzaga. The offence or misfortune of Dante 
was an attachment to a defeated party, and, as his least fav- 
orable biographers allege against him, too great a freedom 
of speech and haughtiness of manner. But the next age 
paid honors almost divine to the exile. The Florentines, 
having in vain and frequently attempted to recover his body, 
crowned his image in a church, $ and his picture is still one 
of the idols of their cathedral. They struck medals, they 
raised statues to him. The cities of Italy, not being able to 
dispute about his own birth, contended for that of his great 
poem, and the Florentines thought it for their honor to prove 
that he had finished the seventh canto before they drove 
him from his native city. Fifty-one years after his death, 
they endowed a professorial chair for the expounding of his 
verses, and Boccaccio was appointed to this patriotic employ- 
ment. The example was imitated by Bologna and Pisa ; and 
the commentators, if they performed but little service to 
literature, augmented the veneration which beheld a sacred 
or moral allegory in all the images of his mystic muse. His 
birth and his infancy were discovered to have been distin- 
guished above those of ordinary men; the author of the 
Decameron, his earliest biographer, relates that his mother 
was warned in a dream of the importance of her pregnancy ; 
and it was found, by others, that at ten years of age he had 
manifested his precocious passion for that wisdom of the- 
ology, Avhich, under the name of Beatrice, had been mistaken 
for a substantial mistress. When the Divine Comedy had 
been recognized as a mere mortal production, and at the dis- 
tance of two centuries, when criticism and competition had 
sobered the judgment of the Italians, Dante was seriously 
declared superior to Homer ; § and though the preference ap- 
peared to some casuists " an heretical blasphemy worthy of 
the flames," the contest was vigorously maintained for 
nearly fifty years. In later times it was made a question 
which of the lords of Verona could boast of having patron- 
ized him, II and the jealous skepticism of one writer would 
not allow Ravenna the undoubted possession of his bones. 
Even the critical Tiraboschi Avas inclined to believ^e that the 
poet had foreseen and foretold one of the discoveries of 
Galileo. Like the great originals of other nations, his pop- 
ularity has not always maintained the same level. The last 
age seemed inclined to undervalue him as a model and a 
study ; and Bettinelli one day rebuked his pupil Monti, for 
poring OA'cr the harsh and obsolete extravagances of the 
Commedia. The present generation, haAing recovered from 
the Gallic idolatries of Cesarotti, has returned to the ancient 
worship, and the Danteggiare of the northern Italians is 
thought even indiscreet by the more moderate Tuscans. 

There is still much curious information relative to the life 
and Avritings of this great poet, which has not as yet been 



X So relates Ficino, but some think his coronation only an alle- 
gory. See Storia, etc., ut sup., p. 453. 

g By Varchi, in his Ercolano. The controversy continued from 
1570 to 1616. See Storia, etc., torn, vii., lib. iii., par. iii., p. 1280. 

!| Gio. Jacopo Dionisi Canonico di Verona. Serie di Aneddoti, n. 
2. See Storia, etc., torn, v., lib. i., par. i., p. 34. 



i 



619 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



collected even by the Italians ; but the celebrated TJgo Fos- 
colo meditates to supplj- this defect, and it is «ot to be re- 
gretted that this national work has been reserved for one so 
devoted to his country and the cause of truth. 



NOTE 27. 

See page 3S. Stanza Ivii. 

Tomb of the Scipios. 

''^Like Scipio, huried by the upbraiding shore: 
Tliy factions, in their worse than civil war. 
Proscribed," etc. 

The elder Scipio Africanus had a tomb if he was not buried 
at Liternum, whither he had retired to voluntary banishment. 
This tomb was near the sea-shore, and the stoi'j^ of an in- 
scription upon it, Ingrata Patria, having given a name to a 
modern tower, is, if not true, an agreeable fiction. If he was 
not buried, he certainly lived there.* 

In cosi angusta e solitaria ^^lla 

Era '1 grand' uomo cbe d' Africa s' appella 

Perche prima col ferro al vivo aprilla.+ 

Ingratitude is generallj' supposed the vice peculiar to re- 
publics ; and it seems to be forgotten that for one instance of 
popular inconstancy, we have a hundred examples of the fall 
of courtly favorites. Besides, a people have often repented— 
a monarch seldom or never. Leaving apart many familiar 
proofs of this fact, a short story may show the difiEei-ence be- 
tween even an aristocracy and the multitude. 

Vettor Pisani, having been defeated in 1354, at Portolongo, 
and many yeai'S afterwards in the more decisive action of 
Poia, by the Genoese, was recalled by the Venetian govern- 
ment, and thrown into chains. The Av^'ogadori proposed to 
behead him, but the supi-eme tribunal was content with the 
sentence of imprisonment." Whilst Pisani was suffering this 
unmerited disgrace, Chioza, in the vicinity of the capital,^ 
was, by the assistance of the Signor of Padua, delivered into 
the hands of Pietro Doria. At the intelligence of that dis- 
aster, the great bell of Saint Mark's tower tolled to arms, and 
the people and the soldiery of the galleys were summoned to 
the repulse of the approaching enemy; but they protested 
they would not move a step, unless Pisani were liberated and 
placed at their head. The great council was instantly as- 
sembled ; the prisoner was called before them, and the doge, 
Andrea Coutarini, informed him of the demands of the 
people, and the necessities of the state, whose only hope of 
safety was reposed in his efforts, and who implored him to 
forget the indignities he had endured in her service. " I have 
submitted," replied the magnanimous republican, "I have 
submitted to your deliberations without complaint ; I have 
supported patiently the pains of imprisonment, for thej' were 
inflicted at your command ; this is no time to inquire whether 
I deserved them — the good of the republic may have seemed 
to require it, and that which the republic resolves is always 
resolved wisely. Behold me ready to lay down my life for 
the preservation of my country." Pisani was appointed gen- 
eralissimo, and by his exertions, in conjunction with those 
of Carlo Zeno, the Venetians soon recovered the ascendency 
over their maritime rivals. 

The Italian communities were no less unjust to their citi- 
zens than the Greek republics. Liberty, both with the one 
and the other, seems to have been a national, not an in- 
dividual object: and, notwithstanding the boasted equality 
before the laws, which an ancient Greek writer! considered 
the great distinctive mark between his countrymen and the 
barbarians, the mutual rights of fellow-citizens seem never 
to have been the principal scope of the old democracies. The 
world may have not yet seen an essay by the author of the 
Italian Republics, in which the distinction between the 
liberty of former states, and the signification attached to 
that word by the happier constitution of England, is inge- 
niously developed. The Italians, however, when they had 

* Vitam Literni egit sine desiderio urbis. See T. Liv. Hist., lib. 
xxxTiii. Livy reports that some said he was buried at Liternum, 
others at Rome. Ibid., cap. Iv. 

t Trionpho della CastitS. 

I See Note 14, page 614. 

§ The Greeks boasted that he was itrofd/xo?- See the last chapter 
of the first book of Dionysius of Halicarnassus. 

620 



ceased to be free, still looked back Avith a sigh upon those 
times of turbulence, when every citizen might rise to a share 
of sovereign power, and have never been taught fully to ap- 
preciate the repose of a monarchy. Sperone Speroni, when 
Francis Maria II., Duke of Rovere, proposed the question, 
"which was preferable, the republic or the principality— the 
perfect and not durable, or the less perfect and not so liable 
to change," replied, " that our happiness is to be measured by 
its quality, not by its duration ; and that he preferred to live 
for one day like a man, than for a hundred years like a brute, 
a stock, or a stone." This was thought, and called, a magnifi- 
cent answer, down to the last days of Italian servitude.il 



.::if^feR-j 



NOTE 28. 

See page 3S. Stanza Ivii. 

Petrarch's Crown. 

"and the crown 



Which Petrarch's laureate brow s^ipremely wore. 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown." 

The Florentines did not take the opportunity of Petrarch's 
short visit to their city in 1350 to revoke the decree which 
confiscated the pi-operty of his father, who had been ban- 
ished shortly after the exile of Dante. His crown did not 
dazzle them ; but when in the next year they were in want 
of his assistance in the formation of their university, they 
repented of their injustice, and Boccaccio was sent to Padua 
to entreat the laureate to conclude his wanderings in the 
bosom of his native country, where he might finish his im- 
mortal Africa, and enjoy, with his recovered possessions, the 
esteem of all classes of his fellow-citizens. They gave him 
the option of the book and the science he might condescend 
to expound : they called him the glory of his country, who 
was dear, and who would be dearer to them ; and they added, 
that if there was any thing unpleasing in their letter, he 
ought to return amongst them, were it only to correct their 
style.t Petrarch seemed at first to listen to the flattery and 
to the entreaties of his friend, but he did not return to Flor- 
ence, and preferred a pilgrimage to the tomb of Laura and 
the shades of Vaucluse. 



NOTE 29. 

See page 38. Stanza Iviii. 

Boccaccio. 

" Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust." 

Boccaccio was buried in the church of Saint Michael and 
Saint James, at Certaldo, a small town in the Valdelsu, which 
was by some supposed the place of his birth. There he 
passed the latter part of his life in a course of laborious 
study, which shortened his existence ; and there might his 
ashes have been secure, if not of honor, at least of repose. 
But the " hj^ena bigots " of Certaldo tore up the tombstone 
of Boccaccio, and ejected it from the holy precincts of Saint 
Michael and Saint James. The occasion, and, it may be 
hoped, the excuse, for this ejectment was the making of a 
new floor for the church ; but the fact is, that the tombstone 
was taken up and thrown aside at the bottom of the building. 
Ignorance may share the sin with bigotry. It would be 
painful to relate such an exception to the devotion of the 
Italians for their great names, could it not be accompanied 
by a trait more honorably conformable to the general char- 
acter of the nation. The principal person of the district, the 
last branch of the house of 3Iedicis, afforded that protection 
to the memory of the insulted dead which her best ancestors 
had dispensed upon all contemporary merit. The marchion- 
ess Lenzoni rescued the tombstone of Boccaccio from the 
neglect in which it had some time lain, and found for it an 

II " E intorno alia magnifica risposta," etc. Serassi, Vita del Tasso, 
lib. iii., pag. 149, torn, ii., edit. 3, Bergamo. 

% " Accingiti innoltre. se ci 6 lecito ancor 1' esortarti, a compire 1' 
immortal tua Africa. . . . Se ti avviene d' incontrare nel nostro stile 
cosa che ti dispiaccia, cio debb' essere un altro motivo ad esaudire i 
desiderj della tua patria." Storia della Lett. Ital., torn, v., par. i., lib. 
i., pag. 76. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



honorable elevation in her own mansion. She has done 
mox'e : the house in which the poet lived has been as little 
respected as his tomb, and is falling- to ruin over the head ot 
one indifferent to the name of its former tenant. It consists 
of two or three little chambers, and a low tower, on which 
Cosmo II, alfixed an inscription. This house she has taken 
measures to purchase, and proposes to devote to it that care 
and consideration which are attached to the cradle and to the 
roof of genius. 

This is not the place to undertake the defence of Boccac- 
cio ; but the man who exhausted his little patrimony in the 
acquirement of learning ; who was amongst the first, if not 
the first, to allure the science and the poetry of Greece to 
the bosom of Italy ; who not only Invented a new stj^le, but 
founded, or certainly fixed, a new languag-e; Avho, besides 
the esteem of every polite court of Europe, was thought 
worthy of employment by the predominant republic of his 
own country, and, what is more, of the friendship of 
Petrarch ; who lived the life of a philosopher and a freeman, 
and who died in the pursuit of knowledge,— such a man 
mig-ht have found more consideration than he has met with 
from the priest of Cei'taldo, and from a late English trav- 
eller, who strikes off his ]:»ortrait as an odious, contemptible, 
licentious writer, whose impure remains should be suffered 
to rot without a record.* That English traveller, unfor- 
tunately for those who have to deplore the loss of a very 
amiable person, is beyond all criticism; but the mortality 
which did not protect Boccaccio from Mr. Eustace, must not 
defend ]Mr. Eustace from the impartial judgment of his suc- 
cessors. Death may canonize his virtues, not his erroi's ; and 
it may be modestly pronounced that he transgressed, not 
only as an author, but as a man, when he evoked the shade of 
Boccaccio in company with that of Aretino, amidst the sepul- 
chres of Santa Croce, merely to dismiss it with indignity. 
As far as respects 

" II flagello de Principi, 
II divin Pietro Aretino," 

it is of little import Avhat censure is passed upon a coxcomb 
who owes his present existence to the above burlesque char- 
acter given to him by the poet, whose amber has preserved 
many other grubs and worms : but to classify Boccaccio with 
such a person, and to communicate his very ashes, must of 
itself make us doubt of the qualification of the classical tour- 
ist for writing upon Italian, oi% indeed, upon any other lit- 
erature; for ignorance on one point may incapacitate an 
author merely for that particular topic, but subjection to a 
professional prejudice must render him an unsafe director 
on all occasions. Any perversion and injustice may be made 
what is vulgarly called "a case of conscience," and this 
poor excuse is all that can be offered for the priest of Cer- 
taldo, or the author of the Classical Tour. It would have 
answered the purpose to confine the censure to the novels of 
Boccaccio ; and gratitude to that source which supplied the 
muse of Dryden with her last and most harmonious numbers 
might, perhaps, have restricted that censure to the objec- 
tionable qualities of the hundred tales. At any rate, the re- 
pentance of Boccaccio mig-ht have arrested his exhumation, 
and it should have been recollected and told, that in his old 
age he wrote a letter entreating his friend to discourag-e the 
reading of the Decameron, for the sake of modesty, and for 
the sake of the author, who would not have an apologist al- 
waj's at hand to state in his excuse that he wrote it when 
young, and at the command of his superiors.t It is neither 
the licentiousness of the writer, nor the evil propensities of 
the reader, which have g-iven to the Decameron alone, of all 
the works of Boccaccio, a perpetual popularity. The estab- 
lishment of a new and delig-htful dialect conferred an im- 
mortality on the works in which it was first fixed. The son- 
nets of Petrarch were, for the same reasons, fated to survive 
his self-admired Africa, the " favorite of kings." The invari- 
able traits of nature and feeling with which the novels, as 



* Classical Tour, chap, ix., vol. ii., p. 355, edit. 3d. " Of Boccaccio, 
the modern Petronius, we say nothing ; the abuse of genius is more 
odious and more contemptible than its absence ; and it imports little 
where the impure remains of a licentious author are consigned to 
their kindred dust. For the same reason the traveller may pass 
unnoticed the tomb of the malignant Aretino." This dubious 
phrase is hardly enough to save the tourist from the suspicion of 
another blunder respecting the burial-place of Aretino, ■whose tomb 
was in the church of Saint Luke at Venice, and gave rise to the 
famous controversy of which some notice is taken in Bayle. Now 
the words of Mr. Eustace would lead us to think the tomb was at 
Florence, or at least was to be somewhere recognized. Whether 



well as the verses, abound, have doubtless been the chief 
source of the foreign celebrity of both authors ; but Boccac- 
cio, as a man, is no more to be estimated by that work, than 
Petrarch is to be regarded in no other light than as the lover 
of Laura. Even, however, had the father of the Tuscan prose 
been known only as the author of the Decameron, a consider- 
ate writer would have been cautious to pronounce a sentence 
irreconcilable with the unerring- voice of many ages and na- 
tions. An irrevocable value has never been stamped upon 
any work solely recommended by impurity. 

The.true source of the outcry against Boccaccio, which be- 
gan at a very early period, was the choice of his scandalous 
personages in the cloisters as well as the courts; but the 
princes only laughed at the g-allant adventures so unjustly 
charged upon Queen Theolinda, whilst the priesthood cried 
shame upon the debauches drawn from the convent and the 
hermitage; and most probably for the opposite reason, 
namely, that the picture Avas faithful to the life. Two of the 
novels are allowed to be facts usefully turned into tales to 
deride the canonization of rog-ues and laymen. Ser Ciap- 
pelletto and Marcellinus are cited with applause even by the 
decent Muratori. $ The g-reat Arnaud, as he is quoted in 
Bayle, states, that a new edition of the novels was proposed, 
of which the expurgation consisted in om.itting the words 
" monk " and "nun," and tacking the immoralities to other 
names. The literary history of Italy particularizes no such 
edition ; but it was not long before the whole of Eurox^e had 
but one opinion of the Decameron; and the absolution of 
the author seems to have been a point settled at least a hun- 
dred years ago : " On se f eroit siffler si Ton pretendoit con- 
vaincre Boccace de n'avoir pas ete honnete homme, puis 
qu'il a fait le Decameron." So said one of the best men, and 
perhaps the best critic, that ever lived— the very martj^r to 
impartiality. § But as this information, that in the begin- 
ning of the last century one Avould have been hooted at for 
pretending that Boccaccio was not a good man, may seem to 
come from one of those enemies who are to be suspected, 
even when they make us a present of truth, a more accept- 
able contrast with the proscription of the body, soul," and 
muse of Boccaccio may be found in a few words from the 
\artuous, the patriotic contemporary, who thought one of 
the tales of this impure writer worthy a Latin version from 
his own pen. "I have remarked elsewhere," says Petrarch, 
writing to Boccaccio, " that the book itself has been worried 
by certain dogs, but stoutly defended by your staff and voice. 
Nor was I astonished, for I have had proof of the vigor of 
your mind, and I know you have fallen on that unaccommo- 
dating incapable race of mortals, who, whatever they either 
like not, or know not, or cannot do, are sure to reprehend in 
othei'S ; and on those occasions only put on a show of learn- 
ing and eloquence, but otherwise are entirely dumb." II 

It is satisfactory to find that all the priesthood do not re- 
semble those of Certaldo, and that one of them who did not 
possess the bones of Boccaccio would not lose the oppor- 
tunity of raising a cenotaph to his memory. Bevius, canon 
of Padua, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, erected 
at Arqua, opposite to the tomb of the laureate, a tablet, in 
which he associated Boccaccio to the equal honors of Dante 
and of Petrarch. 



NOTE 30. 

See page 3.9. Stanza Ix. 

The Medici. 

" What is her pyramid of jyrecious stones f" 

Our veneration for the Medici begins with Cosmo and ex- 
pires with his grandson ; that stream is pure only at the 
source ; and it is in search of some memorial of the \artuous 
republicans of the family that we visit the church of Saint 

the inscription so much disputed was ever written on the tomb can- 
not now be decided, for all memorial of this author has disappeared 
from the church of Saint Luke. 

t"Non enini ubique est, qui in excusationem meam consurgens 
dicat, juvenis scripsit, et majoris coactus imperio." The letter was 
addressed to Maghiuard of Cavalcanti, marshal of the kingdom of 
Sicily. See Tiraboschi, Storia, etc., torn, v., par. ii., lib. iii. 

X Dissertazioui sopra le Antichita Italiane, Diss. Iviii. 

§ Edaircissement, etc.. etc., p. 638, edit. Basle, 1741, in the Supple- 
ment to Bayle's Dictionary. 

II 0pp. torn, i., p. 540, edit. Basil. 

621 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Lorenzo at Florence. The tawdry, glaring-, unfinished chapel 
in that church, designed for the mausoleum of the dukes of 
Tuscany, set round with crowns and coffins, gives birth to 
no emotions hut those of contempt for the lavish vanity of 
a race of despots, whilst the pavement slab, simply inscribed 
to the Father of his Countrj-, reconciles us to the name of 
Medici.* It was very natural for Corinnat to suppose that 
the statue raised to the Duke of Urbino in the capella de' 
depositi was intended for his great namesake; but the mag- 
nificent Lorenzo is only the sharer of a coflBn half hidden in 
a niche of the sacristy. The decay of Tuscany dates from 
the sovereignty of the Medici. Of the sepulchral peace 
which succeeded to the establishment of the reigning fami- 
lies in Italy, our own Sidney has given us a glowing but a 
faithful picture—" Notwithstanding all the seditions of Flor- 
ence, and other cities of Tuscany, the horrid factions of 
Guelphs and Ghibelins, Neri and Bianchl, nobles and com- 
mons, they continued populous, strong, and exceeding rich ; 
but, in the space of less than a hundred and fifty years, the 
peaceable reign of the Medices is thought to have destroyed 
nine parts in ten of the people of that pro^-ince. Amongst 
other things, it is remarkable, that when Philip II. of Spain 
gave Sienna to the Duke of Florence, his ambassador then at 
Rome sent him Avord that he had given away more than 650,- 
000 subjects ; and it is not believed there are now 20,000 souls 
inhabiting that city and territory. Pisa, Pistoia, Arezzo, Cor- 
tona, and other towns, that were then good and populous, 
are in the like propoi'tion diminished, and Florence more 
than any. When that city had been long troubled with sedi- 
tions, tumults, and wars, for the most part unprosperous, 
they still retained such strength, that when Charles YIII. of 
France, being admitted as a friend with his whole army, 
which soon after conquered the kingdom of Naples, thought 
to master them, the people, taking arms, struck such a terror 
into him, that he was glad to depart upon such conditions as 
they thought fit to impose. Machiaval reports, that in that 
time Florence alone, with the Val d'Arno, a small territory 
belonging to that city, could, in a few.hours, by the sound of 
a bell, bring together 135,000 well-armed men ; whereas now 
that city, with all the others in that province, are brought to 
such despicable weakness, emptiness, poverty, and baseness, 
that they can neither resist the oppressions of their own 
prince, nor defend him or themselves if they were assaulted 
by a foreign enemy. The people are dispersed or destroyed, 
and the best families sent to seek habitations in Venice, 
Genoa, Rome, Naples, and Lucca. This is not the effect of 
war or pestilence : they enjoy a perfect peace, and suffer no 
other plague than the government they are under.":t From 
the usurper Cosmo down to the imbecile Gaston, we look in 
vain for any of those unmixed qualities which should raise 
a patriot to the command of his fellow-citizens. The grand 
dukes, and particularly the third Cosmo, had operated so 
entire a change in the Tuscan character, that the candid 
Florentines, in excuse for some imperfections in the philan- 
thropic system of Leopold, are obliged to confess that the 
sovereign was the only liberal man in his dominions. Yet 
that excellent prince himself had no other notion of a na- 
tional assembly, than of a body to represent the wants and 
wishes, not the will, of the people. 



NOTE 31. 

See page 39. Stanza Ixiii. 

Battle of Thrasimene. 

'■''An earthquake reeVd unheededly away." 

"And such was their mutual animosity, so intent were 
they upon the battle, that the earthquake, which overthrew 
in great part many of the cities of Italy, which turned the 
course of rapid streams, poured back the sea upon the rivers, 
and tore down the very mountains, was not felt by one of 
the combatants." § Such is the description of Livy. It may 
be doubted whether modern tactics would admit of such an 
abstraction. 

* Cosmus Medices, Decreto Publico, Tater Patrise. 

t Corinne, liv. xviii., chap, iii., vol. iii., page 248. 

X On Government, chap, ii., sect, xxvi., pag. 208, edit. 1751. Sidney 
is, together with Locke and Hoadley, one of Mr. Hume's " des^jic- 
able" vrriters. 

g Tit. Liv., lib. xxii., cap. xii. 

622 



The site of the battle of Thrasimene is not to be mistaken. 
The traveller from the village under Cortona to Casa di 
Piano, the next stage on the way to Rome, has for the first 
two or three miles, around him, but more particularly to 
the right, that flat land which Hannibal laid waste in order 
to induce the consul Flaminius to move from Arezzo. On 
his left, and in front of him, is a ridge of hills bending down 
towards the lake of Thrasimene, called by Livy "niontes 
Cortonenses," and now named the Gualandra. These hills he 
approaches at Ossaja, a village which the itineraries pretend 
to have been so denominated from the bones found there ; 
but there have been no bones found there, and the battle 
was fought on the other side of the hill. From Ossaja the 
road begins to rise a little, but does not pass into the roots of 
the mountains until the sixty-seventh milestone from Flor- 
ence. The ascent there is not steep but pei'petual, and con- 
tinues for twenty minutes. The lake is soon seen below on 
the right, with Borghetto, a round tower, close upon the 
water ; and the undulating hills partially covered with wood, 
amongst which the road winds, sinks by degrees into the 
marshes near to this tower. Lower than the road, down to 
the right am»idst these woody hillock^, Hannibal placed his 
horse, II in the jaws of, or rather above, the pass, which was 
between the lake and the present road, and most probably 
close to Borghetto, just under the lowest of the "tumuli." ^ 
On a summit to the left, above the road, is an old circular 
ruin, which the peasants call " the tower of Hannibal the 
Carthaginian." Arrived at the highest point of the road, the 
traveller has a partial view of the fatal plain, which opens 
fully upon him as he descends the Gualandra. He soon finds 
himself in a vale enclosed to the left, and in front, and be- 
hind him by the Gualandra hills, bending round in a segment 
larger than a semicircle, and running down at each end to 
the lake, which obliques to the right and forms the chord of 
this mountain arc. The position cannot be guessed at from 
the plains of Cortona, nor appears to be so completely en- 
closed unless to one who is fairlj^ within the hills. It then, 
indeed, appears " a place made as it were on purpose for a 
snare," locus insidiis natus. "Borghetto is then found to 
stand in a narrow marshy pass close to the hill and to the 
lake, whilst there is no other outlet at the opposite turn of 
the mountains than through the little town of Passignano, 
which is pushed into the water by the foot of a high rocky 
acclivity." There is a woody eminence branching down from 
the mountains into the upper end of the plain nearer to the 
side of Passignano, and on this stands a white village called 
Torre. Polybius seems to allude to this eminence as the one 
on which Hannibal encamped, and drew out his heavj^-armed 
Africans and Spaniards in a conspicuous position.** From 
this spot he despatched his Balearic and light-armed troops 
round through the Gualandra heights to the right, so as to 
arrive unseen and form an ambush amongst the broken ac- 
clivities which the road now passes, and to be ready to act 
upon the left flank and above the enemy, whilst the horse 
shut up the pass behind. Flaminius came to the lake neari 
Borghetto at sunset ; and, without sending any spies before 
him, marched through the pass the next morning before the 
day had quite broken, so that he perceived nothing of the 
horse and light troops above and about him, and saw only 
the heavy-armed Carthaginians in front on the hill of Torre. 
The consul began to draw out his army in the flat, and in the 
mean time the horse in ambush occupied the pass behind him, 
at Borghetto. Thus the Romans were completely enclosed, 
having the lake on the right, the main army on the hill of 
Torre in front, the Gualandra hills filled with the light-armed 
on the left flank, and being prevented from receding by their 
cavalry, who, the farther they advanced, stopped up all the 
outlets in the rear. A fog rising from the lake now spread 
itself over the army of the consul, but the high lands were 
in the sunshine, and all the different corps in ambush looked 
toward the hill of Torre for the order of attack. Hannibal 
gave the signal, and moved down from his post on the height. 
At the same moment all his troops on the eminences behind 
and in the flank of Flaminius rushed forwards as it were with 
one accord into the plain. The Romans, who were forming 
their array in the midst, suddenly heard the shouts of the 
enemy amongst them, on everj- side, and before they could 
fall into their ranks, or draw their swords, or see by whom 

II T. Liv., lib. xxii., cap. iv, 

^ Ibid. 

** Hist., lib. iii., cap. 83. The account in Polybius is not so easily 
reconcilable with present appearances as that in Livy. He talks of 
hills to the right and left of the pass and valley ; but when Flamin- 
ius entered, he bad the lake at the right of both. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



they were attacked, felt at once that they were surrounded 
and lost. 

There are two little rivulets which run from the Gualandra 
into the lake. The traveller crosses the first of these at 
about a mile after he comes into the plain, and this divides 
the Tuscan from the Papal territories. The second, about a 
quarter of a mile farther on, is called "the bloodj^ rivulet;" 
and the peasants point out an open spot to the left between 
the " Sanguinetto " and the hills, which, they say, was the 
principal scene of slaughter. The other part of the plain is 
covered with thick-set olive-trees in corn grounds, and is 
nowhere quite level except near the edge of the lake. It is, 
indeed, most probable that the battle was fought near this 
end of the valley, for the six thousand Romans, who, at the 
beginning of the action, broke through the enemy, escaped 
to the summit of an eminence which must have been in this 
q uarter, otherwise they would have had to traverse the Avhole 
plain, and to pierce through the main army of Hannibal. 

The Romans fought desperately for three hours; but the 
death of Flaminius was the signal for a general dispersion. 
The Carthaginian horse then burst in upon the fugitives, and 
the lake, the marsh about Borghetto, but chiefly the plain of 
the Sanguinetto and the passes of the Gualandra, were 
strewed with dead. Near some old walls on a bleak ridge to 
the left above the rivulet, many human bones have been re- 
peatedly found, and this has confirmed the pretensions and 
the name of the "stream of blood." 

Every district of Italy has its hero. In the north some 
painter is the usual genius of the place, and the foreign Julio 
Romano more than divides Mantua with her native Virgil.* 
To the south we hear of Roman names. Near Thrasimene 
tradition is still faithf ill to the fame of an enemy, and Hanni- 
bal the Carthaginian is the only ancient name remembered on 
the banks of the Perugian lake. Flaminius is unknown ; but 
the postilions on that road have been taught to .show the 
very spot where II Console Romano was slain. Of all who 
fought and fell in the battle of Thrasimene, the historian 
himself has, besides the generals and Maharbal, preserved 
indeed only a single name. You overtake the Carthaginian 
again on the same road to Rome. The anti(iuary, that is, the 
hostler of the posthouse at Spoleto, tells you that his town 
repulsed the victorious enemy, and shows you the gate still 
called Porta di Annibale. It is hardly Avorth while to re- 
mark that a French travel writer, well known by the name 
of the President Dupaty, saw Thrasimene in the lake of 
Bolsena, which lay conveniently on his way from Sienna to 
Rome. 

NOTE 32. 

See page 41. Stanza Txxxvii. 

Statue of Pompey. 

^^ And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty." 

Tho projected division of the Spada Pompey has already 
been recorded by the historian of the Decline and Fall of the 
Roman Empire. Mr. Gibbon found it in the memorials of 
Flaminius Vacca ; and it may be added to his mention of it, 
that Pope Julius III. gave the contending owners five hun- 
dred crowns for the statue, and presented it to Cardinal 
Capo di Ferro, who had prevented the judgment of Solomon 
from being executed upon the image. In a more civilized 
age this statue was exposed to an actual operation ; for the 
French who acted the Brutus of Voltaire in the Coliseum re- 
solved that their Caesar should fall at the base of that Pompey 

* About the middle of the twelfth century the coins of Mantua 
bore on one side the image and figure of Virgil. Zecca d'ltalia. pi. 
xvii., i, 6. Voyage dans le Milanais, etc., par A. Z. Millin, torn, ii., 
pag. 294. Paris, 1817. 

t Storia delle Arti, etc., lib. ix., cap. 1, pag. 321, 322, torn. ii. 

X Cicer. Epist. ad Atticum, xi. 6. 

g Published by Causeus, in his Museum Romanum. 

II Storia delle Arti, etc., 1. ix., c. i. 

^ Sueton. in Vit. August., cap. 31, and in Vit. C. J. Caesar, cap. 88. 
Appian says it was burnt down. 

** Antiq. Rom., lib. i. 

tt Liv. Hist., lib. x., cap.^xix. 

jj"Tum statua Nattse, tum simulacra Deorum, Romulusqne et 
Remus cum altrice bellua tI fuhninis ictis conciderunt." D. Pivi- 
nat., ii. 20. " Tactus est ille eiiam qui banc urbcm coudidit Romu- 



which was supposed to have been sprinkled with the blood 
of the original dictator. The nine-foot hero was therefore 
removed to the arena of the amphitheatre, and, to facilitate 
its transport, suffered the temporary amputation of its right 
arm. The republican tragedians had to plead that the arm 
was a restoration ; but their accusers do not believe that the 
integrity of the statue would have protected it. The love of 
finding every coincidence has discovered the true Caesarian 
ichor in a stain near the right knee ; but colder criticism has 
rejected not only the blood, but the portrait, and assigned 
the globe of power rather to the first of the emperors than to 
the last of the republican masters of Rome. Winkelmann+ is 
loth to allow an heroic statue of a Roman citizen, but the 
Grimani Agrippa, a contemporary almost, is heroic; and 
naked Roman figures were only very rare, not absolutely 
forbidden. The face accords much better with the "homi- 
nem integrum et castum et gravem," t than with any of the 
busts of Augustus, and is too stern for him who was beauti- 
ful, says Suetonius, at all periods of his life. The pretended 
likeness to Alexander the Great cannot be discerned, but the 
traits resemble the medal of Pompey. § The objectionable 
globe may not have been an ill-applied flattery to him who 
found Asia Minor the boundary, and left it the centre, of the 
Roman empire. It seems that Winkelmann has made a mis- 
take in thinking that no proof of the identity of this statue 
with that which received the bloody sacrifice can be derived 
from the spot where it was discovered. II Flaminius Vacca 
says sottounacantina, and thiscantina is known to have been 
in the Vicolo de' Leutaii, near the Cancellaria ; a position 
corresponding exactly to that of the Janus before the 
basilica of Pompey's theatre, to which Augustus transferred 
the statue after the curia was either burnt or taken down.ll 
Part of the Pompeian shade, the portico, existed in the be- 
ginning of the fifteenth century, and the atrium was still 
called Satrxim. So says Blondus. At all events, so imposing 
is the stern majesty of the statue, and so memorable is the 
story, that the play of the imagination leaves no room for 
the exercise of the judgment, and the fiction, if a fiction it 
is, operates on the spectator with an effect not less powerful 
than truth. 



NOTE 33. 

See page 41. Stanza Ixxxviii. 

The Bronze Wolf. 

'•^And thou, the thunder-striclcen nurse of Rome!" 

Ancient Rome, like modern Sienna, abounded most prob- 
ably with images of the foster-mother of her founder; but 
there were tAvo she-Avolves of whom history makes particular 
mention. One of these, of brass in ancient work, was seen by 
Dionysi.us** at the temple of Romulus, under the Palatine, 
and is universally believed to be that mentioned by the Latin 
historian, as having been made from the money collected by 
a fine on usurers, and as standing under the Ruminal fig- 
tree.-H The other was that which Cicero:}:* has celebrated 
both in prose and \"erse, and which the historian Dion also 
records as haAang suffered the same accident as is alluded to 
by the orator.§§ The question agitated by the antiquaries is, 
whether the wolf noAv in the ConserA^ator's Palace is that of 
Livy and Dionysius, or that of Cicero, or whether it is neither 
one nor the other. The earlier writers differ as much as the 
moderns : Lucius Faunus llil says that it is the one alluded to 
by both, which is impossible, and also by Virgil, Avhich may 
be. FuMus Ursinuslfll calls it the Avolf of Dionysius, and 
Marlianus*** talks of it as the one mentioned by Cicero. To 

lus, quem inauratum in Capitolio parvum atque lactantem, uberibus 
lupinis inhiantem fuisse meministis." In Catilin., iii. 8. 
."Hie silvestris erat Romani norainis altrix 
Martia, quae parvos Mavortis semine natos 
Uberibus gravidis vitali rore rigebat 
Que tum cum pueris flammato fulminis ictu 
Concidit, atque avulsa pedum vestigia liquat." 

De Consulatu, lib. ii. (lib. i., de Divinat , cap. ii.) 
g§ Dion. Hist., lib. xxxvii., p. 37, edit. Rob. Steph., 1548. 
nil Luc. Fauni de Antiq. Urb. Rom., lib. ii., cap. vii., ap. Sallenpre, 
torn, i., p. 217. In his seventeenth chapter he repeats that the statues 
were there, but not that they yvere found there. 
%% Ap. Nardini, Roma Vetus, 1. v., c. iv. 

*** Marliani Urb. Rom. Topograph., lib. ii., cap. ix. He mentions 
anollier wolf and twins in the Vatican, lib. v., cap. xxi. 

623 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



him Rj^cquius trcmhlingly assents.* Nardini is inclined to 
suppose it may be one of the raanj' wolves preserved in 
ancient Rome ; but of the two rather bends to the Ciceronian 
statue.+ Montfaucon t mentions it as a point without doubt. 
Of the latter writers the decisive AVinkelmannI proclaims 
it as ha\-ing' been found at the church of Saint Theodore, 
where, or near where, was the temple of Romulus, and con- 
sequently makes it the wolf of Dionj'sius. His authority is 
Lucius Faunus, who, however, only says that it was placed, 
not found, at the Ficus Ruminalis, by the Comitium, by which 
he does not seem to allude to the church of Saint Theodore. 
Rycquius was the first to make the mistake, and Winkelmann 
followed Rycquius. 

Flaminius Vacca tells quite a different story, and says he 
had heard the Avolf with the twins was found II near the arch 
of Septimus Severus. The commentator on Winkelmann is 
of the same opinion with that learned person, and is incensed 
at Xardini for not having remarked that Cicero, in speaking 
of the wolf struck with lightning in the Capitol, makes use 
of the past tense. But, with the Abate's leave, Xardini does 
not positively assert the statue to be -that mentioned by 
Cicero, and, if he had, the assumption would not perhaps 
have been so exceedingly indiscreet. The Abate himself is 
obliged to own that there are marks very like the scathing 
of lightning in the hinder legs of the present wolf; and to 
get rid of this adds, that the wolf seen by Dionj-sius might 
have been also struck by lightning or otherwise injured. 

Let us examine the subject by a reference to the words of 
Cicero. The orator in two places seems to particularize the 
Romulus and the Remus, especially the first, Avhich his au- 
dience remembered to have 'been in the Capitol, as being 
struck with lightning. In his verses he records that the 
twins and wolf both fell, and that the latter left behind the 
marks of her feet. Cicero does not say that the v.'olf was 
consumed; and Dion only mentions that it fell down, with- 
out alluding, as the Abate has made him, to the force of the 
blow, or the firmness with which it had been fixed. The 
whole strength, therefore, of the Abate's argument hangs 
upon the past tense ; which, hoAvever, may be somev.'hat 
diminished by remarking that the phrase only shows that 
the statue was not then standing in its former position. "Wink- 
elmann has observed that the present twins are modern ; and 
it is equally clear that there are marks of gilding on the 
wolf, which might therefore be supposed to make a part of 
the ancient group. It is known that the sacred images of 
the Capitol were not destroj'ed when injured by time or acci- 
dent, but were put into certain imderground depositories, 
called fai'i.s.sa:.*' It may be thought possible that the wolf had 
been so deposited, and had been replaced in some conspicuous 
situation when the Capitol was rebuilt hj Vespasian. 'Ryc- 
quius, without mentioning his authority, tells that it was 
transferred from the Comitium to the Lateran, and thence 
brought to the Capitol. If it Avas found near the arch of 
Severus, it may have been one of the images which Orosius** 
says was thrown down in the Forum by lightning when 
Alaric took the city. That it is of very high antiquity the 
workmanship is a decisive proof ; and that circumstance in- 
duced Winkelmann to believe it the wolf of Dionysius. The 
Capitoline wolf, however, maj- ha\e been of the same early 
date as that at the temple of Romulus. Lactantius-H asserts 
that in his time the Romans worshipped a wolf; and it is 
known that the Lupercalia held out to a very late period t+ 
after every other observance of the ancient superstition had 
totally expired. This may account for the preservation of 

* Just. Eycquii. de Capit. Roman. Conira., cap. xxiv., pag 250, edit. 
Lugd. Bat. 1696. 

t Nardini, Roma Vetus, lib. v., cap. iv. 

X "Lupa hodieque in capitolinis prostat aedibus, cum vesti<Tio ful- 
miais quo ictam narrat Cicero." Diarium Italic, torn, i., p. 174. 

g Storia delle Arti, etc., lib. iii., cap. iii., s. ii., note 10. Winkel- 
mann has made a strange blunder in the note, by saying the Cicero- 
nian wolf was not in the Capitol, and that Dion was wrong in saying 
so. 

II Flam Vacca, Memorie, num. iii., pag. i., ap. Montfaucon, Diar. 
Ital., torn. i. 

^ Luc. Faun. Memorie, num. iii., pag. i., ap. Montfaucon, Diar. Ital., 
torn. i. 

** See note to stanza Ixxx. in " Historical Illustrations." 

tt "Romuli nutrix Lupa honoribus est affecta divinis, et ferrera, 
si animal ipsum fuisset, cujus figurara gerit." Lactant. de Falsa Re- 
ligione, lib. i., cap. xx., pag. 101, edit, varior. 1660; that is to say, he 
would rather adore a wolf than a prostitute. His commentator has 
observed that the opinion of Livy concerning Laurentia being fig- 
ured in this wolf was not universal. Strabo thought so. Rycqaius 

524 



the ancient image longer than the other early symbols of 
Paganism. 

It maj' be permitted, however, to remark, that the wolf 
was a Roman symbol, but that the worship of that symbol is 
an inference drawn by the zeal of Lactantius. The early 
Christian writers are not to be trusted in the charges which 
they make against the Pagans. Eusebius accused the Ro- 
mans to their faces of worshipping Simon Magus, and raising 
a statue to him in the Island of the Tyber. The Romans had 
probably never heard of such a person before, who came, 
however, to play a considerable, though scandalous, part in 
the church history, and has left several tokens of his aerial 
combat with Saint Peter at Rome ; notwithstanding that an 
inscription found in this very island of the Tj-ber showed the 
Simon Magus of Eusebius to be a certain indigenalgod called 
Semo Sangus or Fidius. S§ 

Even when the worship of the founder of Rome had been 
abandoned, it was thought expedient to humor the habits of 
the good matrons of the city, by sending them with their 
sick infants to the church of Saint Theodore, as they had 
before carried them to the temple of Romulus. 1111 The prac- 
tice is continued to this day, and the site of the above church 
seems to be thereby identified with that of the temple ; so 
that if the wolf had been reallj* found there, as Winkelmann 
saj's, there would be no doubt of the present statue being 
that seen by Dionysius. But Faunus, in saj'ing that it was at 
the Ficus Ruminalis by the Comitium, is only talking of its 
ancient position as recorded by Pliny; and, even if he had 
been remarking where it was found, would not have alluded 
to the church of Saint Theodore, but to a very different 
place, near which it was then thought the Ficus Ruminalis 
had been, and also the Comitium; that is, the three columns 
by the chui-ch of Santa Maria Liberatrice, at the corner of 
the Palatine looking on the Forum. 

It is, in fact, a mere conjecture where the image was ac- 
tually dug up ; and, perhaps, on the whole, the marks of the 
gilding, and of the lightning, are a better argument in favor 
of its being the Ciceronian wolf than any that can be adduced 
for the contrary opinion. At any rate, it is reasonably se- 
lected in the text of the poem as one of the most interesting 
relics of the ancient city,tiy and is certainly the figure, if not 
the very animal, to which Virgil alludes in his beautiful 
verses :— 

" Geminos huic ubera circum 
Ludere pendentes pueros, et lam here matrcm 
Impavidos: illam tereti cervice reflexam 
Muicere alternos, et corpora flngere lingua." **♦ 



NOTE 34. 

See page 41. Stanza xc. 

Jttlixjs C^sar. 

''^for the Roman's m ind 

Was modelVd in a Jess terrestrial mould." 

It is possible to be a very great man and to be still very in- 
ferior to J villus Cfesar, the most complete character, so Lord 
Bacon thought, of all antiquity. Nature seems incapable of 
such extraordinary combinations as composed his versatile 
capacity, which was the wonder even of the Romans them- 
selves. The first general— the only triumphant politician- 
is wrong in saying that Lactantius mentions the wolf was in the 
Capitol. 

JJ To A.D. 496. " Quis credere possit," says Baronius [Ann. Eccles., 
torn, viii., p. 602, in an. 406], " viguisse adhuc Romae ad Gelasii tem- 
pora, qu£e fuere ante exordia urbis allata in Italiam Lupercalia?" 
Gelasius wrote a letter, which occupies four folio pages, to Androm- 
achus the senator, and others, to show that the rites should l>e 
given up. 

II Eccles. Hist., lib. ii., cap. xiii., p. 40. Justin Martyr had told t lie 
story before; but Baronius himseif was obliged to detect this fable, 
bee Nardini, Roma Vet., lib. vii., cap. xii. 

||i| Rione xii. Ripa, accurata e succincta Descrizione, etc., di Roma 
Moderna, dell' Ab. Ridolf. Venuti, 1766. 

*[^ Donatus, lib. xi., cap. 18, gives a model representing on one 
side the wolf in the same position as that in the Capitol ; and in the 
reverse the wolf with the head not reverted. It is of the time of 
Antoninus Pius. . 

*** ^En., viii. 6:Jl. See Dr. Middleton, in his Letter from Rome, 
who inclines to the Ciceronian wolf, but without examining the sub- 
ject. 



NOTES TO CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



inferior to none in eloquence — comparable to any in the at- 
tuinments of wisdom, in an ag-e made up of the greatest com- 
Tnanders, statesmen, orator.^, and philosophers that ever 
appeared in the world— an author who composed a perfect 
specimen of military annals in his travelling carriage— at 
one time in a controversy with Cato, at another writing a 
treatise on punning, and collecting a set of good sa3angs— 
fighting and making love at the same moment, and willing 
to abandon both his empire and his mistress for a sight of 
the Fountains of the Nile. Such did Julius Caesar appear to 
his contemporaries and to those of the subsequent ages who 
were the most inclined to deplore and execrate his fatal 
genius. 

But we must not be so much dazzled with his surpassing 
glory, or with his magnanimous, his amiable qualities, as to 
forget the decision of his impartial countrymen:— 

HE W-4S JUSTLY SLAIN.* 

NOTE 35. 

Sec par/e 4.9. Stanza cxv. 

Egeria. 

" Eqeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
miicli found ??o mortal resting-place so fair 
As thiiie ideal bieast." 

The respectable authority of Flaminius Vacca would in- 
cline us to believe in the claims of the Egerian grotto.t He 
assures us that he saw an inscription in the pavement, stat- 
ing that the fountain was that of Egeria, dedicated to the 
nymphs. The inscription is not there at this day ; but ]\Iont- 
.faucon quotes two lines of Ovid $ from a stone in the Villa 
Giustiniani, which he seems to think had been brought from 
the same grotto. 

This grotto and valley were formerly frequented in sum- 
mer, and particularly the flrst Sunday in May, by the modern 
Romans, who attached a salubrious quality to the fountain, 
which trickles from an orilice at the bottom of the vault, 
and, overflowing the little pools, creeps down the matted 
grass into the brook below. The brook is the Ovidian Almo, 
whose name and qualities are lost in the modern Aquataccio. 
The valley itself is called Valle di Caffarelli, from the dukes 
of that name who made over their fountain to the Pallavicini, 
with sixty rubhia of adjoining land. 

There can be little doubt that this long dell is the Egerian 
valley of Juvenal, and the pausing place of Umbritius, not- 
withstanding the generality of his commentators have sup- 
posed the descent of the satirist and his friend to have been 
into the Arician gi'ove, where the nymph met Hippolitus, 
and where she was more peculiarly v/orshipped. 

The step from the Porta Capena to the Alban hill, fifteen 
miles distant, would be too considerable, unless we wore to 
believe in the wild conjecture of Vossius, who makes that 
gate travel from its present station, where he pretends it was 
during the i-eign of the kings, as far as the Arician grove, 
and then makes it recede to its old site with the shrinking 
city.§ The tufo, or pumice, which the poet prefers to mar- 
ble, is the substance composing the bank in which th6 grotto 
is sunk. 

The modern topographers II find in the grotto the statue of 
the nymph, and nine niches for the Muses ; and a late trav- 
eller! has discovered that the cave is restored to that sim- 
plicity which the poet regretted had been exchanged for 
injudicious ornament. But the headless statue is palptibly 
rather a male than a nymph, and has none of the attributes 
ascribed to it at present visible. The nine Muses could 

* ' Jure caesus exist imetnr," says Suetonius, after a fair estimate 
of his character, and makinj; use of a phrase which was a formula 
in Livy's time. "Meliura jure csesum pronuntiavit, etiara si regni 
crimine insons fuerit " [lib. iv.. cap. 48], and which was continued 
in the legal judgments pronounced in justifiable homicides, such as 
killing housebreakers. See Sueton. in Vit. C. J. Caesar, with the 
commentary of Pitiseus. p. 184. 

t Memorie, etc., ap Nardini. pag. 13. He does not give the in- 
scription. 

X " In villa Justiniana extat ingens lapis quadratus solidus, in quo 
sculpta haec duo Ovidii carmina sunt: — 

'JEsreria est quae praebet aquas dea grata Camoenia 
Ilia Numae conjunx consillumque.' 

40 



hardly have stood in six niches ; and Juvenal certainly does 
not allude to anj- individual cave.** Nothing can be collected 
from the satirist but that somewhere near the Porto Capena 
was a spot in which it was supposed Numa held nightly con- 
sultations with his nymph, and where there was a grove and 
a sacred fountain, and fanes once consecrated to the Muses ; 
and that from this spot there was a descent into the valley of 
Egeria, where were several artificial caves. It is clear that 
the statues of the Muses m.ade no part of the decoration 
W'hich the satirist thought misplaced in these caves; for he 
expresslj' assigns other fanes (delubra) to these divinities 
above the valley, and moreover tells us that they had been 
ejected to make room for the Jews. In fact, the little tem- 
ple, now called that of Bacchus, was formerly thought to 
belong to the Muses, and Nardini -H- places them in a poplar 
grove, which was in his time aboA^e the valley. 

It is probable, from the inscription and position, that the 
cave now shown may be one of the "artilicial caverns," of 
which, indeed, there is another a little way higher up the 
valley, under a tuft of alder bushes ; but a single grotto of 
Egeria is a mere modern invention, grafted upon the ap};li- 
cation of the epithet Egerian to these njnnphea in general, 
and which might send us to look for the haunts of Numa 
upon the banks of the Thames. 

Our English Juvenal was not seduced into mistranslation 
by his acquaintance with Pope: he carefully preserves the 
correct plural— 

"Thence slowly winding down the vale we view 
The Egerian grots: oh, how unlike the true!" 

The valley abounds vfith springs.tt and over these springs, 
which the Muses might haunt from their neighboring groves, 
Egeria presided : hence she was said to supply them with 
water ; and she was the nymph of the grottos through which 
the fountains were taught to flow. 

The whole of the monuments in the vicinity of the Egerian 
valley have received names at will, which have been changed 
at will. Venuti §§ owns he can see no traces of the temples 
of Jove, Saturn, Juno, Venus, and Diana, which Nardini 
found, or hoped to find. The rautatorium of Caracalla's cir- 
cus, the temple of Honor and Virtue, the temple of Bacchus, 
and, above all, the temple of the god Eediculus, are the 
antiquaries' despair. 

The circus of Caracalla depends on a medal of that em- 
peror cited by Fulvius Ursinus, of which the reverse shows 
a circus, supposed, however, by some to represent the Circus 
Maximus. It gives a very good idea of that place of exer- 
cise. The soil has been but little raised, if we may judge 
from the small cellular structure at the end of the Spina, 
which was probably the chapel of the god Consus. This cell 
is half beneath the soil, as it must have been in the circus 
itself: forDionysiusllll could not be persuade.8 to believe that 
this divinity was the lloman Neptune, because his altar wna 
under gTOunc. 



NOTE 36. 

See page 45. Stanza cxxocii. 

The Roman Nemesis. 



-" great Nemesis ! 



Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long." 

We read in Suetonius that AugTistus, from a warning re- 
ceived in a dream,!! counterfeited, once a year, the beggnr 
sitting before the gate of his palace with his hand hollowed 
and stretched out for charity. A statue formerlj^ in the villa 
Borghese, and which should be now at Paris, represents the 

Qui lapis videtur eodera Egerise foute, aut ejus vicinia isthuc com- 
partatus." Diarium Italic, p. 153. 

2 De Magnit. Vet. Rom. ap. Graev. Ant. Pom., tom. iv., p. 1507. 

II Echinard, Descrizione di Roma e dell' Agro Rornano, corretto 
dair Abate Venuti, in Roma, 1750. They believe in the grotto and 
nymph. "Simulacro di questo fonte, essendovi sculpite le acque a 
pie di esso." 

^ Classical Tour, chap, vi., p. 217, vol. ii. 

** Sat. iii. 

tt Lib. iii., cap. iii. 

JJ " Undique e solo acqnae scaturinnt." Nardini, lib. iii, cap. iii, 

^§ Echinard, etc. Cic. cit., pp. 297, 298. 

!|l| Antiq. Rom., lib. ii., cap. xxxi. 

%^ Sueton. in A'^it. August i, cap. 91. 

1525 



NOTES TO CHILD E HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



emperor in that posture of supplication. The object of this 
self-dejjradation was the appeasement of Nemesis, the per- 
petual attendant on g'ood fortune, of whose power the Ko- 
man conquerors were also reminded by certain symbols 
attached to their cars of triumph. The symbols were the 
Avhip and the crotalo, which Avere discovered in the Nemesis 
of the Vatican. The attitude of beg-g-ary made the above 
statue pass for that of Belisarius; and until the criticism of 
Winkelmann* had rectified the mistake, one fiction was 
called in to support another. It was the same fear of the 
sudden termination of prosperity that made Amasis king- of 
Egypt warn his friend Polycrates of Sanios, that tlie j?ods 
loved those whose lives were checkered with g-ood and evil 
fortunes. Nemesis was supposed to lie in wait particularly 
for the prudent ; that is, for those whose caution rendered 
them accessible only to mere accidents: and her first altar 
was raised on the banks of the Phrygian ^Esepus by Adi-aotus, 
probably the prince of that name who killed the son of 
Croesus by mistake. Hence the goddess was called Adrastea.H- 
The Roman Nemesis was sacred and august: there was a 
temple to her in the Palatine under the name of Rharanusia: 
so g-reat, indeed, was the propensity of the ancients to trust 
to the revolution of events, and to believe in the divinity of 
Fortune, that in the same Palatine there was a temple to the 
Fortune of the day.t This is the last superstition which re- 
tains its hold over the human heart ; and, from concentrat- 
ing in one object the credulity so natural to man, has alwaj'S 
appeai-ed strongest in those unembarrassed by other articles 
of belief. The antiquaries have supposed this goddess to be 
synonymous with Fortune and with Fate: but it was in her 
vindictive quality that she was worshipped under the name 
of Nemesis. 



NOTE 37. 

^ee page 45. Stanza cxlL 

•Gladiators. 



'he^ their !^r^ 



Butchefd to "make a Roman JioUdaxj." 

Gladiators were of two Tcinds, compelled and vohmtary; 
and were supplied from several conditions: — from slaves sold 
for that purpose; from culprits; from barbarian captives 
either taken in -war, and, after being led in triumph, set apart 
for the games, or those seized and condemned as rebels; also 
from free citizens, some fighting for hire (auctorali), others 
from a depravx'd ambition; at last even knights and senators 
were exhibited,— a disgrace of which the first tyinnt was 
naturally the first in ventor.§ 'In the end, dwarfs, and exen 
women, fought^ an enormity prohibited by Severus. Of 
these the most to be pitied undoubtedlj- were the barbarian 
captives ; and to this species a Christian writer II justly applies 
the epithet "innocent," to distinguish them from the ]n-ofes- 
sional gladiators. Aiu-elian and Claudius supplied great 
numbers of these unfortunate victims; the one after his 
triumph, and the other on a pretext of a rebellion.*r No war, 
says Lipsius,** was ever so destructive to the human race as 
these sports. In spite of the laws of Constantine and Con- 
stans, gladiatorial-shows survived the old established religion 
more than seventy jH?fn-s ; -but they owed their final extinc- 
tion to the courage of a Christian. In the year 404, on the 
kalends of January, they were exhibiting tlie shoAvs in the 
Flavian amphitheatre before the usuall immense concourse 
of people. Almachius, or Telemachus, an eastern monk, who 
had tra\elled to Rome intent on his holy purpose, rushed 

* Storia delle Arti, etc., lib. xii , cap. iii., torn, ii., p. 422. 

I Diet, de Bayle. article Adrastea. 

X Fortuna; hujusci diei. Cicero mentions her, de Legib., lib. ii. 

DEAE NEMESI 

SIVE FORTUNAE 

PISTORIVS 

RVGIANVS 

V. C. LEG AT. 

LEG. XIIL G. 

CORD. 

See Questiones Romanfe. etc., ap. Graev. Antiq. Roman., torn, v., p. 
942. See also Muratori, Nor. Thesaur. Tnscrip. Vet., torn. i„ pp. 88, 
89, where there are three Latin and one Greek inscription to Ne- 
niet;is, and others to Fate. 

626 



into the midst of the area, and endeavored to separate the 
combatants. The praetor Alypius, a person incredibly at- 
tached to these games,tf gave instant orders to the gladiators 
to slay him; and Telemachus gained the crown of martyr- 
dom, and the title of saint, which surely has never either 
before or since been awarded for a more noble exploit. 
Honorius immediately abolished the shows, which were never 
afterwards revived. The story is told by Theodoret$:t: and 
Cassiodorus,§§ and seems worthy of ci-edit, notwithstanding 
its place in the Roman martyrology. Ull Besides the torrents 
of blood which flowed at the funerals, in the amphitheatres, 
the circus, the forums, and other public places, gladiators 
were introduced at feasts, and tore each other to pieces 
amidst the supper tables, to the great delight and applause 
of the guests. Yet Lipsius permits himself to suppose the 
loss of courage, and the evident degeneracy of mankind, to 
be nearly connected with the abolition of these bloody spec- 
tacles. 



NOTE 38. 

See page 45. Stanza cxUi. 

^^TTere., where the Roman miUion's Name or praise 
Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd." 

When one gladiator wounded another, he shouted, "he has 
it," "hoc habet," or "habet." The wounded combatant 
dropped his weapon, and, advancing to the edge of the arena, 
supplicated the spectators. If he had fought well, the people 
saved him; if otherwise, or as they happened to be inclined, 
they turned down their thumbs, and he was slain. They 
were occasionally so savage that they were impatient if a 
combat lasted longer than ordinarj' without wounds or death. 
The emperor's presence generally saved the vanquished ; and 
it is recorded as an instance of Caracalla's ferocity, that he 
sent those who supplicated him for life, in a spectacle, at 
Nicomedia, to ask the people; in other words, handed them 
over to be slain. A similar ceremony is observed at the 
Spanish buil-fights. The magistrate presides; and after the 
horsemen and piccadores have fought the bull, the matadore 
steps forward and bows to him for permission to kill the ani- 
mal. If the bull has done his duty by killing two or three 
horses, or a man, Avhich last is i-are, the people interfere with 
shouts, the ladies wave their handkerchiefs, and the animal 
is saved. The wounds and death of the horses are accom- 
panied with the loudest acclamations, and many gestures of 
delight, especiallj' from the female portion of the audience, 
inckiding those of the gentlest blood. Every thing depends 
on habit. The author of Childe Harold, the writer of this 
note, and one or two other Englishmen, who have certainly 
in other days borne the sight of a pitched battle, were, during 
the summer of 1809, in the governor's box at the great amphi- 
theatre of Santa Maria, opposite to Cadiz. The death of one 
or two horses completely satisfied their curiosity. A gentle- 
man present, observing them shudder and look pale, noticed 
that unusual reception of so delightful a sport to some young 
ladies, who stared and smiled, and continued their applause 
as another horse fell bleeding to the ground. One bull killed 
three horses off Ins own Jioriis. Ke was saved by acclamations, 
which were redoubled when it was known he belonged fo a 
priest. 

An Englishman, Avho can be much pleased with seeing two 
men beat themselves to pieces, cannot bear to look at a horse 
galloping round an arena with his bowels trailing on the 
ground, and turns from the spectacle and the spectators 
with horror and disgust. 

g Julius Cfesas, who rose by the fall of the aristocracy, brought 
Furius Leptinus and A. Calenus upon the arena. 

II Tertullian, "certe quidem et innocentes gladiatores in ludum 
veniunt, et voluptatis publiese hostise liant." Just. Lips. Saturn. 
Sermon., lib. ii., cap. iii. 

^ Vopiscus, in Vit. Aurel. and in Vit. Claud., ibid. 

** Just. Lips., ibid., lib. i., cap. xii. 

ft Augustinus (lib. vi., confess., cap. viii.\ " Alypium suura gladia- 
torii spectaculi iuhiatu incredibiliter abreptum," .scribit., ib., lib. i., 
cap. xii. 

Xt Hist. Eccles., cap. xxvi., lib. v. 

§g Cassiod. Tripartita, 1. x., c. xi. Saturn., ib., lb. 

III Baronius, ad ann. et in notis ad Martyrol. Rom. I. Jan. See 
Marangon delle memorie sacre e profane dell' Autiteatro Flavio, p. 
25, edit. 1746. 



NOTES TO CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 



NOTE 39. 

See page 48. Stanza clxxiv. 

The Alban Hill. 

"a/«f afar 

The Tiber winds, and ilie broad ocean laves 
The Lallan coa^sW" etc. 

The whole declivity of the Alban hill is of unrivalled 
beautj', and fi'om the convent on the highest point, which 
has succeeded to the temple of the Latian Jupiter, the pros- 
pect embraces all the objects alluded to in the cited stanza ; 
the Mediterranean, the whole scene of the latter half of the 
^neid, and the coast from bejond the mouth of the Tiber 
to the headland of Circaeum and the Cape of Terracina. 

The site of Cicero's villa may be supposed either at the 
Grotta Ferrata, or at the Tusculutn of Prince Lucieu Buona- 
parte, 

The former Avas thought some years ago the actual site, as 
may be seen from Myddleton's Life of Cicero. At present it 
has lost something of its credit, except for the Domenichinos. 
Nine monks of the Greek order live there, and the adjoining 
villa is a cardinal's summer-house. The other villa, called 
Kuflnella, is on the summit of the hill above Frascati, and 
many rich remains of Tusculum have been found there, 
besides seventy-two statues of diltex-ent merit and preserva- 
tion, and seven busts. 

From the same eminence are seen the Sabine hills, em- 
bosomed in which lies the long valley of Rustica. There are 
several circumstances which tend to establish the identity ot 
this valley Avith the " Ustica " of Horace ; and it seems possi- 
ble that the mosaic pavement which the peasants unco\er by 
throwing up the earth of a vineyard may belong to his \illa. 
Rustica is pronounced short, not according to our stress upon 
— " Usticce CMbauiis."— It is more rational to think that we 
are wrong, than that the inhabitants of this secluded valley 
have changed their tone in this word. The addition of the 
consonant prefixed is nothing ; j'et it is necessary to be 
aAvare that Rustica may be a modern name which the peas- 
ants may have caught from the antiquaries. 

The villa, or the mosaic, is in a vineyard on a knoll, cov- 
ered with chestnut trees. A stream runs down the valley ; 
and although it is not true, as said in the guide books, that 
this stream is called Licenza, yet there is a village on a rock 
at the head of the valley which is so denominated, and which 
may have taken its name from the Digentia. Licenza con- 
tains seven hundred inhabitants. On a peak a little way 
beyond is Civitella, containing three hundred. On the banks 
of the Anio, a little before you turn up into Valle Rustica, 
to the left, about an hour from the villa, is a town called 
Vicovaro, another favorable coincidence with the Varia of 
the poet. At the end of the valley, towards the Anio, there 
is a bare hill, crowned with a little town called Bardela. At 
the foot of this hill the rivulet of Licenza Hows, and is almost 
absorbed in a wide sandy bed before it reaches the Anio. 
Nothing can be more foi-tunate for the lines of the poet, 
whether in a metaphorical or direct sense :— 

" Me quotiens reflcit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
Quem Mandela bibit rugosus f rigore pagus." 
The stream is clear high up the valley, but before it reaches 
the hill of Bardela looks green and yellow, like a sulphur 
rivulet. 

Rocca Giovane, a ruined village in the hills, half an hour's 
walk from the vinej^ard where the pavement is shown, does 
seem to be the site of the fane of Vacuna, and an inscription 
found there tells that this temple of the Sabine Victory was 
repaired by Vespasian. With these helps, and a position cor- 
responding exactly to everything which the poet has told us 
of his retreat, we may feel tolerably secure of our site. 

The hill which should be Lucretilis is called Campanile, 
and by following up the rivulet to the pretended Bandusia, 
you come to the roots of the higher mountain Gennaro. 
Singularly enough, the only spot of i^loughed land in the 
whole valley is on the knoll where this Bandusia rises. 
"■.... tu f rigus amabile 
Fessis vomere tauris 
Prasbes, et pecori vago." 
The peasants show another spring near the mosaic pave- 
ment which they call " Oradina," and which flows down the 

* See Historical Illustrations of the Fourth Canto, p. 43. 

t Soe Classical Tour, etc., chap, vii., p. 250, vol. ii. 

X Under our windows, and bordering on the beach, is the royal 



hills into a tank, or mill-dam, and thence trickles over into 
the Digentia. 
But we must not hope 

" To trace the Muses upwards to their spring," 

by exploring the windings of the romatic valley in search of 
the Bcindusian fountain. It seems strange that any one 
should have thought Bandusia a fountain of the Digentia.— 
Horace has not let drop a word of it; and this immorti;l 
spring has in fact been discovered in possession of the hold- 
ers of many good things in Italy, the monks. It was attached 
to the church of Saint Gervais and Portals near Venusia, 
where it was most likely to be found.* We shall not be so 
lucky as a late traveller in finding the occasional pine still 
pendent on the poetic villa. There is not a pine in the whole 
valley, but there are two cypresses, which he evidently took, 
or mistook, for the tree in the ode.t The truth is, that the 
pine is now, as it was in the days of Virgil, a garden tree, 
and it was not at all likely to be found in the craggy acclivi- 
ties of the valley of Rustica. Horace probably had one of 
them in the orchard close above his farm, immediately over- 
shadowing his villa, not on the rocky heights at some dis- 
tance from his abode. Thefourist may have easily supposed 
himself to have seen this pine figured in the above cj'presses ; 
for the orange and lemon trees which throw such a bloom 
over his description of the royal gardens at Naples, unless 
thej' have been since displaced, Avei e assuredly only acacias 
and other common gai-den shrubs, t 



NOTE 40. 

See page 49. 

Eustace's Classical Tour. 

The extreme disappointment experienced by choosing the 
Classical Tourist as a guide in Italy must be allowed to find 
vent in a few observations, which, it is asserted without fear 
of contradiction, will be confirmed by every one who has se- 
lected the same conductor through the same country. This 
author is in fact one of the most inaccurate, unsatisfactory 
Avriters that have in our times attained a temporary reputa- 
tion, and is very seldom to be trusted even when he speaks 
of objects which he must be presumed to have seen. His 
errors, from the simple exaggeration to the downright mis- 
statement, are so frequent as to induce a suspicion that he 
had either never visited the spots described, or had trusted 
to the fidelitj'^ of former writers. Indeed, the Classical Tour 
has every characteristic of a mere compilation of former 
notices, strung together upon a very slender thread of per- 
sonal observation, and swelled out by those decorations 
Avhich are so easily supplied by a systematic adoption of all 
the commonplaces of praise, applied to everything, and 
therefore signifying nothing. 

The style which one person thinks cloggy and cumbrous, 
and unsuitable, may be the taste of others, and such may ex- 
perience some salutary excitement in ploughing through the 
periods of the Classical Tour. It must be said, however, that 
polish and weight are apt to beget an expectation of value. 
It is amongst the pains of the damned to toil up a climax with 
a huge round stone. 

The tourist had the choice of his Avords, but there was no 
such latitude alloAved to that of his sentiments. The loA^e of 
A^irtue and of liberty, which must have distinguished the 
character, certainly adorns the pages of Mr. Eustace; and 
the gentlemanly spirit, so recommendatory either in an 
author or his productions, is very conspicuous throughout 
the Classical Tour. But these generous qualities are the 
foliage of such a performance, and may be spread about itso 
prominentlj' and profusely as to embarrass those who Avish to 
see and find the fruit at hand. The unction of the diAine, 
and the exhortations of the moralist, may have made this 
work something more and better than a book of traA^els, but 
they ha\^e not made it a book of travels ; and this observation 
applies more especially to that enticing method of instruc- 
tion coiiA'eyed by the perpetual introduction of the same 
Gallic Helot to reel and bluster before the rising generation, 
and terrify it into decency by the display of all the excesses 
of the revolution. An animosity against atheists and regi- 



garden, laid out in parterres, and walks shaded by rows of orauge 
trees." Classical Tour, etc., chap, xi., vol. ii., oct. 365. 

627 



NOTES TO THE GOES AIR. 



cides in general, and Fi-enchmen speeiflcally, maybe honora- 
ble, and may be useful as a record ; but that antidote should 
either be administered in any work rather than a tour, or at 
least should be served up apart, and not so mixed with the 
whole mass of information and reliection as to give a bitter- 
ness to ever3- pige ; for who would choose to have the antipa- 
thies of any man, however just, for his travelling- compan- 
ions? A tourist, unless he aspires to the credit of prophecy, 
is not answerable for the changes which may take place in 
the country which he describes; but his reader may very 
fairly esteem all his political portraits and deductions as so 
much Avaste paper the moment they cease to assist, and more 
particularly if they obstruct, his actual siu^vey. 

Neither encomium nor accusation of any government, or 
governors, is meant to be here offered ; but it is stated as an 
incontrovertible fact, that the change operated, either by the 
address of the late imperial system, or by the disappointment 
of every expectation by those who have succeeded to the 
Italian thrones, has been so considerable, and is so apparent, 
as not only to put ]\[r. Eustace's antigallican phili[)pics en- 
tirely out of date, but even to throw some suspicion upon 
the competency and candor of the author himself. A re- 
markable example may be found in the instance of Bologna, 
orer whose papal attachments, and consequent desolation, 
the tourist pours forth such strains of condolence and re- 
venge, made louder by the borrowed trumpet of Mr. Burke. 
Now Bologna is at this moment, and has been for some years, 
notorious amongst the states of Italy for its attachment to 
revolutionary piinciples, and was almost the only city which 
made any demonsti-ations in favor of the unfortunate Murat. 
This change may, however, have been made since Mr. Eus- 
tace visited this country; but the traveller whom he has 
thrilled with horror at the projected stripping of the copper 
from the cupola of Saint Peter's must be much relieved to 
find that sacrilege out of the power of the French, or any 
other plunderers, the cupola being covered with lead* 

If the conspiring voice of otherwise rival critics had not 
given considei-able currency to the Classical Tour, it would 
have been unnecessai-y to warn the reader that, however it 
may adorn his library, it will be of little or no service to him 
in his carriage; and if the judgment of those critics had 
.hitherto been suspended, no attempt Avould have been made 
to anticipate their decision. As it is, those who stand iff the 
relation of posterity to Mr. Eustace may be permitted to ap- 
peal from contemporary praises, and are perhaps more likely 
to be just in proportion as the causes of love and hatred are 
the farther removed. This appeal had, in some measure, 
been made before the above remarks were written : for one 
of the most respectable of the Florentine publishers, who 
had been persuaded by the repeated inquiries of those on 
their journey southwards to reprint a cheap edition of the 
Classical Tour, was, by the concurring advice of returning 
travellers, induced. to abandon his design, although he had 
ah'ead)' arranged his types and paper, and had struck off one 
or two of the first sheets. 

The writer of these notes would wish to part (like Mr. Gib- 
bon) on good terras with the pope and the cardinals, but he 
d(ies not think it necessary to extend the same disci-eet 
silence to their humble partisans. 



the enterprise against the pirates of Barrataria; but fcAv, we 
believe, were informed of the situation, history, or nature of 
that establishment. For the information of such as were un- 
acquainted with it, we have procured from a friend the fol- 
lowing interesting narrative of the main facts, of which he 
has personal knowledge, and which cannot fail to interest 
some of our readers, Barrataria is a bay, or a narrow arm 
of the Gulf of Mexico; it runs through a rich but very fiat 
country, until it reaches within a mile of the Mississippi river, 
fifteen miles below the city of New Orleans. The bay has 
branches almost innumerable, in which persons can lie con- 
cealed from the severest scrutiny. It communicates with 
three lakes which lie on the southwest side, and these, with 
the lake of the same name, and which lies contiguous to the 
sea, where there is an island formed by the two arms of this 
lake and the sea. The east and west points of this island 
were fortified, in the year 1811, by a band of pirates, under 
the command of one IVlonsieur La Fitte. A large majority 
of these outlaws are of that class of the population of the 
j State of Louisiana who fled from the island of St. Domingo 
j during the troubles thei-e, and took refuge in the island of 
I Cuba; and v/hen the last war between France and Spain 
j commenced, they were compelled to leave that island with 
I the short notice of a few days. Without ceremony, they 
entered the United States, the most of them the State of Lou- 
! isiana, with all the negroes they had possessed in Cuba, 
They were noti iied by the governor of that State of the clause 
in the constitution which forbade the importation of slaves; 
but, at the same time, received the assurance of the governor 
that he would obtain, if possible, the approbation of the gen- 
eral government for their retaining this property. The 
island of Barrataria is situated about lat. 29 deg. 15 min., Ion. 
92.30 ; and is as remarkable for its health as for the superior 
scale and shell fish with which its waters abound. The chief 
of this horde, like Charles de Moor, had mixed with his many 
vices some virtues. In the year 1813, this part}' had, from its 
turpitude and boldness, claimed the attention of the governor 
of Louisiana; and to break up the establishment, he thought 
proper to strike at the head. He therefore offered a reward 
j of SoOO for the head of Monsieur La Fitte, Avho was well 
; known to the inhabitants of the city of New Orleans, from 
j his immediate connection, and his once having been a fen- 
I cing-master in that city of great reputation, which art he 
[ learnt in Buonaparte's armj% where he was a captain. The 
I reward which was offered by the governor for the head of La 
j Fitte Avas answered by the offer of a rcAvard from the latter 
j of §15,000 for the head of the governor. The governor or- 
■ dered out a company to march from the city to La Fitte's 
island, and to burn and destroy all the propert}% and to bring 
to the city of New Orleans all his banditti. This company, 
\ under the command of a man who had been the intimate 
\ associate, of this bold captain, approached very near to the 
I fortified island, before he saw a man, or heard a sound, until 
he heard a whistle, not unlike a boatswain's call. Then it 
I Avas he found hitnself surrounded b.y armed men who had 
I emerged from the seciet aAcnues Avhich led into Baj'ou. 
I Here it vras that the modern Charles de Moor deA-eloped his 
f CAv noble traits ; for to this man Avho had come to destroy 
his life and all that AA'as dear to him, he not onlj' spared his 
life, but offered him that Avhich Avould haA-e made the honest 
soldier easy for the remainder of his days; Avhich AA-as indig- 
nantlj' refused. He then, Avith the appi'obation of his captor, 
returned to the city. This circumstance, and some concomi- 
tant oA^ents, proA-ed that this band of pirates Avas not to be 
taken bj^ land. Our naval force haAing always been small in 
that quarter, exertions for the destruction of this illicit 
establishment could not be expected from them until aug- 
mented ; for an officer of the navy, Avith most of the gun- 
boats on that station, had to retreat from an OA-erAvhelming 
force of La Fitte's. So soon as the augmentation of the 
navy authorized an attack, one Avas made ; the OAcrthroAv of 
this banditti has been the result; and noAv this almost iuAul- 
nerable point and key to NeAv Orleans is clear of an enemy, 
it is to be hoped the gOA-ernment Avill hold it by a strong mili- 
tary force." — Amei-icau Ncic^paper. 
In Noble's continuation of Granger's Biographical Historj'' 
: there is a singular passage in his account of Archbishop 
! Blackbourne; and as in some measure connected with the 
I profession of the hero of the foregoing poem, T cannot resist 
i the temptation of extracting it. "There is something mys- 



NOTE 41. 

See page 87. Stanza xxiv. 

"H>. left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one viHue, and a thousand crimes." 

That the point of honor Avhich is represented in one in- 
stance of Conrad's character has not been carried beyond the 
bounds of probability, may perhaps be in some degree con- 
firmed by the folloAving anecdote of a brother buccaneer in 
the year 181-1:— "Our readers have all seen the account of 

* " "What, then, will be the astonishment, or rather the horror, of I inside of the edifice, as well as the copper that covers the vaults nnd 

my reader, when I inform him the French committee turned ! the dome on the outside." Classical Tour, chap, iv., p. 130, vol. ii. 

its attention to Saint Peter's, and employed a rompany of Jews to | The story about the Jews is positively denied at Rome, 
estimate and purchase the gold, silver, and bronze that adorn the | 

b28 



NOTES TO LARA AND MARINO FALIERO. 



terious in the history and character of Dr. Blackbourne. 
The former is but imperfectly known ; and report has even 
asserted he v^^as a buccaneer; and that one of his brethren in 
that prof ession having' asked, on his arrival \n England, what 
had become of his old chum, Blackbourne, was answered. He 
is Archbishop of York. We are informed that Blackbourne 
was installed sub-dean of Exeter in 1694, which ofiice he re- 
signed in 1703 ; but after his successor Lewis Barnet's death, 
in 1T04, he regained it. In the following year he became 
dean, and in 1714, held with it the archdeanery of Cornwall. 
He was consecrated bishop of Exeter, February 24, 171G ; and 
translated to York, November 28, 1724, as a reward, accord- 
ing to court scandal, for uniting George I. to the Duchess of 
Munster. This, however, aijpears to have been an unfounded 
calumny. As archbishop he behaved with great prudence, 
and was equally respectable as the guardian of the revenues 
of the see. Rumor whispered he retained the vices of his 
youth, and that a passion for the fair sex formed an item in 
the list of his weaknesses ; but so far from being convicted 
by seventy witnesses, he does not appear to have been di- 
rectly criminated by one. In short, 1 look tipon these asper- 
sions as the etfects of mere malice. How is it possible a 
buccaneer should have boon so good a scholar as Blackbourne 
certainly was? He who had so perfect a knowledge of the 
classics (particularly of the Greek tragedians), as to be able 
to read them with tiie same ease as he could Ehakspeare, 
must have taken great pains to acquire the learned languages ; 
and have had both leisure and good masters. But he was 
undoubtedly educated at Christ Church Colles-e, Oxford. He 
is allowed to have been a pleasant man ; this, however, was 
turned against him by its being said, 'he gained more hearts 
than souls.' " 

"The only voice that could soothe the passions of the sav- 
age (Alphonso III.) Avas that of an amiable and virtuous wife, 
the sole object of his love; the A'oice of Donna Isabella, the 
daughter of the Duke of Savoy, and the granddaughter of 
Philip II., King of Spain. Her dying words sunk deep into 
his memory ; his fierce spirit melted into tears ; and after the 
last embrace, Alphonso retired into his chamber to bewail 
his irreparable loss, and to meditate on the vanity of human 
life."— GiZ>Z)o?i'« Miscellaneous TFor7:s, vol. iii., p. 4.73. 



%nvn. 



NOTB 42. 

See page 97. Stanza xsciv. 

He heard a tramp— a horse and horseman hroJie 
From out the wood— before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his sadalc-bow." 

The event in this section was suggested by the description 
of the death, or rather burial, of the Duke of Gandia. The 
most interesting and particular account of it is given by 
Burchard, and is in substance as follows:— "On the eighth 
day of June, the Cardinal of Valenza and the Duke of Gan- 
dia, sons of the pope, supped with their mother, Vanozza, 
near the church of S. Pletro ad vincula ; several other per- 
sons being present at the entertainment. A late hour ap- 
proaching, and the cardinal having reminded his brother 
that Jt was time to return to the apostolic palace, they 
mounted their horses or mules, with only a few attendants, 
and proceeded together as far as the palace of Cardinal As- 
canio Sforza, when the duke informed the cardinal that, 
before he returned home, he had to pay a visit of pleasure. 
Dismissing therefore all his attendants, excepting his staffi- 
ero, or footman, and a person in a mask, who had paid him a 
visit whilst at supper, and who, durhig the space of a month 
or thereabouts, previous to this time, had called upon him 
almost daily, at the r.postolic palace, he took this person 
behind him on his mule, and proceeded to the street of the 
Jews, where he quitted his servant, directing him to remain 
thti'e until a certain hour; when, if he did not return, he 
might repair to the palace. The duke then seated the person 
in the mask behind him, and rode, I know not whither; but 
in that night he was assassinated, and thrown into the river. 

* Mr. Francis Cohen, now Sir Francis Palgrave. K. H., the learned 
author of the " Rise and Progress of the English Constitution," 
" History of the Anglo-Saxons," etc., etc. 



The servant, after having been dismissed, was also assaulted 
and mortally wounded ; and although he was attended with 
great care, yet sucii was his situation, that he could give no 
intelligible account of Avhat had befallen his master. In the 
morning, the duke not having returned to the palace, his 
servants began to be alarmed ; and one of them informed the 
I)ontiff of the evening excursion of his sons, and that the 
duke had not yet made his appearance. This gaA-e the pope 
no small anxiety ; but he conjectured that the duke had been 
attracted by some courtesan to pass the night Avith her, and, 
not choosing to quit the house m open day, had waited till 
the following evening to return home. When, hoAveA-er, the 
eA'ening arrived, and he found himself disappointed in his 
expectations, he became deeply afaicted, and began to make 
inquiries from different persons, whom he ordered to attend 
him for that purpose. Amongst these was a man named 
Giorgio SchiaA'oni, who, having discharged some timber from 
a bai'k in the river, had remained on board the vessel to 
watch it; and being interrogated Avhether he had seen any 
one throAvn into the river on the night preceding, he replied, 
that he saAv two men on foot, Avho came doAvn the street, and 
looked diligently about, to obserA'e Avhether any person Avas 
passing. That seeing no one, they returned, and a short time 
afterwards two othci's came, and looked around in the same 
manner as the former ; no person still appearing, they gave 
a sign to their companions, when a man came, mounted on a 
white horse, haAing behind him a dead body, the head and 
arms of Avhich hung on one side, and the feet on the other 
side of the horse; the Iavo persons on foot supporting the 
body, to prevent its failing. They thus proceeded tOAvards 
that part, Avhere the filth of the city is usually discharged 
into the riA'er, and turning the horse, Avith his tail towards 
the vrater, the tAVO persons took the dead body by the arms 
and feet, and Avith all their strength fiung it into the river. 
The person on hoi'seback then asked if they had thrown it 
in ; to which they replied Signor, si (yes, sir). He then looked 
tOAvards the riA'^er, and seeing a mantle floating on the stream, 
he inquired Avhat it Avas that appeared black, to Avhich they 
ansv/ered, it was a mantle; and one of them thrcAV stones 
upon It, in consequence of which it sunk. The attendants 
upon the pontiff then inquired from Giorgio, AAdiy he had not 
rCA'ealed this to the gOA^ernor of the city ; to Avhich he replied, 
that he had seen in his time a hundred dead bodies thrown 
into the river at the same place, Avithout any inquiry being 
made respecting them ; and that he had not, therefore, con- 
sidered it as a matter of anj^ importance. The fishermen 
and seamen Avere then collected, and ordered to search the 
river, Avhere, on the following CA'cning, they found the body 
of the duke, Avith his habit entire, and thirty ducats in his 
purse. He Avas pierced Avith nine Avounds, one of Avhich Avas 
in his throat, the others in his head, body, and limbs. No 
sooner Avas the pontiff informed of the death of his son, and 
that he had been throAvn, like filth, into the river, than, gi\^- 
Ing Avaj^ to his grief, he shut himself up in a chamber, and 
wept bitterly. The Cardinal of Segovna, and other attend- 
ants of the pope, went to the door, and after many hours 
spent in persuasions and exhortations, prevailed upon him to 
admit them. From the evening of Wednesday till the fol- 
lowing Saturday the pope took no food; nor did he sleep 
from Thursday morning till the same hour on the ensuing 
day. At length, howcA'er, giving Avay to the entreaties of 
his attendants, he began to restrain his sorroAV, and to con- 
sider the injury which his OAvn health might sustain, by the 
further indulgence of his grief."— i^o^coe's Leo the Tenth. 



arino 4^Uer0. 



NOTE 43. 

See pa{ie l.'ti. 

[I ara obliged for the folloAving excellent translation of the 
old Chronicle to Mr. F. Cohen,* to Avhom the reader Avill find 
himself indebted for a A'ersion that I could not myself— 
though after many years' intercourse Avith Italian— ha^'e 
given by anj'^ means so purely and so faithfully. +] 



t In a letter to Mr. I^furray, dated Ravenna, July 30, 1821, Lord 
Eyron says: — ''Enclosed is the best account of the do^e Faliero, 
which Avas oiily sent to me, from an old MS., the other day. Get it 

1)29 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



STORY OF MARINO FALIERO, DOGE XLIX. 
MCCCLIV. 

On the 11th day of September, in the year of our Lord 1354, 
Marino Faliero was elected and chosen to be the duke oi the 
Commonwealth of Venice. He was Count of Valdemarino, 
in the marches of Treviso, and a knig-ht, and a wealthy man 
to boot. As soon as the election was completed, it w^as re- 
solved in the Great Council, that a deputation of twelve 
should be despatched to Marino Faliero the duke, who was 
then on his way from Rome ; for when he was chosen, he was 
ambassador at the court of the holy father, at Rome,— the 
holy father himself held his court at Avig-non. When Messer 
Marino Faliero the duke was about to land in this city, on 
the 5th day of October, 1354, a thick haze came on, and dark- 
ened the air: and he was enforced to land on the place of 
Saint Mark, between the two columns, on the spot where 
evil-doers are put to death ; and all thought that this was the 
worst of tokens.— Nor must I forget to write that which I 
have read in a chronicle. When Messer Marino Faliero was 
podesta and captain of Ti-eviso, the bishop delayed coming- 
in with the holy sacrament, on a day when a procession was 
to take place. Now, the said Marino Faliero was so verj^ 
proud and -svrathful. that he buffeted the bishop and almost 
struck him to the ground: and. therefore. Heaven allowed 
Marino Faliero to go out of his right senses, in order that he 
might bring- himself to an evil death. 

When this duke had held the dukedom during- nine months 
and six dajs, he, being- wicked and ambitious, sought to make 
himself lord of Venice, in the manner which I have read in 
an ancient chronicle. When the Thursday arrived upon 
which they were wont to hunt the bull, the bull hunt took 
place as usual; and, according- to the usage of those times, 
after the bull hunt had ended, they all proceeded into the 
palace of the duke, and assembled together in one of his 
halls; and they disported themselves with the women. And 
until the first bell tolled they danced, and then a banquet 
was served up. My lord the duke paid the expenses thereof, 
provided he had a duchess, and after the banquet they all 
returned to their homes. 

Now to this feast there came a certain Ser Michele Steno, 
a gentleman of poor estate, and very young, but crafty and 
daring, and who loved one of the damsels of the duchess. 
Ser Michele stood amongst the women upon the solajo ; and 
he behaved indiscreetly, so that my lord the duke ordered 
that he should be kicked off the solajo ; and the esquires of 
tlie duke flung him down from the solajo accordingly. Ser 
Michele thought that such an affront was beyond all bearing ; 
and when the feast was over, and all other persons had left 
the palace, he, continuing heated with anger, went to the 
hall of audience, and wrote certain unseemly words relating 
to the duke and the duchess upon the chair in which the 
duke was used to sit; for in those days the duke did not 
cover his chair with cloth of sendal, but he sat in a chair of 
wood. Ser Michele wrote thereon— " 3far-m Falier, the hus- 
hand of the fair xoife ; others kiss her, but he keeps her.'" In the 
morning- the words were seen, and the matter was considered 
to be very scandalous ; the Senate commanded the Avog-adori 
of the Commonwealth to proceed therein Avith the greatest 
diligence. A largess of .great amount was immediately prof- 
fered by the Avogadori, in order to discover who had written 
these words. And at leng-th it was known that Michele 
Steno had written them. It was resolved in the Council of 
Forty that he should be arrested ; and he then confessed that 
in the fit of vexation and spite, occasioned by his being 
thrust off the solajo in the presence of his mistress, he had 
written the words. Thei-efore the Council debated thereon. 
And the Council took his youth into consideration, and that 
he was a lover : and therefore they adjudged that he should 
be kept in close confinement during- two months, and that 
afterwards he should be banished from Venice and the state 
during one j'ear. In consequence of this merciful sentence 
the duke became exceedingly wroth, it appearing- to him that 
the Council had not acted in such a manner as was required 
by the respect due to his ducal dignitj- ; and he said that they 
ought to have condemned Ser Michele to be hang:ed by the 
neck, or at least to be banished for life. 

Now it Avas fated that my lord duke Marino was to have 
his head cut off. And as it is necessary when any effect is to 

translated, and append it as a note to the next edition. You will^ 
perhaps, be pleased to see that my conceptions of his character were 
correct; though I regret not having met with the extract before. 
You will perceive that he himself said exactly what he is made to 
bay about the Bishop of Treviso. You will see also that he spoke 

030 



I be brought about that the cause of such effect must happen, 
I it therefore came to pass that on the very day after sentence 
I had been pronounced on Ser Michele Steno, being the first 
I day of Lent, a gentleman of the house of Barbaro, a choleric 
I gentleman, went to the arsenal, and required certain things 
i of tlie masters of the g-alleys. This he did in the presence of 
I the admiral of the arsenal, and he, hearing the request, an- 
swered,— No, it cannot be done. Hig-h words arose between 
the gentleman and the admiral, and the gentleman struck 
him with his fist just above the eye; and as ho happened to 
have a ring- on his finger, the ring- cut the admiral and drcAv 
blood. The admiral, all bruised and blood j', ran straight to 
the duke to complain, and with the intent of prajing him to 
mflict some heavy punishment upon the g-entleman of Ca 
Barbaro.-" What wouldst thou have me to do for thee?" 
answered the duke:— "think upon the shameful gibe which 
I hath been written concerning me ! and think on the manner 
in which they have punished that ribald Michele Steno, who 
I wrote it ; and see how the Council of Fortj- respect our per- 
i son."— Upon this the admiral answered,— "My lord duke, if 
you would wish to make youi'self a pi'ince, and to cut all 
these cuckoldy gentlemen to pieces, I have the heart, if you 
do but help me, to make 3'ou prince of all this state ; and then 
you may punish them all."— Hearing this, the duke said,— 
"How can such a matter be brought about?"— and so they 
discoursed thereon. 

The duke called for his nephew, Ser Bertuccio Faliero, who 
lived with him in the palace, and they communed abo«t this 
plot. And without leaving the place, they sent for Philip 
Calendaro, a seaman of great repute, and for Bertuccio Is- 
raello, who was exceedingly wily and cunning. Then taking 
counsel amongst themselves, they agreed to call in some 
others; and so, for several nights successively, they met 
with the duke at home in his palace. And the following men 
were called in singly, to wit:— Niccolo Fagiuolo, Giovanni 
da Corfu, Stefano Fagiono, Niccolo dalle Bende, Niccolo 
Biondo, and Stefano Trivisano. — It was concerted that six- 
teen or seventeen leaders should be stationed in various 
parts of the city, each being at the head of forty men, armed 
and prepared ; but the followers w^ere not to know their des- 
tination. On the appointed day they Avere to make affrays 
amongst themselves here and there, in order that the duke 
might have a pretence for tolling the bells of* San Marco ; 
these bells are never rung but bj' the order of the duke. 
And at the sound of the bells, these sixteen or seventeen, 
with their followers, were to come to San Marco, through 
the streets Avhich open upon the Piazza. And vrhen the 
noble and leading- citizens should come into the Piazza, to 
know the cause of the riot, then the conspirators were to 
cut them in pieces; and this Avork being finished, mj^ lord 
Marino Faliero, the duke, was to be proclaimed the lord of 
Venice. Things haAing been thus settled, they agreed to 
fulfill their intent on Wednesday, the 15th day of April, in 
the year 1355. So coA-ertly did they plot, that no one ever 
dreamt of their machinations. 

But the Lord, who hath always helped this most glorious 
citj', and who, loving its righteousness and holiness, hath 
never forsaken it, inspired one Beltramo Bergamasco to be 
the cause of bringing the plot to light, in the follOAving man- 
ner:— This Beltramo, who belonged to Ser Niccolo Lioni of 
Santo Stefano, had heard a word or two of what was to take 
place; and so, in the before-mentioned month of April, be 
Avent to the house of the aforesaid Ser Niccolo Lioni, and 
told him all the particulars of the plot. Ser Niccolo, when 
he heard all these things, was struck dead, as it were, AA'ith 
affright. He heard all the particulars; and Beltramo praj'ed 
him to keep it all secret; and if he told Ser Niccolo, it Avas 
in order that Ser Niccolo might stop at home on the 15th of 
April, and thus saA'e his life. Belti-amo was going, but Ser 
Niccolo ordered his serAants to lay hands upon him, and lock 
him up. Ser Niccolo then Avent to the house of Me.sser Gio- 
vanni Gradenigo Nasoni, Avho afterwards became duke, and 
Avho also lived at Santo Stefano, and told him all. The matter 
seemed to him to be of the very greatest importance, as in- 
deed it Avas ; and they tAvo Avent to the house of Ser Marco 
Cornaro, Avho liA^ed at San Felice; and having spoken Avith 
him, they all three then determined to go back to the house 
of Ser Niccolo Lioni, to examine the said Beltramo; and 
haA'ing questioned him, and heard all that he had to say, they 



little, and those only words of rage and disdain, aftkr his arrest ; 
which is the case in the play, except when he breaks out at the close 
of act tifth. But his speech to the conspirators is better in the MS. 
than in the play. I wish I had met with it iu time." 



NOTES TO MARINO FALIERO. 



left him in confinement. And then they all three went into 
the sacristy of San Salvatore, and sent their men to summon 
the councillors, the Avogadori, the Capi de' Dieci, and those 
of the Great Council, 

When all were assembled, the whole story was told to them. 
They were struck dead, as it were, with affrij^ht. They de- 
termined to send for Beltramo. He was broug-ht in before 
them. They examined him, and ascertained that the matter 
was true ; and, although they were exceedingly troubled, yet 
they determined upon their measures. And they sent for the 
Capi de' Quarante, the Signori di Notte, the Capi de' Sestieri, 
and the Cinque della Pace ; and they were ordered to associ- 
ate to their men other good men and true, who were to pro- 
ceed to the houses of the ringleaders of the conspiracy, and 
secure them. And they secured the foreman of the arsenal, in 
order that the conspirators might not do mischief. Towards 
nightfall they assembled in the palace. When they were as- 
sembled in the palace, they caused the gates of the quadran- 
gle of the palaee to be shut. And they sent to the keeper of 
the bell-tower, and forbade the tolling of the bells. All this 
was carried into effect. The before-mentioned conspirators 
were secured, and they were brought to the palace ; and, as 
the Council of Ten saw that the duke was in the plot, they 
resolved that twenty of the leading men of the state should 
be associated to them, for the purpose of consultation and 
deliberation, but that they should not be allowed to ballot. 

The councillors were the following :— Ser Giovanni Mo- 
cenigo, of the Sestiero of San Marco; Ser Almoro Veniero 
da Santa Marina, of the Sestiero of Castello; Ser Tomaso 
Viadro, of the Sestiero of Canaregio ; Ser Giovanni Sanudo, 
of the Sestiero of Santa Croce; Ser Pietro Trivisano, of the 
Sestiero of San Paolo; SerPantalione Barbo il Grando, of the 
Sestiero of Ossoduro. The Av^ogadori of the Commonwealth 
Avere Zufredo Morosini and Ser Orio Pasqualigo: and these 
did not ballot. Those of the Council of Ten were Ser Gio- 
vanni Marcello, Ser Tomaso Sanudo, and Ser Micheletto Dol- 
fino, the heads of the aforesaid Council of Ten. Ser Luca da 
Legge and Ser Pietro da Moste, inquisitors of the aforesaid 
Council. And Ser Marco Polani, Ser Marino Veniero, Ser Lan- 
do Lombardo, and Ser Nicoletto Trivisano, of Sant' Angelo. 

Late in the night, just before the dawning, they chose a 
junta of twentj' noblemen of Venice from amongst the wis- 
est, and the v/orthiest, and the oldest. They were to give 
counsel, but not to ballot. And they would not admit any 
one of Ca Faliero. And Niccolo Faliero, and another Nic- 
colo Faliero, of San Tomaso, were expelled from the Coun- 
cil, becauoe they 'oelonged to the family of the doge. And this 
resolution of creating the junta of tAventj^ was much praised 
throughout the state. The following were the members 
of the junta of twenty :— Ser Marco Giustiniani, procuratore, 
Ser Andrea Erizzo, procuratore, Ser Lionardo Giustiniani, 
procuratore, Ser Andrea Contarini, Ser Simone Dandolo, Ser 
Niccolo Volpe, Ser Giov^anni Loredano, Ser Marco Diedo, Ser 
Giovanni Gradenigo, Ser Andrea Cornaro, cavaliere, Ser 
Marco Soranzo, Ser Kinieri du Mosto, Ser Gazano Marcello, 
Ser Marino Morosini, Ser Stefano Belegno, Ser Niccolo Lioni, 
Ser Filippo Orio, Ser Marco Trivisano, Ser Jacopo Bragadino, 
Ser Giovanni Foscarini. 

These twenty were accordingly called in to the Council of 
Ten; and they sent for my lord Marino Faliero the duke: 
and my lord Marino was then consorting in the palace with 
people of great estate, gentlemen, and other good men, none 
of whom knew yet how the fact stood. 

At the same time Bertucci Israello, who, as one of the 
ringleaders, was to head the conspirators in Santa Croce, 
was arrested and bound, and brought before the Council. 
Zanello del Brin, Nicoletto di Rosa, Nicoletto Alberto, and 
■the guardiaga, were also taken, together with several sea- 
men, and people of various ranks. These were examined, 
and the truth of the plot was ascertained. 

On the 16th of April judgment was given in the Council of 
Ten, that Filippo Calendaro and Bertnccio Tsraello should be 
hanged upon the red pillars of the balcony of the palace, 
from which the duke is wont to look at the bull hunt: and 
they were hanged with gags in their mouths. 

The next day the following were condemned :— Niccolo 
Zuccuolo, Nicoletto Biondo, Nicoletto Boro, Marco Giuda, 
Jacomello Dagolino, Nicoletto Fidele, the son of Filippo 
Calendaro, Marco Torello, called Tsraello, Stefano Trivisano, 
the money changer of Santa Margherita, and Antonio dalle 
Bende. These were all taken at Chiozza, for thej- were en- 
deavoring to escape. Afterwards, by virtue of the sentence 
which was passed upon them in the Council of Ten, they 
were hanged on successive days ; some singly and some in 
couples, upon the columns of the palace, beginning from the 



red columns, and so going onwards towards the canal. And 
other prisoners were discharged, because, although the}' had 
been involved in the conspiracy, yet thej' had not assisted in 
it: for they were given to understand by some of the heads 
of the plot, that they were to come armed and prepared for 
the service of the state, and in order to secure certain crimi- 
nals; and they knew nothing else. Nicoletto Alberto, the 
guardiaga, and Bartolomraeo Ciricolo and his son, and sev- 
eral others, who were not guilty, were discharged. 

On Friday, the 16th day of April, judgment was also given 
in the aforesaid Council of Ten, that my lord Marino Faliero, 
the duke, should have his head cut off; and that the execu- 
tion should be done on the landing-place of the stone stair- 
case, where the dukes take their oath when thej^ first enter 
the palace. On the following day, the 17th of April, the 
doors of the palace being shut, the duke had his head cut 
off, about the hour of noon. And the cap of estate was taken 
from the duke's head before he came down stairs. When the 
execution was over, it is said that one of the Council of Ten 
went to the columns of the palace over against the place of 
Saint Mark, and that he showed the bloody sword unto the 
people, crying out with a loud voice— "The terrible doom 
hath fallen upon the traitor !"— and the doors were opened, 
and the people all rushed in, to see the corpse of the duke, 
who had been beheaded. 

It must be known that Ser Giovanni Sanudo, the council- 
lor, Avas not present when the aforesaid sentence Avas pro- 
nounced ; because he Avas unwell, and remained at home. So 
that only fourteen balloted; that is to say, fiA^e councillors, 
and nine of the Council of Ten. And it Avas adjudged, that 
all the lands and chattels of the duke, as well as of the other 
traitors, should be forfeited to the state. And, as a grace to 
the duke, it was resolved in' the Council of Ten that he 
should be allOAved to dispose of tAvo thousand ducats out of 
his own property. And it Avas resolved, that all the council- 
lors and all the Avogadori of the CommouAvealth, those of 
the Council of Ten, and the members of the junta, Avho had 
assisted in passing sentence on the duke and the other trait- 
ors, should haA^e the privilege of carrying arms both by day 
and by night in Venice, and from Grado to Cavazere. And 
the3' Avere also to be allowed tAvo footmen carrying arms, tlie 
aforesaid footmen living and boarding Avith them in their 
own houses. And he Avho did not keep two footmen might 
transfer the priAilege to his sons or his brothers, but only to 
two. Permission of carrying arms Avas also granted to the 
four notaries of the chancery, that is to sa.v, of the Supreme 
Court, who took the depositions : and they were, Amedio, 
Nicoletto di Lorino, Steffanello, and Pietro de Compostelli, 
the secretaries of the Signori di Notte. 

After the traitors had been hanged, and the duke had had 
his head cut off, the state remained in great tranquillity and 
peace. And, as I have read in a chronicle, the corpse of the 
duke was remoA^ed in a barge, Avith eight torches, to his tomb 
in the church of San GioA^anni e Paolo, Avhere it was buried. 
The tomb is noAV in that aisle in the middle of the little 
church of Santa Maria della Pace, which was built by Bishop 
Gabriel of Bergamo. It is a coffin of stone, Avith these words 
engraA-ed thereon: "" Heic jacet Dominus Marinus Faletro 
Dux."— And the}' did not paint his portrait in the hall of the 
Great Council ; but in the place where it ought to have been, 
you see these words : '' Hie est locus Marini Faletro, decaintati 
pro criminihus."— And it is thought that his house was 
granted to the church of Sant' Apostolo ; it was that great one 
near the bridge. Yet this could not be the case, or else the 
family bought it back from the church ; for it still belongs 
to Ca Faliero. I must not refrain from noting that some 
Avished to Avrite the following Avoi-ds in the place Avhere his 
portrait ought to haA^ebeen, as aforesaid :—"' Marinus Faletro 
Dux, temeHtas me cepit. PcBiias lui, decapitatus pro crimini- 
7jws."— Others, also, indited a couplet, worthy of being in- 
scribed upon his tomb. 

'■'•Dux Venetum jacet heic, patriam quiprodere tentans^ 
Sceptra, decus, censuin perdidit, atque caput." 



NOTE 44. 

See page 154. 

Petrarch on the Conspiracy of Marino Faliero.* 

The Italian translatioii from the Latin epistles of Peti^rchi 
proves— Istly, That Marino Faliero was a personal friend of 



* " Had a copy taken of an extract from Petrarch's Letters, wit& 

631 



NOTES TO THE TWO FOSCARL 



Petrarch's; "antica dirae£5tichezza," old intimacy, is the 
phrase of the poet. 2dl.v, That Petrarch thoug-ht that he had 
more courage than conduct, "piu di cnrraggio che di seiino." 
3dly, That there was some jealousy on the part of Petrarch ; 
for he says that Marino Faliero Avas treating- of the peace 
which he himself had "vainly attempted to conclude." 4thly, 
That the honor of the dukedom was conferred upon him, 
which he neither sought nor expected, "che ne chiedeva a^ 
aspettava," and which had never been granted to any other 
In like circumstances, "cio che non si concedette a nessun 
altro," a proof of the high esteem in which he must have 
been held. 5thly, That he had a reputation for wisdom, only 
forfeited by the last enterprise of his life, "si usurpo per 
tanti anni una falsa fama di sapienza "— " he had usurped for 
eo many years a false fame of wisdom," rather a difficult task, 
I should think. People are generally found out before eighty 
years of age, at least in a i-epublic— From these, and the 
other historical notes which I have collected, it may be in- 
ferred that Marino Faliero possessed many of the qualities, 
but not the success, of a hero ; and that his passions were too 
violent. The paltry and ignorant account of Dr. Moore falls 
to the ground. Petrarch saj's, "that there had been no 
greater event in his times" (our times literally), "nostri 
tempi." in Italy. He also diffei-s from the historian in saying- 
that Faliero was "on the banks of the Rlione," instead of at 
Rome, when elected ; the other accounts say that the depu- 
tation of the Venetian senate met him at Ravenna. How 
this may have been, it is not for me to decide, and is of no 
great importance. Had the man succeeded, he would have 
changed the face of Venice, and perhaps of ilaiy. As it is, 
■what are they both ? 



NOTE 45. 

See loage 184. 

Venetian Society and Manners. 

*' Vice without splendor, sin without relief 
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er. 
But in its stead, coarse lusts of habitude" etc. 

" To these attacks so frequently pointed by the g-o-^ernment 
against the clergy,— to the continual struggles between the 
different constituted bodies,— to these enterprises carried on 
by the mass of the nobles against the depositaries of povrcr, 
—to all those projects of innovation, Avhieh always ended by 
a stroke of state policy; we must add a cause not less fitted 
to spread contempt for ancient doctrines; this was the excess 
of coi-ruption. 

"That freedom of manners, which had been long boasted 
of as the principal charm of Venetian society, had degener- 
ated into scandalous licentiousness: the tie of marriage was 
less sacred in that Catholic country than among those nations 
where the laws and religion admit of its being dissolved. 
Because they could not break the contract, they feigned that 
it had not existed; and the g-round of nullity, immodestly 
alleged by the married pair, was admitted with equal facility 
by priests and magistrates, alike corrupt. These divorces, 
.veiled under another name, became so fretjuent, that the 
most important act of civil society was discoAcred to be 
amenable to a tribunal of exceptions; and to restrain the 
open scandal of such proceedings became the office of the 
police. In 1782. the Council of Ten decreed that every wo- 
man who should sue for a dissolution of her marriage should 
be compelled to await the decision of the judges in some con- 
vent, to be named by the court.* Soon afterwards the same 
Council summoned all causes of that nature before itself.+ 
This infi'ingement on ecclesiastical jurisdiction having occa- 
sioned some remonstrance from Rome, the Council retained 
only the right of rejecting- the petition of the married per- 
sons, and consented to refer such causes to the holy office as 
it should not previously have rejected.:]; 

"There was a moment in which, doubtless, the destruction 
of private fortunes, the ruin of youth, the domestic discord 
occasioned by these abuses, determined the government to 
depart from its established maxims concerning- the freedom 
■of manners allowed the subject. All the coui-tesans v.'ero 

reference to the conspiracy of the doge Marino Faliero, containing 
the poet's opinion of the rantter."— Byron Diary, Feb. 11, 18'21. 

* Correspondence of M. Schlick, French charge d'affaires : despatch 
of 24th August, 1782. 

t Correspondence of M. Schlick : despatch of 3Ist August. 

682 



banished from Venice; but their absence v.as not enough to 
reclaim and bring back good morals to a whole people brought 

: up in the most scandalous licentiousness. Depravity reached 
the very bosoms of private families, and even into the cloister; 
and they found themselves oblig-ed to recall, and even to in- 
demnify. § women who sometimes gained possession of im- 
portant secrets, and who mig-ht be usefullj' employed in the 
ruin of men whose fortunes might have rendered them dan- 
gerous. Since that time liceuiiousness ha? gone on increasing-; 
and Ave have seen mothers not onlj- selling- the innocence (-f 
their daughters, but selling- it by a contract, authenticated 
bj' the signature of a public officer, and the performance of 

[ which was secured by the protection of the laws.il 

"The parlors of the convents of noble ladies, and the houses 
of the courtesans, though the police caret ullj' kept up a num- 
ber of spies about them, were the only assemblies for society 
in Venice; and in these two places, so different from each 
other, there Avas equal freedom. Music, collations, gallantry, 
were not more forbidden in the parlors than at the casinos. 
There Avere a number of casinos for the purpose of public 
assemblies, where gaming- Avas the principal pursuit of the 
company. It Avas a strange sight to see persons of either sex 
masked, or graA'e in their magisterial robes, round a table, 
invoking- chance, and giAing AA-ay at one instant to the agonies 
of despair, and at the next to the illusions of hope, and that 
without uttering a single word, 

"The rich had private casinos, but they lived incognito in 
them ; and the Avi\-es Avhom they abandoned found compen- 
sation in the liberty they enjoyed. The corruption of morals 
had deprived them of their empire. We haA^e just roAdcAved 
the Avhole history of Venice, and Ave haAe not once seen them 
exercise the slightest influence."— Daru: Hist, de la Bipub, 
de Venise, vol, v., p. 95. 



©he i:tro 4^.^Qn. 



NOTE 46. 
See po-QC 222, 

Tlie best English account of the incidents on which this plGit is 
founded is giver^ in the second volume of the Bevrrend ^Ir. 
Smedley's '' Sketches of Venetian History," and is asfoUous: 

"The reign of Francesco Foscari had now been prolonged 

to the unusual period of thii-ty-four years, and these yeiivs 

Avere marked by almost continual warfare; during- which, 

however, the courage, the firmness, and the sagacity of the 

illustrious dog-e had won four rich proA'inces for his country, 

I and increased her glory not less than her dominion. Ardent, 

1 enterprising-, and ambitious of the glory of conquest, it Avas 

i not Avithout much opposition that Foscari had obtained the 

i dogeship : and he soon discoAered that the throne which he 

j had coveted Avith so great earnestness Avas far from being a 

j seat of repose. Accordingly, at the peace of Feri-ara, Avhich 

I in 1433 succeeded a calamitous Avar, foreseeing- the approach 

\ of fresh and still greater troubles, and wearied by the factions 

I which ascribed all disasters tc the prince, he tendered his 

I abdication to the senate, andavas refused. A like offer Avas 

i rencAved bj' him Avhen nine years' further experience of 

I sovereignty had confirmed his former estimate of its cares; ; 

I and the Council, on this second occasion, much more from 

adherence to existing- institutions than from anj' attachment 

to the person of the doge, accompanied their neg-ati\e Avith 

the exaction of an oath that he Avould retain his burdensome 

dignity for life. Too early, alas! AA-as he to be taught that 

life, on such conditions. Avas the heaAiest of curses. Three 

I out of his four sons Avere already dead: to GiacojJO, the svir- 

1 Aivor, he looked for the continuation of his name and the 

I support of his declining- agre; and, from that j'outh's inler- 

marriage with the illustrious house of Contarini, and the 

; popular joy Avith Avhich his nuptials were celebrated, tlie 

■ d(;ge drcAv favorable auspices for future happiness. Four 

j years, however, had scarcelj' elapsed from the conclusion of 



t Ibid.; despatch of 3d September, 1785. 

{i The decree for their recall designates them ns nosfre henemei-He 
weretiici ; a fund and some houses, called Case rampane, were as- 
signed to them : hence the opprobrious appellation of Qiravrpavis. 

I! Mayer, Description of Venice, vol. ii., and M. Arcbeuholz, Pic- 
ture of Italy, vol. i,, ch. 2. 



NOTES TO THE TWO FOSCARI. 



that well-omened marriage, when a series of calamities be- 
gan, froui which death alone was to relieve either the son or 
his 5'^et more wretched father. In 1445, Giacopo ro^:cari was 
denounced to the Ten as having- received presents from for- 
eign potentates, and especially from Filipi>o-Maria Visconti. 
The offence, according to the law, was one of the most heinous 
which a noble could commit. Even if Giacopo were guiltless 
of infringing that law, it Avas not easy to establish innocence 
before a Venetian tribunal. Under the eyes of his own 
father, compelled to preside at the unnatural examination, a 
confession was extorted from the prisonei', on the rack : and, 
from the lips of that father, he received the sentence which 
banished him for life to Napoli di Romania. On his passage, 
severe illness delayed him at Trieste; and, at the especial 
prayer of the doge, a less remote disti^ict was assigned for his 
punishment: he was permitted to reside at Treviso, and his 
wife was allowed to participate in his exile. 

"It vv^as in the commencement of the winter of 1450, while 
Giacopo Foscarl i-ested, in comparative tranquillity, within 
the bounds to which he v/as restricted, that an assassination 
occurred in the streets of Venice. Hermolao Donate, a chief 
of the Ten, was murdered on his return from a sitting of 
that Council, at his own door, by unknown hands. The mag- 
nitude of the offence and the violation of the high dignity of 
the Ten demanded a victim ; and the coadjutors of the slain 
magistrate caught with eager grasp at the slightest clue 
which suspicion could afford. A domestic in the service of 
Giacopo Foscari had been seen in Venice on the evening of 
the murder; and on the following morning, when met in a 
boat off Mestre by a chief of the Ten, and asked, 'What 
news?' he had answered by reporting the assassination, 
several hours before it was generally known. It might seem 
that such frankness of itself disproved all participation in 
the crime ; for the author of it was not likely thus unseason- 
ablj'' and pi-ematurely to disclose its committal. But the Ten 
thought differently, and matters which to others bore convic- 
tion of innocence, to them savored strongly of guilt. The 
servant was arrested, examined, and barbarously tortured; 
but even the eightieth application of the strapado failed to 
elicit one syllable which might justify condemnation. That 
Giacopo Foscari had experienced the severity of the Council's 
judgment, and that its jealous watchfulness v/as daily impos- 
ing some new restraint upon his father's authority, power- 
fully operated to convince the Ten that they must themselves 
in return be objects of his deadly enmity. Who else, they 
said, could be inore likely to arm the hand of an assassin 
against a chief of the Ten, than one whom the Ten have 
visited with punishment' On this unjust and unsupported 
surmise, the yoimg Foscari was recalled from Treviso, placed 
on the rack which his servant had just vacated, tortured again 
in his father's presence, and not absolved even after he reso- 
lutely persisted in denial unto the end. 

"The wrongs, however, which Giacopo Foscari endured 
had by no means chilled the passionate love with Avhich he 
continued to regard his ungrateful country. He was now 
excluded from all communication with his family, torn from 
the wile of his affectious, debarred from the society of his 
children, hopeless of again embracing those parents Avho had 
already far outstripped the natural term of human existence ; 
and to his imagination, for ever centring itself upon the 
single desire of return, life presented no other object deserv- 
ing pursuit ; till, for the attainment of this wish, life itself at 
length appeared to be scarcely more than an adequate sacri- 
fice. Preyed upon by this fever of the heart, after six years' 
unavailing suit for a remission of punishment, in the summer 
of 1456 he addressed a letter to the Duke of Milan, imploring 
his good offices with the senate. That letter, purposelj^ left 
open in a place obvious to the spies by Avhom, even in his 
exile, he Avas surrounded, and afterwards intrusted to an 
equally treacherous hand for delivery to Sforza, was con- 
veyed, as the Avriter intended, to the Council of Ten ; and 
the result, which equally fulfilled his expectation, Avas a 
hasty summons to Venice to answer for the heaA-y crim.e of 
soliciting foreign intercession with his native government. 

" For a third time Fi-ancesco Foscari listened to the accusa- 
tion of his son; for the first time he heard him openly aA oav 
the charge of his accusers, and calmly state that his offence, 
such as it Avas, had been cornmitted designedly and afore- 
thought, Avith the sole object of detection, in order that he 
might be brought back, even as a malefactor, to Venice. This 
prompt and A^oluntary declaration, howcA^er, Avas not sufficient 
to decide the nice hesitation of his judges. Guilt, they said, 
might be too easily admitted as Avell as too pertinaciously 
denied ; and the same process therefore by which, at other 
times, confession was wrested from the hardened criminal 



might noAv compel a too facile self-accuser to retract his ac- 
knoAvledgment. The father again looked on Avhile his son 
Avas raised on the accursed cord no less than thirty times, in 
order that, under his agony, he might be induced to utter a 
lying declaration of innocence. But this cruelti^ Avas ex- 
ercised in xedn ; and, Avhen nature gaA^e Avay, the sufferer was 
carried to the apartments of the doge, torn, bleeding, sense- 
less, and dislocated, but firm in his original purpose. Nor 
had his persecutors relaxed in theirs; they rencAved his sen- 
tence of exile, and added that its first year should be passed 
in prison. Before he embarked, one intervicAv Avas permitted 
Avith his family. The doge, as Sanuto, perhaps unconscious 
of the pathos of his simplicity, has narrated, Avas an aged and 
decrepit man, Avho Avalked with the support of a crutch ; and 
when he came into the chamber, he spake Avith great firmness, 
so that it might seem it AA^as not his son A\diom he Avas address- 
ing, but it teas his son— his only son. ' Go, Giacopo,' Avas his 
repl5% Avhen praj-ed for the last time to solicit mercy; 'Go, 
Giacopo, submit to the will of j^our country, and seek noth- 
ing further.' This effort of self-restraint Avas beyond the 
poAvers, not of the old man's enduring spirit, but of his ex- 
hausted frame, and Avhen he retired, he SAVooned in the arms 
of his attendants. Giacopo reached his Candian prison, and 
Avas shortly af cerAvards released by death. 

"Francesco Foscari, far less happy in his surviA^al, con- 
tinued to live on, but it Avas in sorroAV and feebleness, Avhich 
prevented attention to the duties of his high office: he re- 
mained secluded in his chamber, never went abroad, and 
absented himself even from the sittings of the Council. No 
practical incouA'^enience could result from this AA^ant of ac- 
tiAaty in the chief magistrate ; for the constitution suflBciently 
proA-ided against any accidental suspension of his personal 
functions, and his place in Council, and on state occasions, 
was supplied by an authorized deputy. Some indulgence, 
moreover, might be thought due to the extreme age and 
domestic griefs of Foscari ; since they appeared to promise 
that any favor which m.ight be granted Avould be claimed 
but for a short period. But yet further trials Avere in store. 
Giacopo Loredano, Avho in 1467 Avas appointed one of the 
chiefs of the Ten, belonged to a family betAveen which and 
that of Foscari, an hereditax-y feud had long existed. His 
uncle Pietro, after gaining high distinction in actiA'e service, 
as admiral of Venice, on his return to the capital headed the 
political faction AA^hich opposed the warlike projects of the 
doge; diA-ided applause Avith him by his eloquence in tb.e 
councils ; and so far extended his influence as frequently to 
obtain majorities in their diAisions. In an evil moment of 
impatience, Foscari once publicly aA^OAved in the senate, that 
so long as Pietro Loredano liA-ed he should ncA'er feel him- 
self really to be doge. Not long afterwards, the admiral, 
engaged as proA^A-editore Avith one of the armies opposed to 
Filippo-Maria, died suddenly at a military banquet given 
during a short suspension of arms; and the evil-omened 
Avords of Foscari Avere connected Avith his decease. It Avas 
remarked, also, that his bi'Other Marco Loredano, one of the 
Avogadori, died, in a somcAvhat similar manner, Avhile en- 
gaged in instituting a legal process against a son-in-law of 
the doge, for peculation upon the state. The foul rumors 
partially excited by these untoAvard coincidences, for they 
appear in truth to haA^e been no more, met Avith little ac- 
ceptation, and were rejected or forgotten except by a single 
bosom. Giacopo, the son of one, the nephew of the other, 
deceased Loredano, gave full credit to the accusation, in- 
scribed on his father's tomb at Santa Elena that he died by 
poison, bound himself by a solemn a'Ow to the most deadly 
and unrelenting pursuit of revenge, and fulfilled that a- ow to 
the uttermost. 

"During Ihe lifetime of Pietro Loredano, Foscari, Avilling 
to terminate the feud by a domestic alliance, had tendered 
the hand of his daughter to one of his rival's sons. Tlie 
youth saAv his proffered bride, openly expressed dislike of her 
person, and rejected her Avith mai'ked discourtesy : so that, 
in the quarrel thus heightened, Foscari might noAv conceive 
himself to be the most injured party. Not such AA^as the 
impression of Giacopo Loredano : year after year he grimly 
aAvaited the season most fitted for his unbending purpose: 
and it arriA^ed at length Avhen he found himself in authority 
among the Ten. Relying upon the ascendency belonging to 
that high station, he hazarded a proposal for the deposition 
of the aged doge, Avhich Avas at first, hoAvcA^er, recelA^ed with 
coldness ; for those Avho had twice before refused a A'oluntaiT 
abdication, shrank from the strange contradiction of now 
demanding one on compulsion. A junta was required to 
assist in their deliberations, and among the assessors elected 
by the Great Council, in complete ignoi-ance of the purpose 
633 



NOTES TO HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



for which they were needed, was Marco Foscari, a procuratore 
of Saint Mark, and brother of the dog-e himself. The Ten 
perceived that to reject his assistance uiig-ht excite suspicion, 
while to procure his apparent approbation would give a show 
of impartiality to their process: his nomination, therefore, 
was accepted; but he was removed to a separate apartment, 
excluded from the debate, sworn to keep that exclusion 
secret, and yet compelled to assent to the final decree in the 
tliscussion of which he had not been allowed to participate. 
The Council sat during- eight days, and nearly as many 
niirhts; and, at the close of their protracted meeting's, a 
committee was deputed to reqxie!<t the abdication of the dog-e. 
The old man received them with surprise, but with compo- 
sure, and replied that he had sworn not to abdicate, and 
therefore must maintain his faith. It was not possible that 
he could resign ; but if it appeared fit to their wisdom that 
he should cease to be dog-e, they had it in their power to 
make a proposal to that effect to the Great Council. It was 
fai-, however, from the intention of the Ten to subject them- 
selves to the chances of debate in that larg-er body; and, 
assuming to their own magistracy a prerogative not attrib- 
uted to it by the constitution, they discharged Foscari from 
his oath, declared his office vacant, assigned to him a pension 
of two thousand ducats, and enjoined him to quit the palace 
within three days, on pain of confiscation of all his property. 
Loredano, to whom the right belonged, according to the 
weekly routine of office, enjoyed the barbarous satisfaction 
of presenting this deci'ee with his own hand. ' Who are j'ou, 
signor?' inquired the doge of another chief of the Ten Avho 
accompanied him, and whose person he did not immediately 
recognize. ' I am a son of Marco Memmo.' ' Ah, your father,' 
replied Foscari, ' is my friend.' Then declaring that he yielded 
willing obedience to the most excellent Council of Ten, and 
laying aside the ducal bonnet and robes, he surrendered his 
ring of office, which was broken In his presence. On the 
morrow, when he prepared to leave the palace, it was sug- 
gested to him that he should retire by a private staircase, 
and thus avoid the concourse assembled in the court-yard 
below. AVith calm dignity he refused the pi'oposition ; he 
.would descend, he said, hy no other than the self-same steps 
by which he had mounted thirty j'ears before. Accordingly, 
supported by his brother, he slowly traversed the Giants' 
Stairs, and, at their foot, leaning on his staff and turning 
round to the palace, he accompanied his last look to it with 
these parting words: 'My services established me within 
yoiu' walls ; it is the malice of my enemies which tears me 
from them ! ' 

" It was to the oligarchy alone that Foscari was obnoxious ; 
by the populace he had always been beloved, and strange 
indeed would it have been had he now failed to excite their 
sympathy. But even the regrets of the people of Venice 
were fettered by their tyrants ; and whatever pity they might 
secretly continue to cherish for their wronged and humili- 
ated prince, all expression of it was silenced by a peremptory 
decree of the Council, forbidding any mention of his name, 
aTid annexing death as a penalty to disobedience. On the 
fifth day after Foscari's deposition, Pascale Malipieri was 
elected doge. The dethroned prince heard the announce- 
ment of his successor by the bell of the campanile, sup- 
pressed his agitation, but ruptured a blood-vessel in the ex- 
ertion, and died in a few hours." 



gours of JdlenesB. 



NOTE 47. 

See page 339. 

ARTICLE FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW FOR 
JANUARY, 1808. 

HourHof Idleness; a Series of Poem.s, original and travslatrd. 
By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo, pp. 200. 
Newark, 1807. 

The poesy of this yoking lord belongs to the class which 
neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not 
recollect to have seen a quantity of verse with so few de\ia- 
tions in either direction from that exact standard. His effu- 
sions are spread over a dead fiat, and can no more get above 
or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. 

634 



As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author is pecul- 
iarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title- 
page, and on the very back of the volumt ; it follows his 
name like a favorite part of his style. Much stress is laid 
upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with 
this general statement of his case, by particular dates, sub- 
stantiating the age at which each was written. Now, the 
law upon the- point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. 
It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can 
offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any 
suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose 
of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of 
poetrj\ and if judgment were given against him, it is highly 
■ probable that an exception would be taken, were he to de- 
' liver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he 
, might plead minoiity ; but, as he now makes voluntary ten- 
der of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, 
I for the price in good current praise, should the goods be un- 
j marketable. This is our view of the law on the point; and, 
i we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in 
! reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a 
[ -^-iew to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. 
He possibly means to saj% '' See how a minor can write ! 
! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eigh- 
teen, and this by one of onlj' sixteen !" But, alas ! we all re- 
j member the poetrj- of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve: 
! and so far from hearing, with any degree of surpi-ise, that 
verj^ poor verses were written by a j-outh from>his leaving 
school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe 
this to be the most common of all occurrences ; that it hap- 
I pens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in Eug- 
\ land ; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord 
i Byron. 

! His other plea of pri^-ilege our author rather brings for- 
! ward in order to waive it. He certainlj-, however, does al- 
I lude frequently to his familj^ and ancestors— sometimes in 
i poetrs', sometimes in notes; and, while giving up his claim 
I on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. 
! Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an au- 
thor, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In 
truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give 
Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire 
to counsel him that he do fort'awith abandon poetry, and 
turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportuni- 
ties, which are great, to better account. 

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him 
that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when ac- 
companied by the presence of a certain number of feet,— 
nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet 
should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately 
upon the fingers,— is not the whole art of poetry. We would 
entreat liim to believe that a certain portion of liveliness, 
somewhat of fancy, is necessarj' to constitute a poem,' and 
that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at 
least one thought, either in a little degree different from the 
ideas of former writers, or differentlj- expressed. W'e put it 
to his candor, whether there is any thing so deserving the 
name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; 
and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say anj- thing so 
uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen shoul(?. 
publish it :— 

" Shades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, departing 
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting 
New courage, he '11 think upon glory and jou. 

" Tliough a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret : 
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation ; 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

" That fame, and that memory, stiU will he cherish ; 
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown ; 
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish ; 
When decay'd, maj' he mingle his dust with your own." 

Now, we positively do assert that there is nothing better 
than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's 
volume. 

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the 
gi-eatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he 
must ha\-e had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are 
odious. Gi-ay's " Ode on Eton College '" should really have 
kept out the ten hobbling stanzas "On a distant View of the 
Village and School of Harrow." 



NOTES TO OCCASIONAL PIECES 



'' Where fancj' yet joys to retrace the resemblance 
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied. 
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading- remembrance. 
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied." 

In like manner the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, "On a 
Toar," might have warned the noble author off those prem- 
ises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the fol- 
lowing-: — 

" Mild Charity's g-low, to us mortals below. 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

"• The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the g-ale. 
Through billows Atlantic to steer. 
As he bends o'er the wave Avhicb may soon be bis g-rave. 
The g-reen sparkles brig-ht with a Tear." 

And so of Instances in which former poets have failed. 
Thus we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, 
din-ing his nonag-e, "Adrian's Address to his Soul," when 
Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our read- 
ers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it : — 

" Ah ! gentle, fleeting-, wavering- sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay. 

To what imknown region borne 
Wilt thou now wing- thy distant flight? 
Ko more with wonted humor gaj% 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn." 

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and 
imitations arc grreat favorites with Lord Byron. We have 
them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian ; and, viewing 
them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print 
them after they have had their day and served their turn ? 
And why call the thing in p. 79 (see p. 307) a translation, 
where two words (5eAa> Xeyeiv) of the oi'iginal are expanded 
into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81 (see ihid.), where 
fiea-owKTLaL'; ttoO' ujpai? is rendered by means of six hobbiing- 
verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good 
judg-es, being-, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species 
of composition that we should, in all probability, be criticis- 
ing- some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were Ave to 
express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, 
the following beginning- of a " Song of Bards " is by his lord- 
ship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend 
it:— "What form rises on the roar of clouds? whose dark 
ghost g-leams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls 
on the thunder; 't is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He 
was," etc. After detaining this "brown chief" sometime, the 
bards conclude by g-iving- him their advice to " raise his fair 
locks;" then to "spread them on the arch of the rainbow," 
and to "smile through the tears of the storm." Of this kind 
of thing there are no less than nine pages ; and we can so far 
ventvn-e an opinion in their favor, that they look very like 
Macpherson ; and we are positive that they are pretty nearly 
as stupid and tiresome. 

It is a sort of privilege of poets to be egotists; but they 
should "use it as not abusing it;" and particularly one who 
I)i<iues himself (though indeed at the ripe age of nineteen) 
on bein.g "an infant bard" ("The artless Helicon I boast is 
youth ") should either not know, or should seem not to know, 
so much about his own ancestry. Besides a poem above 
cited, on the family seat of the Byrons, Ave haA-e another of 
eleven pages, on the self-same subject, introduced Avith an 
apology, "he cei'tainh^ had no intention of inserting it," but 
really "the particular request of some friends," etc., etc. It 
concludes Avith fiA'e stanzas on himself, " the last and young-- 
est of a noble line." There is a g-ood deal also about his ma- 
ternal ancestors, in a poem on Lachin y Gair, a mountain 
where he spent part of his youth, and might have learnt that 
pibroch is not a bag-pipe, any more than duet means a fid- 
dle. 

* The Monthly Reviewers, in those days the next in circulation 
to the Edinburgh, gave a much more favorable notice of the " Hours 
of Idleness." "These compositions," said they. " are generally of a 
plaintive or an amatory cast, with an occasional mixture of satire; 
and they display both ease and strensth — both pathos and fire. It 
will be expected that marks of juvenility and of haste should be dis- 
covered in these productions; and we seriously advise our young 
bard to fulfill with submissive perseverance the duties of revision 
and correction. We discern in Lord Byron a degree of inental 
power, and a turn of mental disposition, which render us solicitous 



As the author has dedicated so large a part of his volume 
to Immortalize his employments at school and college, Ave 
cannot possibl}' dismiss it without presenting- the reader with 
a specimen of these ing-enious effusions. In an ode with a 
Greek motto, called Granta, Ave have the follOAving- mag-nifi- 
cent stanzas :— 

" There, in apartments small and damp. 
The candidate for collegre prizes 
Sits poring- by the midnight lamp. 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 

"Who reads false quantities in Scale, 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, 
Deprived of many a Avholesome meal. 
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: 

"Renouncing- CA'ery pleasing- page. 
From authors of historic use. 
Preferring- to the letter'd sage 
The square of the hj-pothenuse. 

"Still harmless are these occupations. 

That hurt none but the hapless student. 
Compared with other recreations. 
Which bring together the imprudent." 

We are sorry to hear so bad an account of the college 
psalmody as is contained in the following- Attic stanzas:— 

" Our choir Avould scarcely be excused, 
Eacu as a band of raAv beginners ; 
All mere}' now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking- sinners. 

" If DaA'id, when his toils were ended. 

Had heard these blockheads sing before him. 
To us his psalms had ne'er descended : 
In furious mood he Avould haA'e tore 'em !" 

But, whateA'er judg-ment may be passed on the poems of 
i this noble minor. It seems we must take them as Ave find 
them, and be content ; for they are the last we shall ever 
have from him. He is at best, he says, but an intruder into 
the groA'es of Parnassus: he never liA'ed in a garret, like 
thoroug-h-bred poets ; and " though he once roved a careless 
mountaineer in the Highlands of Scotland," he has not of 
late enjoyed this advantag-e. Moreover, he expects no profit 
from his publication ; and, whether it succeeds or not, "it is 
j highly impi-obable, from his situation and pursuits here- 
after," that he should again condescend to become an author. 
Therefore, let us take what Ave can g-et, and be thankful. 
What rigrht haA^e we poor deAils to be nice? We are well off 
to haA'e g-ot so much from a man of this lord's station, Avho 
does not live in a garret, but " has the SAvay " of Newstead 
Abbey. Again Ave say, let us be thankful ; and, AA'ith honest 
Sancho, bid God bless the g-iver, nor look the gift horse ixx 
the mouth.* 



NOTE 48. 
See vage 430. 

REMARKS ON THE ROMAIC OR MODERN GREEK 
LANGUAGE. 

TJipe '"'Remarks" were written in the spring of 1811, while 
Lord Byron was residing in the Capuchin Convent at Athens. 

Amongst an enslaA-ed people, oblig-ed to have recourse to 
foreig-n presses CA^en for their books of religion, it is less to 

that both shoidd be well cultivated and wisely directed, in his 
career of life. He has received talents, and is accountable for the 
use of them. We trust that he will render them beneficial to man, 
and a source of real gratification to hiTiiself in declining age. Then 
may he properly exclaim with the Roman orator, ' nou lubet mihi 
deplorare vitam, quod multi, et ii docti, ssepe fecerunt; neque me 
vixisse pcenitet : quoniam ita vixi, ut non frustra me natum oxist- 
imem.' " Lord Byron repaid the Edinburgh critique Avith a satire — 
and became himself a Monthly Reviewer. 

635 



NOTES TO OCCASIONAL PIECES 



be wondered at that we find so few publications on general 
subjects, tliau that we tind any at all. The whoio number of 
the Greeks, scattered up and down the 'i'urkisli empire and 
elsewliere, may amount, at most, to three millions ; and yet, 
tor so scanty a number, it is impossible to discover any nation 
with so {^reut a proportion of books and their authors, as the 
(J reeks of the present century. *' Ay, but," say the generous 
advocates of oppression, who, while they assert the ignorance 
of the Greeks, wish to prevent them from dispelling it, "ay, 
but those are raostlJ^ if not ail, ecclesiastical tracts, and con- 
seciuently good for nothing." Weil, and pray what else can 
they write about? It is pleasant enougrh to hear a Frank, 
particularly an Englishman, who may abuse the government 
of his own country, or a Frenchman, who may abu.se every 
government except his own, and who may range at will over 
every philosophical, religious, scientific, skeptical, or moral 
subject, sneering at the Greek legends. A Greek must not 
write on politics, and cannot touch on science for want of in- 
struction ; if he doubts, he is excommunicated and damned ; 
there fore his countrymen are not i)oisoned vvith modern phi- 
losophy ; and as to morals, thanks to the Turks! there are 
no such things. What then is left him, if he has a turn foi- 
scribbling:? Religion, a)id holy biography : and it is natural 
enough that those who have so little in this life should look 
to the next. It is no great wonder, then, that in a catalogue 
now before me of fifty-five Greek writers, many of whom 
were lately living, not above fifteen should have touched on 
anything but religion. The catalogue alluded to is contained 
in the twentj'-sixth chapter of the fourth volume of Mele- 
tius's Ecclesiastical History. From this T subjoin an extract 
of those who have written on general subjects. 



LIST OF ROMAIC AUTHORS.* 

Neophitus, diakonos (the deacon) of the Morea, has pub- 
lislied an extensive grammar, and also some political regu- 
lations, which last were left unfinished at his death. 

Prokopius, of Moscopolis (a town in Epirus), has written 
and published a catalogue of the learned Gi-eeks. 

Seraphin, of Periclea, is the author of many works in the 
Turkish language, but Greek character; for the Christians 
of Caramania, who do not speak Romaic, but read the char- 
acter. 

Eustathius Psalida, of Bucharest, a phj^sician, made the 
tour of England for the purpose of study (xo-p<-^ fj-aeria-eojg) ; 
but though his name is enumerated, it is not stated that he 
has written anj^ thing. 

Kallinikus Torgeraus, patriarch of Constantinople: many 
poems of his are extant, and also prose ti-acts, and a cata- 
log-ue of patriarchs since the last taking of Constantino- 
ple. 

Anastasius Macedon, of Naxos, member of the royal acad- 
einy of Warsaw. A church biographer. 

Demetrius Pamperes, a Moscopolite, has written many 
works, particularly "A Commentary on Hesiod's Shield of 
Hercules," and two hundred tales (of what is not specified), 
and has published his correspondence with the celebrated 
George of Trebizond, his (•ontemporarj\ 

Meletiiis, a celebrated geographer; and author of the book 
from whence these notices are taken. 

Dorotheus, of Mitylene, an Aristotelian philosopher: his 
Hellenic Avorks are in great repute, and he is esteemed by 
the moderns (I quote the words of Meletius) /ae-a rbi/ 0ov- 
kv&lSi]v Kal E€vo<{)a)VTa api(TTo^ 'EWrjuuiv. I add further, on the 
authority of a well-informed Greek, that he was so famous 
amongst his countrymen that they were accustomed to say, 
if Thucydides and Xenophon were wanting, he was capable 
of repairingr the loss. 

Marinus Count Tharboures, of Cephalonia, professor of 
chemistry in the academy of Padua, and member of that 
academj', and those of Stockholm and Upsal. He has pub- 
lished, at Venice, an account of some marine animal, and a 
treatise on the properties of iron. 

Marcus, brother to the former, famous in mechanics. He 
removed to St. Petersl)urg the immense rock on which the 
gtiitue of Peter the Great was fixed in 17G9. See the disser- 
tation vchich he published in Paris, 1777. 

George Constantine has published a four-tongued lexi- 
con, 

* It is to be oV)sorved that the names given are not in chronological v.lio flourished from the taking of Constantinople to the time of 
order, but consist of some selected at a venture from amongst those I Mc^letius. 

I t These names are aot taken from any publication. 

636 



George Ventote, a lexicon in French, Italian, and Ro- 
maic. 

There exist several other dictionaries in Latin and Romaic, 
French, etc. ; besides grammars, in every modern language 
except English. 

Amongst the liWng authors the following are most cele- 
brated : +— 

Athauasius Parios has written a treatise on rhetoric hi 
Hellenic. 

Christodoulos, an Arcarnanian, has published, in Vienna, 
some physical treatises in Heliouic. 

Panagiotes Kodrikas, an Athenian, the Romaic translator 
of Fontenelle's "Plurality of Worlds" (a favorite work 
amongst the Greeks), is stated to be a teacher of the Hellenic 
and Arabic languages in Paris; in both of which he is an 
adept. 

Athanasius, the Pa)'ian, author of a treatise on i-hetoric. 

Vicenzo Damodos, of Cephalonia, has written "ei? rb ^e- 
cro^up^apov," on logic and physics. 

John Kamarases, a Byzantine, has translated into French 
Ocellus on the Universe. He is said to be an excellent Hel- 
lenist and Latin scholar. 

Gregorio Demetrius published, in Vienna, a geographical 
work; he has also translated several Italian authors, and 
printed his versions at Venice. 

Of Coray and Psalida some account has been already 
given. 



SCENE FROM 'O KA$ENE2. 

TRAKSL.VTED FROM TRE ITALIAN OF GOLDONl, BY SPIRIDION 
VLANTl. 

Platzida, from the Door of the Hotel, and the others. 

Pla. Oh, God ! from the window it seemed that T heard my 
husband's voice. If he is here, I have arrived in time to 
make him ashamed. [A sei-vant cntem from lite s/iop.] Boy, 
tell me, pray, who are in those chambers. 

Serv. Three gentlemen : one, Signor Eugenio ; the other,; 
Signer Martio, the Neapolitan; and the third, my lord, the 
count Leander ArJenti. * 

Pla. Flaminio is not amongst these, unless he has changed 
his name. 

Leander [ivithin drinldug^. Long live the good fortune of 
Signor Eugenio! 

IThe ivhole company. Long live, etc.] (Literallj% N<x ^^, va ^f). 
May he live.) 

Pla. Without doubt that is my nusband. iTo the se7'v.'\ My 
good man, do me the favor to accompany me above to those 
gentlemen : I have some business. 

Serv. At your commands. lAside.l The old oflQce of us wait- 
ers. IHe goes out of tlie gaming-house.'] 

Ridolpho Ito Victoria on another part of ihestage]. Courage, 
courage, be of good cheer, it is nothing. 

Victoria. T feel as if about to die. [Leaning on him as if 
fainting.'] 

[From the windoivs a'hoveaU ivithin are seen rising from (ahJc 
in confusion : Leander starts at the siglit of Platzida, (ri,d 
appears Inj h is gestures to threaten Iter life.] 

Eugenio. No, stop 

Martio. Don't attempt 

Leander. Away, fly from hence ! 

Pla. Help! help! iFlies down, the stairs, Leander attempting 
to follow with his sword ; Eugenio hinders him.] 

[Trapolo, with a plate of meat, leaps over thehalcony from the 
window, and runs into the coffee-house.] 

IPlatzida runs out of the gaming-house, and takes shelter in 
the hotel.] 

LI\fartio steals softlij orit of the gamiiuj-how^e, and goes off, ex- 
claiming "Rumores fuge." The servants from the garaing- 
house enter the hotel, and shut the door.] 

[Victoria remains in tlte coffee-house, assisted hy Rido!- 
pho.l 

[Leander, sword in hand, opposite Eugenio, exclaims. Give 
way— I will enter that hotel.] 

Eugenio. No, that shall never be. You are a scoundrel tt) 
your wife, and I will defend her to the last drop of my 
blood. 



NOTES TO DON JUAK 



Le.ander. I will give you cause to repent this. [Menacmg 
with Ills sword.] 

EugeniG. I fear you not. iHe attacks Leander, and makes 
him giveback so mucJt, that, finding the door of the dancing- 
girl's house open, Leander escapes through, and so finishes.^ 



ion JuHU. 

NOTB 49. 

Letter to the Editor of "Mt G randmother'i 
Reviev/."* 



Mr Dear Roberts. 

As a believei- in the church of Eng-Iand-to say nothing- of 
the state— I have been an occasional reader and g-reat ad- 
mirer of, though not a subscriber to, your Review, which is 
rather expensive. But I do not know that any part of its 
contents ever gave nie much surprise till the eleventh article 
of your twenty-seventh number made its appearance. You 
hav^e there most vigorously refuted a calumnious accusation 
of bribeiT and corruption, the credence of which in the public 
mind might not only have damaged your reputation as a 
clergj'uian-l- and an editor, but, what would have been still 
worse, have injured the circulation of your journal ; which, I 
regret to hear, is not so extensive as the "purity" (as j'ou 
well observe) " of its, etc., etc., etc.," and the present taste for 
propriety, would induce us to expect. The charge itseli" is of 
a solemn nature, and, although in verse, is couched in terms 
of such circumstantial gravity, as to induce a belief little 
short of that generally accorded to the thiitj^-nine articles, 
to which you so frankly subscribed on taking your degrees. 
It is a charge the most revolting to the heart of man from 
its frequent occurrence ; to the mind of a statesman, from 
its occasional truth; and to the soul of an editor, from its 
moral impossibility. You are charged then in the last line 
of one octave stanza, and the whole eight lines of the next, 
viz., 209th and 210th of the first canto of that "pestilent 
poem " Don Juan, with receiving, and still more foolishly ac- 
knowledging the receipt of, certain moneys, to eulogize the 
unknown author, who by this account must be known to 
you, if to nobody else. An impeachment of this nature so 
seriously made, there is but one way of refuting; and it is 
my firm persuasion, that whether you did or did not (and I 
believe that you did not) receive the said moneys, of which 
I wish he had specified the sum, you are quite right in denj^- 
ing all knowledge of the transaction. If charges of this 
nefarious description are to go forth, sanctioned by all the 
solemnity of circumstance, and guaranteed by the veracity 
of verse (as Counsellor Phillips 4: would say), what is to be- 
come of readers hitherto implicitly confident in the not less 
veracious prose of our critical journals? what is to become 
of the reviews? And, if the reviews fail, what is to become 
of the editors? It is common cause, and you have done well 
to sound the alarm. I myself, in my humble sphere, will be 
one of your echoes. In the words of the tragedian, Liston, 
" [ love a row," and you seem justlj' determined to make 
one. 

It is barely possible, certainly improbable, that the writer 
might have been in jest ; but this only aggravates his crime. 
A joke, the proverb says, "breaks no bones;" but it may 
break a bookseller, or it may be the cause of bones being 
broken. The jest is but a bad one at the best for the author, 
and might have been a still worse one for you, if your copious 
contradiction did not certify to all whom it may concern 
your own indignant innocence, and the immaculate purity of 
the British Review. I do not doubt your Avord, ray de?.r 
Roberts; yet I cannot help wishing that, in a case of such 

* "Bologna, Aug. 23, 1819. — ^I send you a lotter to Roberts, signed 
' Wortley Clutterbuck,' which you may publish in what form you 
please, in answer to his article. I have had many proofs of men's 
absurdity, but he beats all in folly. Why, the wolf in sheep's 
clothing has tumbled into the very trap ! " — Lord Byron to Mr. Mur- 
ray. 

t Mr. Roberts is not, as Lord Byron seems to have supposed, a 



I vital importance, it had assumed the more substantial shape 
j of an alfidavit sworn before tne lord mayor Atkins, who 
; readily receives any deposition ; and doubtless would haAC 
brought it in some waj^ as evidence of the designs of the 
Reformers to stt fire to London, at the same time that he 
himself meditates the same good ofiice towards the river 
Thames, 

I am sure, my dear Roberts, that you will take these ob- 
servations of mine in good part : they are written in a spirit 
of friendship not less pure than your own editorial integrity. 
I have always admired you ; and, not knowing any shape 
wliioh friendship and admiration can assume more agreeable 
and useful than that of good advice, I shall continue my lu- 
cubrations, mixed with here and there a monitory hint as to 
v/hat I conceive to be the line you should pursue, in case you 
should ever again be assailed with bribes, or accused of taking 
them. By the way, you don't say much about the poem, ex- 
cept that it is "flagitious." This is a pity— you should have 
cut it up; because, to say the truth, in not doing so, you 
soiuewhat assist any notions which the malignant might en- 
tertain on the score of the anonymous asseveration which 
has made you so angry. 

You say no bookseller " was willing to take upon himself 
the publication, though most of them disgrace themselves 
by selling it." Now, my dear friend, though v/e all know that 
those fellows Avill do anj^ thing for money, methinks the dis- 
grace is more with the purchasers : and some such, doubtless, 
there are; for there can be no very extensive selling (as jou 
will perceive by that of the British Review) without buJ^ng. 
You then add, " What can the critic say ? " I am sure I don't 
knov^r ; at present he sajs very little, and that not much to 
the pvu'pose. Then comes " for praise, as far as regards the 
poetry, many passages might be exhibited : for condemnation, 
as far as regards the morality, all." Now, my dear good Mr. 
Roberts, I feel for you, and for your reputation; my heart 
bleeds for both ; and I do ask you, whether or not such lan- 
guage does not come positively under the description of " the 
puff collusive," for which see Sheridan's farce of "The 
Critic" (by the way, a little more facetious than jour own 
farce under the same title), towards the close of scene second, 
act the first. 

The poem is, it seems, sold as the work of Lord Byron ; but 
you feel yourself "at liberty to suppose it not Lord B.'s com- 
position." Why did you ever suppose that it Avas ? I approve 
of your indignation— I applaud it— I feel as angry as you 
can ; but perhaps your virtuous wrath carries you a little too 
! far, when you say that "no misdemeanor, not even that of 
sending into the world obscene and blasphemous poetry, the 
product of studious lewdness and labored impiety, appears to 
you in so detestable a light as the acceptance of a present by 
the editor of a review, as the condition of praising an 
author." The devil it doesn't !— Think a little. This is being 
critical overmuch. In point of Gentile benevolence or Chris- 
tian charity, it Avere surely less criminal to praise for a bribe, 
than to abuse a fellow-creature for nothing ; and as to the 
assertion of the comparative innocence of blasphemy and 
obscenity, confronted with an editor's " acceptance of a pres- 
j ent," I shall merely observe, that as an editor you say very 
well, but, as a Christian divine, I would not recommend you 
I to transpose this sentence into a sei-mon. 
} And yet j'ou say, "the miserable man (for miserable he is, 
I as having a soul of Avhich he cannot get rid) "—But here I 
j must pause again, and inquire Avhat is the meaning of this 
I parenthesis? We have heard of " little soul," or of "no soul 
! at all," but never till now of "the misery of having a soul of 
I Avhich we cannot get rid ; " a misery under Avhich you ai'e 
I possibly ho great sufferer, having got rid apparently of some 
of the intellectual part of j^our own Avhen you penned this 
pretty piece of eloquence. 

But to continue. You call upon Lord Byron, always sup- 
posing him not the author, to disclaim " Avith all gentle- 
manly haste," etc., etc. I am told that Lord B. is in a for- 
eign country, some thousand miles off it may be ; so that it 
will be dilficiilt for him to hurry to your wishes. In the 
mean time, perhaps you yourself have set an example of 
more haste than gentility; but "the more haste the worse 
speed." 

clergyman, but a barrister at law. In 1792 he established a paper 
called " The Looker-on," which has since been admitted into the 
collection of British Essayists; and he is known, in his profession, 
for a treatise on the Law of Fraudulent Bankruptcy. In 1834 he 
also published the Memoirs of Hannah More. 

t Charles Phillips, barrister, was in those days celebrated for ultra- 
Irish eloquence. See the Edinburgh Review, No. Ivii, 

637 



NOTES TO BON JUAN 



Let us now look at the charge itself, my dear Roberts, 
which appears to me to be in some degree uot quite explic- 
itly worded : 

" I bribed my Grandmother's ReWeM% the British." 

I recollect heai-ing, soon after the publication, this subject 
discussed at the tea-table of Mr. Sotheby the poet, who ex- 
pressed himself, I remember, a good deal surprised that you 
had never reviewed his epic poem of "Saul," nor any of his 
six tragedies; of which, in one instance, the bad taste of the 
pit, and, in all the rest, the barbarous repugnance of the 
principal actors, prevented the performance. Mrs. and the 
Misses S. being in a corner of the room, perusing the proof- 
sheets of Mr. S.'s poems in Italy, or on Italy, as he says (I 
Avish, by the by, Mrs. S. Avould make the tea a little stronger;, 
the male part of the conversazione were at liberty to make a 
few observations on the poem and passage in question ; and 
there was a difference of opinion. Some thought the allusion 
was to the ''British Critic ;" * others, that by the expression, 
"My Grandmother's Review," it was intimated that "my 
grandmother" was not the reader of the review, but actually 
the writer ; thereby insinuating, my dear Roberts, that you 
were an old woman ; because, as people often say, "Jeffrey's 
Review," " Gifford's Review," in lieu of Edinburgh and 
Quarterly: so "my Grandmother's Review" and Roberts's 
might be almost synonymous. Now, whatever color this in- 
sinuation might derive from the circumstance of your wear- 
ing a gown, as well as from your time of life, your general 
style, and various passages of your writings,— I will take 
upon myself to exculpate you from all suspicion of the kind, 
and assert, without calling Mrs. Roberts in testimony, that if 
ever you should be chosen pope, you will pass through all 
the previous ceremonies with as much credit as any pontiff 
since the partui'ition of Joan. It is verj' unfair to judge of 
sex from writings, particularly from those of the British 
Review. We are all liable to be deceived; and it is an indis- 
putable fact, that many of the best articles in your journal, 
which Avere attributed to a veteran female, were actually 
written by you yourself ; and yet to this day there are people 
who could never find out the difference. But let us return 
to the more immediate question. 

I agree with you, that it is impossible Lord Byron should 
be the author, not only because, as a British peer and a 
British poet, it would be impracticable for him to have re- 
course to such facetious fiction, but for some other reasons 
which you have omitted to state. In the first place, his lord- 
ship has no grandmother. Now, the author— and we may 
believe him in this— doth expressly state that the " British " 
is his "Grandmother's Review;" and if, as I think I have 
distinctly proved, this was not a mere figurative allusion to 
your supposed intellectual age and sex, my dear friend, it 
follows, whether you be she or no, that there is such an 
elderly lady still extant. And I can the more readily credit 
this, having a sexagenary aunt of m}' own, who perused you 
constantly, till unfortunately falling asleep over the leading 
article of your last number, her spectacles fell off and were 
broken against the fender, after a faithful service of fifteen 
years, and she has never been able to fit her eyes since ; so 
that I have been forced to read you aloud to her; and this is 
in fact the way in which I became acquainted with the sub- 
ject of my present letter, and thus determined to become 
your public correspondent. 

In the next place. Lord B.'s destiny seems in some sort like 
that of Hercules of old, who became the author of all unap- 
propriated prodigies. Loud B. has been supposed the author 
of the " Vampire," of a " Pilgrimage to Jerusalem," "To the 
Dead Sea," of " Death upon the Pale Horse," of odes to " La 
Vallette," to " Saint Helena," to the " Land of the Gaul," and 
to a sucking child. Now, he turned out to have written none 
of these things. Besides, you say, he knows in what a spk-it 
of, etc., you criticise :— Are you sure he knows all this? that 
he has read you like my poor dear aunt? They tell me he is 
a (lueer sort of a man ; and I would not be too sure, if I were 
j'ou, either of what he has read or of what he has written. 
I thought his style had been the serious and terrible. As to 
his sending you money, this is the first time that ever I 
heard of his pajing his reviewers in that coin ; I thought it 
was rather in their oivii, to judge fi'om some of his earlier 
productions. Besides, though he may not be profuse in his 



* "Whether it be the British Critic, or the British Review, 
against which the noble lord prefers so grave a chari^e, or rather so 
facetious an accusation, we are at a loss to deteruiine. The latter 



expenditure, I should conjecture that his reviewer's bill is 
not so long as his tailor's. 

Shall I give j^ou what I think a prudent opinion? I don't 

mean to insinuate, God forbid ! but if, by any accident, there 

should have been such a correspondence between you and 

the unknown author, whoever he may be, send him back his 

I money : I dare sa>' he will be very glad to have it again ; it 

1 can't be much, considering the value of the article and the 

{ circulation of the journal; and you are too modest to rate 

your praise beyond its real worth.— Don't be angry,— I know 

I you won't,— at this appraisement of your powers of eulogy ; 

for on the other hand, my dear friend, depend upon it your 

abuse is worth, not its own weight,— that's a feather,— but 

your weight in gold. So don't spare it: if he has bargained 

for that, give it handsomelj% and depend upon your doing 

him a friendly office. 

But I only speak in case of possibility ; for, as I said before, 
I cannot believe, in the first instance, that you would receive 
a bribe to praise any person whatever; and still less can I 
believe that your praise could ever produce such an otter. 
\'ou are a good creature, my dear Roberts, and a clever fel- 
low ; else I could almost suspect that j^ou had fallen into the 
very trap set for you in verse by this anonymous wag, who 
will certainly be but too happy to see you saving him the 
trouble of making you ridiculous. The fact is, that the so- 
lemnity of your eleventh article does make you look a little 
more absurd than you ever yet looked, in all probability, 
and at the same time does no good ; for if any body believed 
before in the octave stanzas, they Avill believe still, and you 
will find it not less difficult to prove your negative, than the 
learned Partridge found it to demonstrate his not being dead, 
to the satisfaction of the readers of almanacs. 

What the motives of this writer may have been for (as j^ou 
magnificently translate his quizzing you) "stating, with the 
particularity which belongs to fact, the forgery of a gi'ound- 
less fiction" (do pray, my dear R., talk a little less "in King 
Cambyses' vein "), I cannot pretend to say; perhaps to laugh 
at you, but that is no reason for your benevolently making 
all the world laugh also. I approve of your being angry ; I 
tell you I am angry too ; but you should not have shown it so 
outrageously. Your solemn " // somebody personating the 
editor of the, etc., etc., has received from Loi-d B., or from 
any other person," reminds me of Charley Incledon's usual 
exordium when people came into the tavern to hear him 
sing without paying their share of the reckoning— " If a 
maun, or ony maun, or ony other maun," etc., etc.; you have 
both the same redundant eloquence. But whj' should you 
think anj^ body would personate you ? Nobody would dream 
of such a prank who ever read your compositions, and per- 
haps not many who have heard your conversation. But I 
have been inoculated with a little of your prolixity. The 
fact is, my dear Roberts, that somebody has tried to make a 
fool of you, and what he did not succeed in doing, you have 
done for him and for j^ourself. 

With regard to the poem itself, or the author, whom I can- 
not find out (can you ?), T have nothing to saj' ; my business is 
with you. I am sure that you will, upon second thoughts, be 
really obliged to me for the intention of this letter, however 
far short my expressions may have fallen of the sincere good 
will, admiration, and thorough esteem, with which I am 
ever, my dear Rx)berts, 

Most truly j'ours, 

WORTLEY CLUTTERBUCK, 

Sept. ith, 1819. 
Little PidUngton. 

P. S. My letter is too long to revise, and the post is going. 
I foi'get whether or not I asked you the meaning of jour 
last words, "the forgery of a groundless fiction." Now, as 
all forgery is fiction, and all fiction a kind of forgery, is not 
this tautological? The sentence would ha\'e ended more 
strongly with "forgerj'^;" only, it hath an awful Bank of 
England sound, and would have ended like an indictment, 
besides sparing you several words, and conferring some 
meaning upon the remainder. But this is mere verbal criti- 
cism. Good-bye— once more, yours truly, W. C. 

P. S. 2d.— Is it true that the Saints make up the loss of the 
Review?— It is very handsome in them to be at so great an 
expense. Twice more, yours, W. C. 



has thought it worth its while, in a public paper, to make a serious 
reply. As we are not so seriously inclined, we shall leave our share 
of this accusation to its {&te.'^— British Critic. 



688 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



NOTE 50. 

Some Observations upon an Article in Blackwood's 
Magazine, No. XXIX., August, 1819. 

" Why, how noAV, Hecate? you look angrily."— Jfotcbef^i. 



to 
J. DISRAELI, ESQ., 

THE AMIABLE AND INGENIOUS AUTHOR OF 

'THE CALAMITIES" AND "QUARRELS OF AUTHORS;" 

THIS ADDITIONAL QUARREL AND CALAMITY 

|g |nscribfb bu 
ONE OF THE NUMBER. 



Ravenna, March 15, 1820. 

"The life of a writer " has been said, by Pope, I believe, to 
be "a warfare upon earth.'' As far as my own experience 
has gone, I have nothing to say against the proposition ; and, 
like the rest, having once plunged into this state of hostility, 
must, however reluctantly, carry it on. An article has ap- 
peared in a periodical work, entitled "Remarks on Don 
Juan," which has been so full of this spirit, on the part of 
the Avriter, as to require some observations on mine. 

In the first place, I am not aware bj' what right the writer 
assumes this work, which is anonymous, to be my produc- 
tion. He will answer, that there is internal evidence ; that is 
to say, that there are passages which appear to be written in 
my name, or in my manner. But might not this have been 
done on purpose by another? He will say, why not then 
deny it? To this I could answer, that of all the things at- 
tributed to me within the last five years,— Pilgrimages to Je- 
rusalem, Deaths upon Pale Horses, Odes to the Land of the 
Gaul, Adieus to England, Songs to Madame La Vallette, Odes 
to St. Helena, Vampires, and what not,— of which, God 
knows, I never composed nor read a syllable beyond their 
titles in advertisements, — I never thought it worth while to 
disavow any, except one which came linked with an account 
of my "residence in the Isle of Mitylene," where I never re- 
sided, and appeared to be carrying the amusement of those 
persons, who think my name can be of any use to them, a 
little too far. 

I should hardly, therefore, if T did not take the trouble to 
disavow these things published in my name, and j^et not 
mine, go out of my way to deny an anonymous work ; which 
mightappear an act of supererogation. "With regard to Don 
Juan, I neither deny nor admit it to be mine— everybody 
may form their own opinion ; but, if there be any who now, 
or in the progress of that poem, if it is to be continued, feel, 
or should feel themselves so aggrieved as to require a more 
explicit answer, privately and personally, they shall have it. 

I have never shrunk from the responsibility of what I have 
written, and have more than once incun-ed obloquy by neg- 
lecting to disavow what was attributed to my pen without 
foundation. 

The greater part, however, of the " Remarks on Don Juan" 
contain but little on the work itself, which receives an ex- 
traordinary portion of praise as a composition. With the ex- 
ception of some quotations, and a few incidental remarks, 
the rest of the article is neither more nor less than a personal 
attack upon the imputed author. It is not the first in the 
same publication: for I recollect to have read, some time 
ago, similar remarks upon " Beppo " (said to have been writ- 
ten by a celebrated northern preacher) ; in which the conclu- 
sion drawn was, that "Childe Harold, Byron, and the count 
in Beppo, were one and the same person ;" thereby making 
'\ne turn out to be, as Mrs. Malaprop* says, ""like Cerbenis, 
th ree gentlemen at once." That article was signed " Presbyter 

* In Sheridan's comedy of "The Rivals." 

t See Blackwood, vol. iii., p. 329. Lord B., as it appears from one 
of his letters, ascribed (though unjustly) this paper to the Rev, Dr. 
Chalmers ! 

t " As the passage was curtailed in the press, I take this oppor- 
tunity of restoring it. In the Quarterly Picview (vol. xxi., p. 366), 
speakins; incidentally of the Jungfrau, I said, ' It was the scene 
where Lord Byron's Manfred met the devil, and bullied him — 
though the devil must have won his cause before any tribunal in | 



Anglicanus;" which, I presume, being interpreted, means 
Scotch Presbyterian.+ I must here observe,— and it is at 
once ludicrous and vexatious to be compelled so frequently 
to repeat the same tiling,— that my case, as an author, is 
peculiarlj' bard, in being everlastingly taken, or mistaken, 
for my own protagonist. It is unjust and particular. I 
never heard that my friend Moore was set down for a fire- 
worshipper on account of his Guebre; that Scott was identi- 
fied with Roderick Dhu, or with Balfour of Bui'ley ; or that, 
notwithstanding all the magicians in Thalaba, anybody has 
ever taken Mr, Southey for a conjurer; Avhereas I have had 
some difficultj- in extricating me even from Manfred, who, 
as Mr. Southey slyly observes in one of his articles in the 
Quarterly, "met the devil on the Jungfrau, and bullied 
him;"$ and I answer Mr. Southej', who has apparently, in 
his poetical life, not been so successful against the great 
enemy, that, in this, Manfred exactly followed the sacred 
precept,—" Resist the devil, and he will flee from you." — I 
shall have more to say on the subject of this person— not the 
devil, but his most humble servant Mr, Southej^— before I 
conclude ; but, for the present, I must return to the article 
in the Edinburgh Magazine. 

In the course of this article, amidst some extraordinary 
observations, there occur the following words : — " It appears, 
in short, as if this miserable man, ha\ing exhausted every 
><pecies of sensual gratification,— having drained the cup of 
sni even to its bitterest dregs, were resolved to show us that 
he is no longer a human being even in his frailties,— but a 
cool, unconcerned fiend, laughing with a detestable glee over 
the whole of the better and worse elements of which human 
life is composed." In another place there appears, "the 
lurking-place of his selfish and polluted exile,"— "By my 
troth, these be bitter words !"— With regard to the first sen- 
tence, I shall content myself with observing, that it appears 
to have been composed for Sardanapalus, Tiberius, the 
Regent Duke of Orleans, or Louis XV,; and that I have 
copied it with as much indifference as I would a passage 
from Suetonius, or from any of the private memoirs of the 
regency, conceiving it to be amply refuted by the terms in 
which it is expressed, and to be utterly inapplicable to any 
private indiAidual. On the words " lurking-place," and " self- 
ish and polluted exile," I have something more to saj\— How 
far the capital citj' of a government, which survived the 
vicissitudes of thirteen hundred j^ears, and might still have 
existed but for the treachery of Buonaparte, and the iniquity 
of his imitators,— a city, which was the emporium of Europe 
when London and Edinburgh-Avere dens of barbarians,— may 
be termed a " lurking-place," I leave to those who have seen 
or heard of Venice to decide. How far my exile may have 
been "polluted," it is not for me to say, because the word is 
a wide one, and, with some of its branches,^may chance to 
overshadow the actions of most men ; but that it has been 
''^ selfish " I deny. If, to the extent of my means and my 
power, and my information of their calamities, to have as- 
sisted many miserable beings, reduced bj^ the decay of the 
place of their birth, and their consequent loss of substance— 
if to have never rejected an application which appeared 
founded on truth— if to have expended in this manner sums 
far out of proportion to mj- fortune, there and elsewhere, be 
selfish, then have I been selfish. To have done such things I 
do not deem much ; but it is hard indeed to be compelled to 
recapitulate them in my own defence, by such accusations as 
that befoi-e me, like a panel before a jury calling testimonies 
to his character, or a soldier recording his services to obtain 
his discharge. If the person who has made the charge of 
" selfishness " wishes to inform himself further on the sub- 
ject, he may acquire, not what he would wish to find, but 
what will silence and shame him, by applying to the consul- 
general of our nation, resident in the place, who will be in 
the case either to confirm or denj^ what 1 have asserted.§ 

I neither make, nor have ever made, pretensions to sanctity 
of demeanor, nor regularity of conduct ; but my means have 
been expended principally on my own gratification, neither 
now nor heretofore, neither in England nor out of it ; and it 



this world, or the next, if he had cot pleaded more feebly for him- 
self than his advocate, in a cause of canonization, ever pleaded for 
him.' "—Southey, 

g " Lord Byron was ever ready to assist the distressed, and he was 
most unostentatious in his charities : for, besides considerable sums 
which he gave away to applicants at his own house, he contributed 
largely, by weekly and monthly allowances, to persons whom he 
had never seen, and who, as the money reached them by other 
hands, did not even know who was their benefactor."— Hoppner, 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



■wants but. a word from me, if I thought that word decent or 
necessary, to call forth the most willing- witnesses, and at 
once witnesses and proofs. In Eng'land itself, to shov/ that 
there are those who have derived not the mere temporarj' 
relief of a wretched boon, but tlie means which led them to 
immediate happiness and ultimate independence, bj' mjMvant 
of that very '' sclfishricss," as grossly as falsely now imputed 
to my conduct. 

Had 1 been a selfish man — had I been a grasping man— had 
I been, in the worldly sense of the word, even a prudent man, 
—I should not bo where I now am ; I should not have taken 
the step which was the first that led to the events which have 
sunk and swoln a gulf between me and mine ; but in this re- 
spect the truth will one day be made known : in the mean 
time, as Durandarte says, in the Cave of Montesinos, "Pa- 
tience, and shuffle the cards." 

T bitterly feel the ostentation of this statement, the first of 
the kind I have ever made: I feel the degradation of being 
compelled to make it ; but I also feel its truth, and I ti'ust to 
feel it on my death-bod, should it be my lot to die there. I 
am not less sensible of the egotism of all this ; but, alas! who 
have made me thus egotistical in my own defence, if not 
t'aey, Avho, by perversely persisting in referring fiction to 
truth, and tracing poetry to life, and regarding characters of 
imagination as ci-eatures of existence, have made me person- 
allj' responsible for almost every poetical delineation which 
fancy, and a particular bias of thought, may have tended to 
produce ? 

The Avriter continues : — " Those who are acquainted, as who 
is notf with the main incidents of the private life of Lord 
B.," etc. Assuredly, Avhoever may be acquainted with these 
"main incidents," tiie writer of the "Remarks on Don Juan " 
is not, or he would use a very different language. That 
which I believe he alludes to as a "main incident," happened 
to be a very subordinate one, and the natural and almost in- 
evitable consequence of events and circumstances long prior 
to the period at which it occurred. It is the last drop which 
makes the cup run over, and mine was already full.— But, to 
return to this man's charge : he accuses Lord B. of " an elab- 
orate satire on the character and manners of his wife." 
From what parts of Don Juan the writer has inferred this he 
himself best knows. As far as I recollect of the female char- 
acters in that production, there is but one Avho is depicted in 
ridiculous colors, or that could be interpreted as a satire upon 
anybody. But here my poetical sins are again revisited upon 
me, supposing that the poem be mine. If I depict a corsair, 
a misanthrope, a libertine, a chief of insin-gents, or an infidel, 
he is set down to the author ; and if, in a poem by no means 
ascei'tained to be my production, there appears a disagree- 
able, casuistical, and by no means respectable female pedant, 
it is set down for ray wife. Is there any resem.blance? If 
there be, it is in those Avho make it: T can see none. In mj" 
writings I have rarel.v described any character under a ficti- 
tious name : those of Avhom I have spoken have had their 
own— in many cases a stronger satire in itself than any which 
could be appended to it. But of real circumstances I have 
availed myself plentifully, both in the serious and the ludi- 
crous—they are to poetr.y what landscapes are to the painter ; 
but my ligurcx ai-e not portraits. It may even have happened, 
that I have seized on some events that have occurred under 
my own observation, or in my own family, as I would paint 
a view from my grounds, did it harmonize with my picture ; 
but I never would introduce the likeness of its living mem- 
bers, unless their features could be made as favorable to 
themselves as to the effect; which, in the above instance, 
Avould be extremely difficult. 

My learned brother proceeds to observe, that "it is in vain 
for Lord B. to attempt in any way to justify his own beha- 
vior in that affair; and now that he has so openly and aiidac- 
vmslu invited inquiry and reproach, we do not see any good 
reason why he should not bo plainly told so by the voice of 
his countrymen." How far the "openness" of an anony- 
mous poem, and the "audacity " of an imaginars' character, 
which the writer supposes to be meant for Lady 3., may be 
deemed to merit this formidable denunciation from their 
" most sweet voices." I neither know nor care; but when he 
tells me that I cannot "in any ws.y justify my own behavior 
in that affair." I acquiesce, because no man can ""justify" 
himself until he knows of what he is accused; and I have 
never had— and, God knows, my whole desire has ever been 
to obtain it— any specific charge, in a tangible shape, sub- 
mitted to me by the adversary, nor by others, unless the 
atrocities of public rumor and the mysterious silence of the 
lady's legal advisers may be deemed such. But is not the 
writer content with what has been already said and done? 
640 



Has not " the general voice of his countrj^men " long ago 
pronounced upon the subject—sentence without trial, and 
condemnation without a charge ? Have I not been exiled by 
ostracism, except that the shells which proscribed me were 
anonymous? Is the writer ignorant of the public opinion 
and the public conduct upon that occasion? If he is. I am 
not : the public will forget both, long before I shall cease to 
remember either. 

The man who is exiled by a faction has the consolation of 
thinking that he is a martyr; he is upheld by hope and the 
dignity of his cause, real or imaginary: he who Avithdraws 
from the pressure of debt may indulge in the thought that 
time and prudence will retrieve his circumstances: he who 
is condemned by the law has a term to his banishment, or a 
dream of its abbreviation ; or, it may be, the knowledge or 
the belief of some injustice of the laAv, or of its adminis- 
tration in his own particular; but he who is outlaAved by 
general opinion, Avithout the intervention of hostile politics, 
illegal judgment, or embarrassed circumstances, Avhether he 
be innocent or guilty, must undergo all the bitterness of 
exile, Avithout hope, Avithout pride, without alleviation. This 
case Avas mine. Upon Avhat grounds the public founded their 
opinion, I am not aware ; but it was general, and it Avas de- 
cisiA^e, Of me or of mine thej^ kncAv little, except that I had 
written Avhat is called poeti-yi was a nobleman, had married, 
became a father, and was iuA-oh^ed in differences AA'ith my 
Avife and her relatives, no one kncAv Avhy, because the per- 
sons complaining refused to state their gricAances. The 
fashionable Avorld Avas diA'ided into parties, mine consisting 
of a very small minority : the reasonable Avorld was naturally 
on the stronger side, which happened to be the ladj-'s, as Avas 
most proper and polite. The press Avas actiA-e and scurrilous ; 
and such was the rage of the day that the unfortunate pub- 
lication of tAvo copies of A-erses. rather complimentary than 
otherAvise to the subjects of both, was tortured into a species 
of crime, or constructive petty treason. I was accused of 
every monstrous Aice by public rumor, and priA'ate rancor: 
my name, Avhich had been a knightly or a noble one since my 
fathers helped to conquer the kingdom for AVilliam the Nor- 
man, vras tainted. I felt that, if what Avas whispered, and 
muttered, and murmured was true, I was unfit for England; 
if false, England Avas unfit for me. I withdrew : but this Avas 
not enough. In other countries, in SAvitzerland, in the shadoAv 
of the Alps, and by the blue depth of the lakes, I was pur- 
sued and breathed upon hy the same blight. I crossed the 
mountains, but it AA^as the same; so I went a little further, 
and settled myself by the AvaA-es of the Adriatic, like the stag 
at bay, Avho betakes him to the Avaters. 

If T may judge by the statements of the few friends Avho 
gathered round me, the outcry of the period to which I allude 
Avas beyond all precedent, all parallel, even in those cases 
where political motiA'es haA^e sharpened slander and doubled 
enmity. I was adA'ised not to go to the theatres, lest I should 
be hissed, nor to my duty in parliament, lest I should be 
insulted by the way; ev^en on the daj- of my departure, mj^ 
most intimate friend told me afterwai'ds, that he Avas under 
apprehensions of Aiolence from the people Avho might be 
assembled at the door of the carriage. HoweA-er, I was not 
deterred by these counsels from seeing Kean in his best char- 
acters, nor from A'oting according to my principles ; and with 
regard to the third and last apprehensions of my friends, I 
could not share in them, not being made acquainted with 
their extent til! some time after I had ci'ossed the Channel. 
EA-en if I had been so, I am not of a natux-e to be much 
affected by men's anger, though I may feel hurt by their 
aversion. Against all individual outrage, I could protect or 
redress myself; and against that of a croAvd, I should prob- 
ably haA-e been enabled to defend myself, with the assistance 
of others, as has been done on similar occasions. 

I retired from the country, perceiAing that I AA^as the object 
of general obloquy; I did not indeed imagine, like Jean 
Jacques Rousseau, that all mankind was in a conspiracy 
against me, though I had perhaps as good grounds for such 
a chimera as ever he had ; but I perceiAed that I had to a 
great extent become personally obnoxious in England, yier- 
haps through my OAvn fault, but the fact was indisputable: 
the public in general would hardly haA'e been so much excited 
against a more popular chaTacter, Avithout at least an accu- 
sation or a charge of some kind actually expressed or sub- 
stantiated, for I can hardly conceive that the common and 
CA-ery-day occurrence of a separation between m,an and Avife 
could in itself produce so great a ferment. I shall say noth- 
ing of the usual complaints of "being prejudged," "con- 
demned unheard," "unfairness," " partiaMty," and so forth, 
the usual changes rung by parties who have had, or are to 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



have, a trial ; but I was a little surprised to find myself con- 
demned without being- favored with the act of accusation, 
and to perceive in the absence of this portentous charge or 
charges, whatever it or they were to be, that every possible 
or impossible crime was rumored to supply its place, and 
taken for granted. This could only occur in the case of a 
person very much disliked; and I knew no remedy, having 
already used to their extent whatever little powers I might 
possess of pleasing in society. I had no party in fashion, 
though T was afterwards told that there was one— but it was 
not of mj' formation, nor did I then know of its existence— 
none in literature: and in politics T had voted with the 
Whigs, with precisely that importance which a Whig vote 
possesses in these Tory days, and with such pei-sonal ac- 
(^uaintance with the leaders in both houses as the society in 
which I lived sanctioned, but without claim or expectation 
of any thing like friendship from any one, except a few 
young men of ray own age and standing, and a few others 
more advanced in life, Avhich last it had been my fortune to 
serve in circumstances of difficulty. This was, in fact, to 
stand alone : and I recollect, some time after, when Madame 
de Staei said to me in Switzerland, "You should not have 
warred with the world— it will not do— it is too strong always 
for any individual: I myself once tried it in early life, but 
it will not do." 1 perfectly acquiesce in the truth of this 
remark; but the world had done me the honor to begin the 
war; and assuredly, if peace is only to be obtained by court- 
ing and pajing tribute to it, I am not qualified to obtain its 
countenance. I thought, in the words of Campbell, 

"Then wed thee to an exiled lot. 
And if the world hath loved thee not, 
Its absence may be borne." 

I recollect, however, that having been much hurt by Rom- 
illy's conduct (he, having a general retainer for me, had acted 
astidviser to the adversary, alleging, on being reminded of 
his retainer, that he had forgotten it, as his clerk had so 
many), I observed that some of those who were now eagerly 
laying the axe to my roof-tree, might see their own shaken, 
and feel a portion of what thej' had inflicted.- His fell, and 
crushed him. 

I have heard of, and believe, that there are human beings 
so constituted as to be insensible to injuries; but I believe 
that the best mode to avoid taking vengeance is to get out of 
the way of temptation. I hope that I may never have the 
opportunity, for I aui not quite sure that I could resist it, 
having derived from my mother something of the '" perfer- 
vidum ingenium Scotorum." I have not sought, and shall not 
seek it, and perhaps it may never come in my path. 1 do not 
in this allude to the party, who might be right or wrong ; but 
to many who made her cause the pretext of their own bit- 
terness. She, indeed, must have long avenged me in her own 
feelings : for whatever her reasons maj' have been (and she 
never adduced them to me at least), she probably neither 
contemplated nor conceived to what she became the means 
of conducting the father of her child, and the husband of 
her choice. 

So much for "■ the general voice of his countrymen :" I 
will now speak of some m particular. 

In the beginning of the year 1837, an article appeared in the 
Quarterly Reviev>-. written, I believe, by Walter Scott,* doing 
great honor to him, and no disgrace to me, though both poet- 
ically and personally more than sufficiently favorable to the 
work and the author of whom it treated. It was written at 
a time when a selfish man would not, and a timid one dared 
not, have said a Avord in favor of either ; it was written by 
one to whom temporary public opinion had elevated me to 
the rank of a rival— a proud distinction, and unmerited : but 
which has not prevented me from feeling as a friend, nor 
him from more than corresponding to that sentiment. The 
article in question was written upon the third canto of Childe 
Harold ; and after many observations, which it would as ill 
become me to repeat as to forget, concluded with " a hope 
that I might yet return to England." How this expression 
was received in England itself I am not acquainted, but it 
gave great offence at Rome to the respectable ten or twenty 
thousand English travellers then and there assembled. I did 
not visit Rome till some time after, so that I had no oppor- 
tunity of knowing the fact : but T was informed, long after- 
wards, that the greatest indignation had been manifested in 
the enlightened Anglo-circle of that year, which happened 

* See Quarterly Review, vol. xvi., p. 172. 

41 



to comprise within it— amidst a considerable leaven of Wel- 
beck Street and Devonshire Place, broken loose upon their 
travels— several really well-born and well-bred families, who 
did not the less participate in the feeling of the hour. " fMty 
should he return to England?" was the general exclamation 
—I answer whyf It is a question I have occasionally asked 
myself, and I never yet could give it a satisfactory reply. I 
had then no thoughts of returning, and if I have any now, 
they are of business, and not of pleasure. Amidst the ties 
that have been dashed to pieces, there are links yet entire, 
though the chain itself be broken. There are duties, and con- 
nections, which may one day require my presence— and I am 
a father. I have still some friends whom I wish to meet 
again, and, it may be, an enemy. These things, and those 
minuter details of business, which time accumulates during 
absence, in every man's affairs and property, may, and prob- 
ably will, recall me to England ; but I shall return with the 
same feelings with which 1 left it, in respect to itself, though 
altered with regard to individuals, as I have been moi*e or 
less infoi-med of their conduct since my departure . for it 
was only a considerable time after it that I was made ac- 
quainted with the real facts and full extent of some of their 
proceedings and language. My friends, like other friends, 
from conciliatory motives, withheld from me much that they 
could, and some things which they should have unfolded ; 
however, that which is deferred is not lost— but it has been 
no fault of mine that it has been deferred at all. 

1 have alluded to what is said to have passed at Rome 
merely to show that the sentiment which I have described 
was not confined to the English in England, and as forming 
part of my answer to the reproach cast upon what has been 
called my "selfish exile," and my " voluntary exile." " Vol- 
untary" it has been; for who would dwell among a people 
entertaining sti'ong hostility against him? How far it has 
been " selfish " has been already explained. 

I have now arrived at a passage describing me as having 
vented my "spleen against the lofty-minded and virtuous 
men," men " whose virtues few indeed can equal ;" meaning, 
I humbly presume, the notorious triumvirate known by the 
name of " Lake Poets " in their aggregate capacity, and by 
Southey, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, when taken singly. I 
wish to say a word or two upon the virtues of one of those 
persons, public and private, for reasons which will soon 
appear. 

When I left England in April, 1816, ill in mind, in body, 
and in circumstances, I took up my residence at Coligny, by 
the lake of Geneva. The sole companion of my journey was 
a 5'o'ung physician,+ who had to make his way in the world, 
and having seen very little of it, was naturally and laudably 
desirous of seeing more society than suited my present hab- 
its or my past experience. I therefore presented him to 
those gentlemen of Geneva for whom I had letters of intro- 
duction ; and ha\ing thus seen him in a situation to make his 
own Avaj% retired for my own part entirely from society, 
with the exception of one English family, living at about a 
quarter of a mile's distance from Diodati, and with the 
further exception of some occasional intercourse with Cop- 
pet at the wish of Madame de Stael. The English family to 
which I allude consisted of two ladies, a gentleman and his 
son, a boj' of a year old. t 

One of " these Infty-minded and virtuous men," in the words 
of the Edinburgh Magazine, made, 1 understand, about this 
time, or soon after, a tour in Switzerland. On his return to 
England, he circulated— and, for anything I know, invented 
—a report, that the gentleman to whom I have alluded and 
myself were living in promiscuous intercourse with two sis- 
ters, " having formed a league of incest " (I quote the words 
as they were stated to me), and indulged himself on the 
natural comments upon such a conjunction, Avhich are said 
to have been repeated publicly, with great complacency, by 
another of that poetical f raternitj-, of whom I shall say only, 
that even had the story been trvie, he should not have re- 
peated it, as faras it regarded myself, except in sorrow. The 
tale itse] f requires but a word in answer — the ladies were not 
sisters, nor in anj' degree connected, except by the second 
marriage of their respective parents, a widower with a 
widow, both being the offspring of former marriages ; neither 
of them were, in 1816, nineteen years old. " Promiscuous in- 
tercourse" could hardly have disgusted the great patron of 
pantisocracy (does Mr. Southey remember such a scheme ?), 
but there was none. 
How far this man, who, as author of Wat Tyler, has been 

t Dr. Polidori, author of " The Vampire." 
X Mr. and Mrs. Shelley. Miss Clermont, and Master Shelley. 
(541 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



proclaimed bj' the lord chancellor guilty of a treasonable and 
blasphemous libel, and denounced in the House of Commons, 
by the uprig-ht and able member for Norwich, as a "rancor- 
ous reneg-ado," be fit for sitting- as a judge upon others, let 
others judge. He has said that for this expression "he 
brands William Smith on the forehead as a calumniator," 
and that "the mark will outlast his epitaph." How long 
William Smith's epitaph will last, and in what words it w^ill 
be written, I know not, but William Smith's words form the 
epitaph itself of Robert Southey. He has written Wat Tyler, 
and taken the office of poet-laureate — he has, in the Life of 
Henry Kirke White, denominated reviewing " the ungentle 
craft," and has become a reviewer— he was one of the pro- 
jectors of a scheme, called "pautisocracy," for having all 
things, including women, in common {query, common 
women?), and he sets up as a moralist— he denounced the 
battle of Blenheim, and he praised the battle of Watei'loo— 
he loved Marj^ Wollstoncraft, and he tried to blast the char- 
acter of her daughter (one of the young females mentioned) 
—he Avrote treason, and serves the king— he was the butt of 
the Anti-jacobin, and he is the prop of the Quarterly Review ; 
licking the hands that smote him, eating the bread of his 
enemies, and internally writhing beneath his own contempt, 
—he would fain conceal, under anonj'mous bluster, and a 
A-ain endeavor to obtain the esteem of others, after having 
for ever lost his own, his leprous sense of his own degrada- 
tion. What is therein such a man to "envy"? Whoever 
envied the envious? Is it his birth, his name, his fame, or 
his virtues, that I am to "envy"? I Avas born of the aris- 
tocracy, which he abhorred ; and am sprung, by my mother, 
from the kings who preceded those whom he has hired him- 
self to sing. It cannot, then, be his birth. As a poet, I have, 
for the pa3t eight years, had nothing to appi-ehend from a 
competition : and for the future, " that life to come in every 
poet's creed," it is open to all, I will only remind Mr. 
Southey, in the words of a critic, who, if still liAing, would 
have annihilated Southey's litei'ary existence now^ and here- 
after, as the sworn foe of charlatans and impostors, from 
jVlacpherson doAvnwards, that " those dreams were Settle's 
once and Ogilby's :" and, for my own part, I assure him, that 
whenever he and his sect are remembered, I shall be proud 
to be " forgot." That he is not content with his success as a 
poet may fairly be believed — he has been the nine-pin of 
reviews; the Edinburgh knocked him down, and the Quarterly 
set him up: the government found him useful in the period- 
ical line, and made a point of recommending his works to 
purchasers, so that he is occasionally bought (I mean his 
books, as well as the author), and may be found on the same 
shelf, if not upon the table, of most of the gentlemen em- 
ployed in the different offices. With regard to his private 
virtues, I knoAv nothing— of his principles, I have heard 
enough. As far as having been, to the best of my power, 
benevolent to others, T do not fear the comparison : and for 
the errors of the passions, was Mr. Southey always so tranquil 
and stainless? Did he never covet his neighbor's wife? Did 
he never calumQiate his neighbor's wife's daughter, the off- 
spring of her he coveted? So much for the apostle of pau- 
tisocracy. 

Of the " loftj'-minded, \irtuous" Wordsworth, one anec- 
dote will suffice to speak his sincerity. In a conversation 

with Mr. upon poetry, he concluded wnth, "After all, T 

Avould not give five shillings for all that Southey has ever 
written." Perhaps this calculation might rather show his 
esteem for five shillings than his low estimate of Dr. Southey ; 
but considering that when he v,'as in his need, and Southey 
had a shilling, Wordsworth is said to have had generally six- 
pence out of it, it has an awkward sound in the way of valua- 
tion. This anecdote was told me by persons who, if quoted 
by name, would prove that its genealogy is poetical as well 
as true. I can give my authority for this; and am ready to 
adduce it also for Mr. Southey's circulation of the falsehood 
before mentioned. 
Of Coleridge, I shall say nothing— w'Tji/, he may di\nne.* 
I have said more of these people than I intended in this 
place, being somewhat stirred by the remarks which induced 
me to commence upon the topic. I see nothing in these men, 
as poets, or as individuals— little in their talents, and less in 
their characters, to prevent honest men from expressing for 

* See Notices of Lord Byron's Life. 

t 'Tassoui was almost the only Italian poet of the era in which 
he flourished who withstood the general corruption of taste intro- 
duced by Marino and his followers, and by the 'imitated imitators' 
of Lope de Vega; and he opened a new path, in which a crowd of 
pretenders have vainly endeavored to follow him." — Foscolo. 

642 



them considerable contempt, in prose or rhyme, as it may 
happen. Mr. Southey has the Quarterly for his field of re- 
joinder, and Mr. Wordsworth his postscripts to "Lyrical 
Ballads," where the two great instances of the sublime are 
taken from himself and Milton. " Over her own sweet voice 
the stockdove broods ; " that is to say, she has the pleasure of 
listening to herself, in common with Mr. Wordsworth upon 
most of 'ois public appearances. " What divinity doth hedge " 
these persons, that we should respect them? Is it Apollo? 
Are they not of those who called Dryden's Ode "a drunken 
song"? who have discovered that Gray's Elegy is full of 
faults (see Coleridge's Life, vol. i., note, for Wordsworth's 
kindness in pointing this out to him), and have published 
what is allowed to be the very worst prose that ever was 
written to prove that Pope was no poet, and that William 
Wordsworth is? 

In other points, are they respectable, or respected? Is it 
on the open avowal of apostasj', on the patronage of gOA'ern- 
ment, that their claim is founded? Who is there who esteems 
those parricides of their own principles? Thej"^ are, in fact, 
well aware that the reward of their change has been any 
thing but honor. The times have preserved a respect for 
political consistency, and, even though changeable, honor the 
unchanged. Look at Moore; it will be long ere Southey 
meets with such a triumph in London as Moore met Avith in 
Dublin, even if the government subscribe for it, and set the 
money down to secret service. It was not less to the man 
than to the poet, to the tempted but unshaken patriot, to the 
not opulent, but incorruptible fellow-citizen, that the warm- 
hearted Irish paid the proudest of tributes. Mr. Southey 
may applaud himself to the world, but he has his own heai't- 
iest contempt ; and the fury with Avhich he foams against all 
who stand in the phalanx which he forsook, is, as William 
Smith described it, "the rancor of the renegado," the bad 
language of the prostitute who stands at the corner of the 
street, and showers her slang upon all, except those who may 
haA'e bestowed upon her her "little shilling." 

Hence his quarterly overfloAvings, political and literary, in 
what he has himself termed "the ungentle ci-aft," and his 
especial wrath against Mr. Leigh Hunt, notAvithstanding that 
Hunt has done more for WordsAvorth's reputation, as a poet 
(such as it is), than all the Lakers could in their interchange 
of self-praises for the last twenty-fiAe j'ears. 

And here I Avish to say a few Avords on the present state of 
English poetry. That this is the age of the decline of English 
poetry Avill be doubted by few who have calmlj^ considered 
the subject. That there are men of genius among the present 
poets makes little against the fact, because it has been well 
said, that "next to him Avho forms the taste of his country, 
the greatest genius is he who corrupts it." No one has ever 
denied genius to Marino,+ who corrupted not merely the 
taste of Italy, but that of all Europe for nearly a century. 
The great cause of the present deplorablie state of English 
poetrj^ is to be attributed to that absurd and systematic de- 
preciation of Pope, in Avhich, for the last fcAv years, there 
has been a kind of epidemical concurrence. Men of the most 
opposite opinions haA'e united upon this topic. Warton and 
Churchill began it, having borroAved the hint probably from 
the heroes of the Dunciad, and their own internal conviction 
that their proper reputation can be as nothing till the most 
perfect and harmonious of poets— he Avho, haA-ing no fault, 
has had reason made his reproach— was reduced to what 
they conceived to be his IcA-el; but even f/(eiy dared not de- 
grade him below Dryden. Goldsmith, and Rogers, and Camp- 
bell, his most successful disciples ; and Hayley, w-ho, hoAvever 
feeble, has left one poem "that Avill not be Avillingly let die" 
(the Triumphs of Temper), kept up the reputation of that 
pure and perfect style; and Crabbe, the first of liA'ing poets, 
has almost equalled the master. Then came Darwin, Avho 
was put down by a single poem in the Anti-jacobin ; i and the 
Cruscans, from Merry to Jerningham, who Avere annihilated 
(if NoUiing can be said to be annihilated) by Gifford, the last 
of the Avholesome satirists. 

At the same time Mr. Southey was favoring the public with 
Wat Tyler and Joan of Arc, to the great glory of the Drama 
and Epos. I beg pardon, Wat Tyler, with Peter Bell, was 
still in MS. ; and it was not till after Mr. Southey had re- 
ceived his Malmsey butt, and Mr. WordSAvorth§ became 

X "The Loves of the Triangles," the joint production of Messrs. 
Canning and Frere. 

? Goldsmith has anticipated the definition of the Lake poetry, as 
far as such things can be defined. "Gentlemen, the present piece 
is not of your common epic poems, which come from the press like 
paper kites in summer ; there are none of your Turnuses or Didos 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



qualified to gauge it, that the great revolutionary tragedy 
came before the public aad the Court of Chancery. Words- 
worth was peddling his lyrical ballads, and brooding a preface, 
to be succeeded in due course by a postscript; both couched 
in such prose as must give peculiar delight to those who have 
read the prefaces of Pope and Drydeu; scarcely less cele- 
brated for the beaiity of their prose, than for the charms of 
their verse. Wordsworth is the reverse of Moliere's gentle- 
man who had been " talking prose all his life, without know- 
ing it;" for he thinks that he has been all his life writing 
both prose and verse, and neither of what he conceives to be I 
such can be properly said to be either one or the other. Mr. i 
Coleridge, the future mf&s, poet and seer of the Morning : 
Post (an honor also claimed by Mr. Pltzgerald, of the "Re- 
jected Addresses " *), who ultimately prophesied the downfall 
of Buonaparte, to which he himself mainly contributed, by 
giving him the nickname of "f?)6 CorsknrW was then em- 
ployed in predicating the damnation of Mr. Pitt, and the 
desolation of England, in the two very best copies of verses j 
he ever wrote : to wit, the infernal eclogue of " Fire, Famine, I 
and Slaughter," and the " Ode to the Departing i'ear." \ 

These three personages, Southejs Woi-dsworth, and Cole- j 
ridge, had all of them a very natural antipathy to Pope ; and ' 
I respect them for it, as the only original feeling or principle 
which they have contrived to preserve. But they have been j 
joined in it bj^ those who have joined them in nothing else : | 
by the Edinburgh Reviewers, by the whole heterogeneous 
mass of living English poets, excepting Crabbe, Rogers, Gif- 
ford, and Campbell, who, both by precept and practice, have 
proved their adherence; and by me, who have shamefully 
deviated in practice, but have ever loved and honored Pope's 
poetry with my whole soul, and hope to do so till mj^ dying 
day. I would rather see all I have ever written lining the 
same trunk in which I actually read the eleventh book o f a 
modern epic poemt at Malta, in 1811 (I opened it to take out 
a change after the paroxj'sm of a tertian, in the absence of 
my servant, and found it lined with the name of the maker. 
Eyre, Cockspur Street, and Avith the epic poetry alluded to), 
than sacrifice what I firmly believe in as the Christianity of 
English poetry, the poetry of Pope. 

But the Edinburgh Reviewers, and the Lakers, and Hunt 
and his school, and every body else with their school, and 
even Moore without a school, and dilettanti lecturers at in- 
stitutions, and elderly gentlemen who translate and imitate, 
and young ladies who listen and repeat, baronets who draw 
indifferent frontispieces for bad poets, and noblemen Avho 
let them dine with them in the country, the small body of 
the Avits and the great body of the blues, have latterly united 
in a depreciation, of which their fathers would have been as 
much ashamed as their children will be. In the mean time, 
what have we got instead? The Lake school, which began 
with an epic poem, "written in six weeks" (so Joan of Arc 
proclaimed herself), and finished with a ballad composed in 
twenty years, as "Peter Bell's" creator takes care to inform 
the few who will inquire. What have we got instead? A 
deluge of flimsy and unintelligible romances, imitated from 
Scott and myself, who have both made the best of our bad 
materials and erroneous system. What have we got instead ? 
Madoc, which is neither an epic nor any thing else, Tha- 
laba, Kehama, Gebir, and such gibberish, written in all 
metres and in no language. Hunt, who had powers to have 
made "the Story of Rimini " as perfect as a fable of Dryden, 
has thought fit to sacrifice his genius and his taste to some 
unintelligible notions of Wordsworth, which I defy him to 

explain. Moore has But why continue ?— All, with the 

exception of Crabbe, Rogers, and Campbell, who may be con- 
sidered as having taken their station, will, by the blessing 
of God, surWve their own reputation, without attaining any 
very extraordinary ])eriod of longevity. Of course there 
must be^ still further exception in favor of those who, 
having never obtained any reputation at all, unless it be 
among provincial literati, and their own families, have none 
to lose ; and of Moore, who, as the Burns of Ii-eland, possesses 
a fame which cannot be lost. 

The greater part of the poets mentioned, however, have 
been able to gather together a few followers. A paper of the 

in it ; it is an historical description of nature. I only beg you '11 en- 
deavor to make your souls in unison with mine, and hear with the 
same enthusiasm with which I have written." Would not this have 
made a proper proem to the Excursion, and the poet aud his ped- 
dler? It would have answered perfectly for that purpose, had it not 
unfortunately been written in good English. 

* See ante, p. 498. 

t Sir James Bland Burgess's " Richard I." See ante_ p. 533. 



Connoisseur says, that "it is observed by the French, that 
a cat, a priest, and an ola w'oman, are sufficient to constitute 
a religious sect in England." The same number of animals, 
with some difference in kind, will suffice for a poetical one. 
If we take Sir George Beaumont instead of the priest, and 
Mr. Wordsworth for the old woman, we shall nearly complete 
the quota required; but I fear that Mr, Southey will but ifl- 
differently represent the cat, having shown himself but too 
distinctly to be of a species to which that noble creature is 
peculiarly hostile. 

Nevertheless, I will not go so far as Wordsworth in his 
postscript, who pretends that no great poet ever had imme- 
diate fame; which being interpreted, means that William 
Wordsworth is not quite so much read by his contemporaries 
as might be desirable. This assertion is as false as it is 
foolish. Homer's glory depends upon his present popularity : 
he recited,— and without the strongest impression of the 
moment, who would have gotten the Iliad by heart, and 
given it to tradition ? Ennius, Terence, Plautus, Lucretius, 
Horace, Virgil, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Sappho, An- 
acreon, Theocritus, all the great poets of antiquity, were the 
delight of their contemporaries. The Aery existence of a 
poet, previous to the invention of printing, depended upon 
his present popularity; and how often has it impaired his 
future fame? Hardly ever. History informs us that the 
best have come down to us. The reason is evident : the most 
popular found the greatest number of transcribers for their 
MSS. ; and that the taste of their contemporaries was corrupt 
can hardly be avouched by the moderns, the mightiest of 
whom have but barely approached them. Dante, Petrarch, 
Ariosto, and Tasso, were all the darlings of the contemporary 
reader. Dante's poem was celebrated long before his death ; 
and, not long after it, states negotiated for his ashes, and 
disputed for the sites of the composition of the Di\ina Corn- 
media. Petrarch was crowned in the Capitol. Ariosto was 
permitted to pass free by the public robber who had read the 
Orlando Furioso. I would not recommend Mr. Wordsworth 
to try the same experiment with his Smugglers. Tasso, not- 
withstanding the criticisms of the Cruscanti, Avould have 
been crowned in the Capitol but for his death. 

It is easy to proAC the immediate popularity of the chief 
poets of the onlj' modern nation in Europe that has a poeti- 
cal language, the Italian. In our own, Shakspeare, Spenser, 
Jonson, Waller, Dryden, Congreve, Pope. Young, Shenstone, 
Thomson, Johnson, Goldsmith, Gray, were all as popular in 
their lives as since. Gray's Elegy pleased instantlj-, and 
eternally. His Odes did not, nor yet do they, please like his 
Eleg5'. Milton's politics kept him down. But the Epigram 
of Drj'den,* and the ver3' sale of his Avork, in proportion to 
the less reading time of its publication, proA^e him to haA^e 
been honored by his contemporaries. I Avill A'enture to assert, 
that the sale of the Paradise Lost Avas greater in the first 
four years after its publication, than that of "The Excur- 
sion" in the same number, Avith the difference of nearly a 
century and a half between them of time, and of thousands 
in point of general readers. NotAvithstanding Mr. Words- 
Avorth's having pressed Milton into his ser\-ice as one of those 
not presently popular, to laA'or his own purpose of proving 
that our grandchildren will read Mm (the said William 
WordSAvorth), I Avould recommend him to begin first Avith 
our grandmothers. But he need not be alarmed; he may 
yet Wve to see all the envies pass away, as Darwin and Seward 
and Hoole, and Hole,§ and Hoyle,ll haA-e passed away; but 
their declension Avill not be his ascension ; he is essentially a 
bad Avriter, and all the failures of others can noA'er strengthen 
him. He maj' haA^e a sect, but he Avill ne\-er haA^e a public ; 
and his '"''avclievce"' will always be ""few,"' without being 
"^f,"— except tor Bedlam. 

It may be asked, why, having this opinion of the present 
state of poetry in England, and haA'ing had it long, as my 
friends and others Avell knew— possessing, or haA'ing possessed 
too, as a writer, the ear of the public for the time being— I 
haA-e not adopted a different plan in my own compositions, 
and eudeaAored to correct rather than encourage the taste of 
the day. To this I would answer, that it is easier to perceiA^e 
the wrong than to pui-sue the right, and that I haAC never 



i The well-knoAvn lines under Milton's picture, 

"Three poets, in three distant ages born," etc. 

? The Rev. Richard Hole. He published in early life a versifica- 
tion of Fiugal, and in 1789, " Arthur, a Poetical Romance." He 
died in 1803. 

II Charles Hoyle,.of Trinity College, Cambridge, author of "Ex- 
odus," an epic in thirteen books. 

643 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



contemplated the prospect "of filling (with Peter Bell,* see 
its preface) permanently a station in the literature of the 
country." Those who know me best know this, and that I 
have been considerably astonished at the temporary success 
of my works, haxing tlattered no person and no party, and 
expressed opinions which are not those of the g-enei'al reader. 
Could I have anticipated the degree of attention which has 
been accorded to me, assuredly I would have studied more 
to deserve it. But I have lived in far countries abroad, or in 
the agitating- world at home, which was not favorable to 
study or reflection; so that almost all that I have written has 
been mere passion,— passion, it is true, of different kinds, but 
ahvaj's passion ; for in me (if it be not an Irishism to say so) 
my indifference was a kind of passion, the result of experi- 
ence, and not the philosophy of nature. Writing gi-ows a 
habit, like a woman's gallantry ; there are women who have 
had no intrigue, but few who have had but one only; so 
there are millions of men who have never written a book, 
but few who have written only one. And thus, having writ- 
ten once, I wrote on ; encouraged no doubt by the success of 
the moment, yet by no means anticipating its duration, and, 
I will venture to say, scarcely even wishing it. But then I 
did other things besides write, which by no means contrib- 
uted either to improve my writings or my prosperity. 

I have thus expressed publiclj' upon the poetry of the day 
the opinion I have long entertained and expressed of it to all 
who have asked it, and to some Avho would rather not have 
heard it : as I told Moore not very long ago, "we are all 
wrong except Rogers, Crabbe, and Campbell." + Without 
being old in years, I am old in days, and do not feel the ade- 
quate spirit within me to attempt a work which should sho-vv 
what I think right in poetry, and must content myself with 
having denounced what is wrong. There are, I trust, 
younger spirits rising up in England, who, escaping the con- 
tagion which has swept away poetry from our literature, 
will recall it to their country, such as it once was and may 
still be. 

In the mean time, the best sign of amendment will be re- 
pentance, and new and frequent editions of Pope and Dry- 
den. 

There will be found as comfortable metaphysics, and ten 
times more poetry, in the "Essay on Man," than in the " Ex- 
cursion." If you search for passion, where is it to be found 
stronger than in the epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, or in 
Palamon and Arcite? Do you wish for invention, imagina- 
tion, sublimity, character? seek them in the Rape of the 
Lock, the Fables of Dryden, the Ode of Saint Cecilia's Daj% 
and Absalom and Achitophel : you will discover in these two 
poets only, all for which you must ransack innumerable 
metres, and God only knows how many loriters of the day, 
without finding a tittle of the same qualities,— with the addi- 
tion, too, of wit, of which the latter have none. I have not, 
however, forgotten Thomas Brown the Younger, nor the 
Fudge Family,* nor Whistlecraft ; but that is not wit— it is 
humor. I will say nothing of the harmony of Pope and Dry- 
den in comparison, for there is not a living poet (except Rog- 
ers, Gifford, Campbell, and Ci'abbe) who can write an heroic 

* "Peter Bell first saw the light in 1798. During this long inter- 
val, pains have been taken at different times to make the produc- 
tion less unworthy of a favorable reception ; or rather, to fit it for 
filling permanently a station, however humble, in the literature of 
my country." — Wordsworth, 1819. 

t " I certainly ventured to differ from the judgment of my noble 
friend, no less in his attempts to depreciate that peculiar walk of the 
art in which he himself so grandly trod, than in the inconsistency 
of which I thought him guilty, in condemning all those who stood 
up for particular 'schools' of poetry, and yet, at the same time, 
maintaining so exclusive a theory of the art himself. How little, 
however, he attended to either the grounds or degrees of my dissent 
from him will appear by the following wholesale report of my opin- 
ion in ' Detached Thoughts :'—' One of my notions different from 
tiiose of my contemporaries is, that the present is not a high age of 
English poetry. There are more poets (soi-disant) than ever there 
were, and proportionally less poetry. This thesis I have maintained 
for some years, but, strange to say, it meeteth not with favor from 
ray brethren of the shell. Even Moore shakes his head, and firmly 
believes that it is the grand age of British poesy.' " — Moorr, 

Jin 1812 Mr. Moore published "The Two-penny Post-bag; by 
Thomas Brown the Younger ;" and in 1818, " The Fudge Family in 
Paris." 

2 " Let Sporus tremble. — A. What! that thing of silk, 
Sporus, that mere white curd of ass's milk? 
Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel ? 
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel ? 

644 



couplet. The fact is, that the exquisite beauty of their ver- 
sification has withdrawn the public attention from their 
other excellences, as the vulgar eye will rest more upon the 
splendor of the uniform than the quality of the troops. It is 
this very harmony-, particularly in Pope, which has isiised the 
vulgar and atrocious cant against him :— because his versifi- 
cation is perfect, it is assumed that it is his only perfection ; 
because his truths are so clear, it is asserted that he has no 
invention; and because he is always intelligible, it is taken 
for granted that he has no genius. We are sneeringly told 
that he is the "Poet of Reason," as if this was a reason for 
his being no poet. Taking passage for passage, I will under- 
take to cite more lines teeming with imagination from Pope 
than from any two Living poets, be they who they may. To 
take an instance at random from a species of composition 
not very favorable to imagination— Satire : set down the 
character of Sporus, § with ail the wonderful play of fancy 
which is scattered over it, and place by its side an equal num- 
ber of verses, from any two existing poets, of the same 
power and the same variety — where will you find them? 

I merely mention one instance of many, in reply to the in- 
justice done to the memory of him who harmonized our 
poetic language. The attorney's clerks, and other self- 
educated genii, found it easier to distort themselves to the 
new models than to toil after the symmetry of him who had 
enchanted their fathers. They were besides smitten by be- 
ing told that the new school were to revive the language of 
Queen Elizabeth, the true English ; as everybody in the reign 
of Queen Anne wrote no better than French, by a species of 
literary treason. 

Blank verse, which, unless in the drama, no one except 
Milton ever wrote who could rhyme, became the order of the 
day,— or else such rhyme as looked still blanker than the 
\erse without it. I am aware that Johnson has said, after 
some hesitation, that he could not " prevail upon himself to 
wish that Milton had been a rhymer." The opinions of that 
truly great man, whom it is also the present fashion to decry, 
will ever be received hy me with that deference which time 
will restore to him from all ; but -with all humility, I am not 
persuaded that the Paradise Lost would not have been more 
nobly couvej'ed to posteritj-, not perhaps in heroic couplets, 
although even they could sustain the subject if well balanced, 
but in the stanza of Spenser or of Tasso, or in the terza rima 
of Dante, which the powers of Milton could easily have 
grafted on our language. The Seasons of Thomson would 
have been better in rhyme, although still inferior to his Cas- 
tle of Indolence; and Mr. Southey's Joan of Arc no worse, 
although it might have taken up six months instead of weeks 
in the composition. I recommend also to the lovers of Ij-rics 
the perusal of the present laureate'^ Odes by the side of Dry- 
den's on Saint Cecilia, but let him be sure to read first those 
of Mr. Sou they. 

To the heaven-born genii and inspired young scriveners of 
the day much of this will appear paradox: it will appear so 
even to the higher order of our critics ; but it was a truism 
twenty years ago, and it will be a reacknowledged truth in 
ten more. In the mean time, I will conclude with two quo- 

F. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, 

This painted child of dirt, that stinks and sings ; 

Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, - 

Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys; 

So well-bred spaniels civilly delight 

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. 

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray. 

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way. 

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, 

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks; 

Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad, 

Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad, 

In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies. 

Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies, 

His wit all see-saw, between that and this, 

Now high, now low, now master up, now miss, 

And he himself one vile antithesis. 

Amphibious thing! that acting either part, 

The trifling head, or the corrupted heart, 

Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, 

Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. 

Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have express'd, 

A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest. 

Beauty that sliocks you, parts that none will trust, 

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust." 

Prol. to Sat. 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



tations, both intended for some of my old classical friends 
who have still enoug-h of Cambridge about tnem to think 
themselves honored by having had John Dryden as a prede- 
cessor in their college, and to recollect that their earliest 
English poetical pleasures were drawn from the "little 
nig'htingale " of Twickenham. The first is from the notes of 
the poem of the " Friends."* 

" It is only within the last twenty or thirty years that those 
notable discoveries in criticism have been made which have 
taught our recent versifiers to undervalue this energetic, 
melodious, and moral poet. The consequences of this want 
of due esteem for a writer whom the g-ood sense of our pre- 
decessors had raised to his proper station have been numjeeJt- 
ous AND DEGRADING ENOUGH. This is not the place to enter 
into the subject, even as far as it affects our poetical numbers^ 
alone, and there is matter of more importance than requires 
present reflection." 

The second is from the volume of a young- person, learn- 
ing to write poetrj% and beginning- by teaching the art. 
Hear him : t 

" But ye were dead 
To things ye kncAv not of— were closely wed 
To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 
And compass vile ; so that ye taught a school t 
Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and chip, and fit. 
Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit, 
Tlieir verses tallied. Easy wcui the task : 
A thousand handicraftsmen wore the mask 
Of poesy. Ill-fated, impious race, 
• That blasphemed the bright lyrist to his face. 

And did not knoAV it ; no, they went about 
Holding- a poor decrepit standard out 
Mark'd with most flimsy mottos, and in large 
The name of one Boileau !" 

* Written by Lord Byron's early friend, the Rev. Francis Hodg- 
son. 

t In a manuscript note on this passage of the pamphlet, dated 
Nov. 12, 1821, Lord Byron says: — ''Mr. Keats died at Rome about a 
year after this was written, of a decline produced by his having 
burst a blood-vessel on reading the article on his 'Endymion' in the 
Quarterly Review. I have read the article before and since ; and 
although it is bitter, I do not think that a man should permit him- 
self to be killed by it. But a young man little dreams what he 
must inevitably encounter in the course of a life ambitious of public 
notice. My indignation at Mr. Keats's depreciation of Pope has 
hardly permitted me to do justice to his own genius, which, malgre 
all the fantastic fopperies of his style, was undoubtedly of great 
promise. His fragment of 'Hyperion' seems actually inspired by 
the Titans, and is as sublime as ^schylus. He is a loss to our liter- 
ature; and the more so, as he himself, before his death, is said to 
have been persuaded that he had not taken the right line, and was 
re-forming his style upon the more classical models of the lan- 
guage." 

X It was at least a grammar " school." 

g So spelt by the author. 

II As a balance to these lines, and to the sense and sentiment of 
the new school, I will put down a passage or two from Fope's earlieai 
poems, taken at random :— 

" Envy her own snakes shall feel. 
And Persecution mourn her broken wheel. 
There Faction roar. Rebellion bite her chain, 
And gasping Furies thirst for blood in vain." 

"Ah ! what avails his glossy varying dyes. 
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes; 
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold. 
His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold? 

"Round broken columns clasping ivy twined, 
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind ; 
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires, 
And savage bowlings fill the sacred quires." 

"Hail, bards triumphant! born in happier days; 
Immortal heirs of universal praise! 
Whose honors with increase of ages grow, 
As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow ; 
Nations unborn your mighty names shall sound. 
And worlds applaud that must not yet be found ! 
Oh may some spark of your celestial fire, 
The last, the meanest of your sons inspire 
(That on weak wings, from far pursues your flights; 
Glows while he reads, but trembles as he writes), 



A little before, the manner of Pope is termed 

" A seism, § 
Nurtured by foppery and barbarism, 
Made great Apollo blush for this his land." II 

I thought ''''foppery " was a consequence of refinemeoit ! but 
nHmporte. 

The above will suflice to show the notions entertained by 
the new performers on the Eng-lish Ij're of him who made it 
most tunable, and the great improvements of their own 
"• variazioni." 

The Avriter of this is a tadpole of the Lakes, a young dis- 
ciple of the six or seven new schools, in which he has learnt 
to write such lines and such sentiments as the above. He 
says "easy was the task" of imitating Pope, or it may be of 
equalling him, I presume. I recommend him to try before 
he is so positive on the subject, and then compare v/bat he 
will have then written and what he has noiv written with the 
humblest and earliest compositions of Pope, produced in 
years still more youthful than those of Mr. Keats when he 
invented his new "Essay on Criticism," entitled "Sleep and 
Poetry" (an ominous title), from whence the above canons 
are taken. Pope's was written at nineteen, and published at 
twenty-two. 

Such are the triumphs of the new schools, and such their 
scholars. The disciples of Pope were Johnson, Goldsmith, 
Rogers, Campbell, Crabbe, Giflford, Matthias,*^ Hayley, and 
the author of the Paradise of Coquettes;** to whom may be 
added Richards, Heber, Wrangham, Bland, Hodgson, Meri- 
vale, and others who have not had their full fame, because 
"the race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the 
strong," and because there is a fortune in fame as in all other 
things. Now, of all the new schools— I say all, for, "like 



To teach vain wits a science little known, 

T' admire superior sense, and doubt their own !" 

" Amphion there the loud creating lyre 
Strikes, and behold a sudden Thebes aspire ; 
Cithseron's echoes answer to bis call. 
And half the mountain rolls into a wall." 

"So Zembla's rocks, the beauteous work of frost, 
Rise white in air, and glitter o'er the coast ; 
Pale suns, unfelt, at distance roll away. 
And on th' impassive ice the lightnings play ; 
Eternal snows the growing mass supply, 
Till the bright mountains prop the incumbent sky, 
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears. 
The gather'd winter of a thousand years. 

"Thus, when we view some well-proportion'd dome. 
The world's just wonder, and even thine, Rome! 
No single parts unequally surprise, 
All comes united to the admiring eyes: 
No monstrous height, or breadth, or length appear; 
The whote at once is bold and regular." 

A thousand similar passages crowd upon me, all composed by Pope 
before his two-and-twentieth year; and yet it is contended that he is 
no poet, and we are told so in such lines as I beg the reader to com- 
pare with these youthftd verses of the " no poet." Must we repeat 
the question of Johnson, "7/ Pope is not a poet, ivhere is poetry to be 
found?" Even in descriptive poetry, the loicesi department of the art, 
he will be found, on a fair examination, to surpass any living writer. 

% Thomas James Matthias, Esq , the weJl-known author of the 
Pursuits of Literature, Imperial Epistle to Kif^n Long, etc. In 1814, 
Mr. M. edited an edition of Gray's Works, which the University of 
Cambridge published at its own expense. Lord Byron did not ad- 
mire this venerable poet the less for such criticisms as the following : 
— " After we have paid our primal homage to the bards of Greece and 
of ancient Latiura, we are invited to cont-emplate the literary and 
poetical dignity of modern Italy. If the influence of their persua- 
sion and of their example should prevail, a strong and steady light 
may be relumined and diffused amongst us, a light which may once 
again conduct the powers of our rising poets from loild whirling 
words, from crude, rapid, and uncorrectM productions, from an over- 
weening presumption, and from the delusive conceit of a pre-estab- 
lished reputation, to the labor of thought, to patient and repeated 
revision of what they write, to a reverence for themselves and for 
an enlightened public, and to the fixed unbending principles of 
legitimate composilion."— Pre/ace to Gray. 

** Dr. Thomas Brown, Professor of Moral Philosophy in the Uni- 
versity of Edinburgh, who died in 1820. 

(345 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



Leg-ion, they are many "—has tbere appeared a single scholar 
who has not made his master ashamed of him? unless it be 
Sotheby, who has imitated everybody, and occasionally sur- 
passed his models. Scott found peculiar favor and imitation 
among the fair sex: there was Miss Holford,* and Miss Mit- 
ford,+ and Miss Francis ;1: but, with the greatest respect be it 
spoken, none of his imitators did much honor to the orig-inal, 
except Hogg:, the Ettrick Shepherd, until the appearance of 
"The Bridal of Triermain " and "Harold the Dauntless," 
which in the opinion of some equalled if not surpassed him ; 
and lol after three or four years they turned out to be the 
Master's own compositions. Have Southey, or Coleridge, or 
t'other fellow, made a follower of renown? Wilson never 
did well till he set up for himself in the " City of the Plague." 
Has Moore, or any other living writer of reputation, had a 
tolerable imitator, or rather disciple? Now, it is remai'kable, 
that almost all the followers of Pope, whom I have named, 
have produced beautifvil and standard works; and it was not 
the number of his imitators who finally hurt his fame, but 
the despair of Imitation, and the ease of not imitating him 
sufficiently. This, and the same reason Avhieb induced the 
Athenian burgher to vote for the banishment of Aristides, 
"because he was tired of alwaj^s hearing him called the 
Just," have produced the temporary exile of Pope from the 
State of Literature. But the term of his ostracism will ex- 
pire, and the sooner the better, not for him, but for those who 
banished him, and for the coming generation, who 

"Will blush to find their fathei-s were his foes." 

I will not return to the writer of the article which has 
drawn forth these remarks, whom I honestly take to be 
John Wilson, a man of g-reat powers and acquirements, well 
known to the public as the author of the "City of the 
Plague," " Isle of Palms," and other productions. I take the 
liberty of naming him, by the same species of courtesy 
which has induced him to designate me as the author of 
Don Juan. Upon the score of the Lake Poets, he may per- 
haps recall to mind that T merelj^ express an opinion long ago 
entertained and specified in a letter to Mr. James Hogg,§ 
which he the said James Hogg, somewhat contrary to the 
law of pens, showed to Mr. John Wilson, in the j'ear 1814, as 
he himself informed me in his answer, telling me by way of 
apologj' that "he'd be d— d if he could help it;" and I am 
not conscious of anything like " envy " or " exacex'bation " at 
this moment which induces meto think better or worse of 
Southey, Wordswoi-th, and Coleridge as poets than I do now, 
although I do know one or two things more which have added 
to my contempt for them as individuals. 

And in return for Mr. Wilson's invective,ll T shall content 
mj'self with asking one question: Did he never compose, 
recite, or sing any parody or parodies upon the Psalms (of 
what nature this deponent saith not), in certain jovial meet- 
ings of the youth of Edinburgh ?'i[ It is ijot that I think 
any great harm if he did ; because it seems to me that all 
depends upon the intention of such a parody. If it be meant 
to throw ridicule on the sacred original, it is a sin ; if it be 
intended to burlesque the profane subject, or to inculcate a 
moral truth, it is none. If it were, the Unbelievers' Creeds the 
many political parodies of various parts of the Scriptures and 
liturgy, particularly a celebrated one of the Lord's Prayer, 
and the beautiful moi-al parable in favor of toleration by 
Franklin, which has often been taken for a real extract from 
Genesis, would all be sins of a damning nature. But I wish 
to know if Mr. Wilson ever has done this, and if he hm, why 
he should be so very angrj- with similar portions of Don 
Juan?— Didno "parody profane" appear in any of the earlier 
numbers of Blackwood's Magazine? 

* Author of " Wallace, or the Fight of Falkirk," " Margaret of 
Anjou," and other poems. 

t Miss Mary Ptussell Mitford, author of "Christina, or the Maid 
of the South Seas," " Wallington Hall," "Our Village," etc., etc. 

X Miss Eliza Francis published, in 1815, 'Sir WillibertdeWaverley, 
or the Bridal Eve." 

§ " Oh ! I have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, the Ettrick 
minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to recommend him to Mur- 
ray ; and, speaking of his present bookseller, whose ' bills ' are never 
'lifted,' he adds, totidem verbis, 'God d— n him and them both.' I 
laughed, and so would you too, at the way in which this execration 
is introduced. The said Hogg is a strange being, but of great, though 
uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him as a poet ; but he, and 
half of these Scotch and Lake troubadours, are spoilt by living in 
little circles and petty societies."— ^yron Letters. 

I "This is one of the many mistakes into which his distance from 

(546 



I will now conclude this long answer to a short article, 
repenting of having said so much in m.y own defence, and so 
little on the 'crying, left-hand fallings off and national de- 
fections" of the poetry of the present day. Having said 
this, 1 cap hardly be expected to defend Don Juan, or any 
other " livinQ " poetry, and shall not make the attempt. And 
j although I do not think that Mr. John Wilson has in this 
instance treated me with candor or consideration, I trust 
that the tone I have used in speaking of him personallj* will 
prove that I bear him as little malice as I really believe at 
the bottifm of hi-i heart he bears towards me: but the duties 
of an editor, like those of a tax-gatherer, are paramount and 
peremptory. I have done. 

BYRON. 



NOTE 51. 

See page 799.** 
Lord Bacon's Apophthegms. 



bacon's apophthegms. 
91. 
Michael Angelo, the famous paint- 
er, painting in the pope's chapel 
the portraiture of hell and damned 
souls, made one of the damned 
souls so like a cardinal that was 
his enemy, as everybody at first 
sight knew it : whereupon the car- 
dinal complained to Pope Clement, 
humbly pra.ying it might be de- 
faced. The pope said to him. Why, 
you know very well I have power 
to deliver a soul out of purgatory, 
but not out of hell. • 

155. 
Alexander, after the battle of 
Granicum, had very great otTers 
made him by Darius. Consulting 
with his captains concerning them, 
Parmenio said. Sure, I would ac- 
cept of these offers, if I were as 
Alexander. Alexander answered, 
^o would I, if I were as Parmenio. 

158. 

Antigonus. when it was told him 
that the enemy had such volleys of 
aiTOws that thej- did hide the sun, 
said, That falls out well, for it is 
I hot weather, and so we shall fight 
in the shade. 

162. 

There was a philosopher that dis- 
puted with Adrian the emperor, 
and did it but weakly. One of his 
friends that stood by afterwards 
said unto him, Methinks you were 
not like yourself last day, in argu- 
ment with the emperor; I could 
have answered better myself. Why, 
said the philosopher, would you 
have me contend with him that 
commands thirty legions? 



observations. 

This was not the por- 
trait of a cardinal, but 
of the pope's master of 
the ceremonies. 



It was after the battle 
of Issus and during the 
siege of Tyro, and not 
immediately after the 
passage of the Graiiicus, 
that this is said to have 
occurred. 



This was not said by 
Antigonus, but by a 
Spartan, previously to 
the battle of Thermopy- 
lae. 



This happened under 
Augustus Caesar, and 
not during the reign of 
Adrian. 



the scene of literary operations led him. The gentleman to whom 
the hostile article in the Magazine is here attributed has never, 
either then or since, written upon the subject of the noble poet's 
character or genius without giving vent to a feeling of admiration 
as enthusiastic as it i.s always eloquently and powerfully expressed." 
— Moore, 

If The allusion here is to some now forgotten calumnies which 
had been circulated by the radical press, at a time when Mr. Wilson 
was a candidate for the chair of Moral Philosophy in the University 
of Edinburgh. 

** "Ordered Fletcher (at four o'clock this afternoon) to copy out 
seven or eight apophthegms of Bacon in which I have detected such 
blunders as a schoolboy might detect rather than commit. Such 
are the sages I What must they be, when such as I can stumble 
upon their mistakes or misstatements? I will go to bed, for I find 
that I grow cynical."— .Byron Diary, Jan. 5, 1821. 



NOTES TO DON JUAK 



This happened to the 
father of Herodes«Atti- 
cus, and the answer was 
made by the emperor 
Nerva, who deserved 
that his name should 
have been stated by the 
" greatest, wisest, mean- 
est of mankind." * 



This was said by An- 
acharsis the Scythian, 
and not by a Greek. 



This was not said bij 
Demosthenes, but to 
Demosthenes, by Pho- 
cion. 



This was not said of 
Caius (Calig-ula, I pre- 
sume, is intended bj^ 
Caius), but of Tiberius 
himself. 

This reply was not 
made by a king- of Hun- 
gary, but sent by Rich- 
ard the First, Coeur de 
Lion, of England, to the 
pope, with the breast- 
plate of the bishop of 
Beauvais. 



164. 

There was one that found a great 
mass of money digging under- 
ground in his grandfather's house, 
and being somewhat doubtful of 
the case, signified it to the emperor 
that he had found such treasure. 
The emperor made a rescript thus : 
Use it. He writ back again, that 
the sum was greater than his state 
or condition could use. The em- 
peror writ a new rescript thus: 
Abuse it. 

1T8. 

One of the seven was wont to say, 
that laws were like cobwebs : where 
the small flies were caught, and the 
great break through. 

309. 
An orator of Athens said to De- 
mosthenes, The Athenians will kill 
you if they wax mad. Demosthenes 
replied. And they will kill you if 
they be in good sense. 

221. 
There was a philosopher about 
Tiberius that, looking into the 
nature of Caius, said of him. That 
he was mire mingled with blood. 

97. 
There was a king of Hungary 
took a bishop in battle, and kept 
him prisoner: whereupon the pope 
Avrit a monitory to him, for that he 
had bi-oken the privilege of holy 
church and taken his son ; the king 
sent an embassage to him, and sent 
withal the armor wherein the 
bishop was taken, and this only in 
writing— Fide num hcec sit vestis 
filii tuU Know now whether this 
be thy son's coat ? 



Demetrius, king of Macedon, had 
a petition offered him divers times 
by an old woman, and answered he 
had no leisure ; whereupon the 
woman said aloud, Vfhy then give 
over to be king. 

VOLTAIRE. 

Having stated that Bacon was frequently incorrect in his 
citations from history, I have thought it necessary, in what 
regards so great a name (however trifling), to support the as- 
sertion by such facts as more immediately occur to me. 
They are but trifles, and yet for such trifles a schoolboy 
would be whipped (if still in the fourth form) ; and Voltaire 
for half a dozen similar errors has been treated as a superfi- 
cial writer, notwithstanding the testimony of the learned 
Warton : — "Voltaire, a writer of much deeper research than is 
imagined, and the first who has displayed the literature and 
customs of the dark ages with any degree of penetration and 

* "If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined, 

The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind." — Pope. 

f Dissertation I. 

j " Till Voltaire appeared, there was no nation more ignorant of 
its neighbors' literature than the French. He first exposed, and 
then corrected, this neglect in his countrymen. There is no writer 
to whom the authors of other nations, especially of England, are so 
indebted for the extension of their fame in France, and, through 
France, in Europe. There is no critic who has employed more 
time, wit, ingenuity, and diligence in promoting the literary inter- 
course between country and country, and in celebrating in one lan- 
guage the triumphs of another. Yet, by a strange fatality, he is 
constantly represented as the enemy of all literature but his own ; 
and Spaniards, Englishmen, and Italians vie with each other in in- 
veighing against his occasional exaggeration of faulty passages: the 
authors of which, till he pointed out their beauties, were hardly 
known beyond the country in which their language was spoken. 
Those who feel such indignation at his misrepresentations and over- 



This did not happen 
to Demetrius, but to 
Philip king of Macedon. 



comprehension." + For another distinguished testimony to 
Voltaire's merits in literary research, see also Lord Holland's 
excellent Account of the Life and Writings of Lope de Vega, 
vol. i., p. 215, edition of 1817. :i: 

Voltaire has even been termed " a shallow fellow," by some 
of the same school who called Dryden's Ode "a drunken 
song ;" — a school (as it is called, I presume, from their educa- 
tion being still incomplete) the whole of whose filthy trash 
of Epics, Excursions, etc., etc., etc., is not worth the two 
words in Zaire, " Vous 2)leurez," § or a single speech of Tan- 
CTed:— a. school the apostate lives of whose renegadoes, with 
their tea-drinking neutrality of morals, and their convenient 
treachery in politics— in the record of their accumulated pre- 
tences to virtue can produce no actions (were all their good 
deeds drawn up in array) to equal or approach the sole de- 
fence of the family of Calas, by that great and unequalled 
genius— the universal Voltaire. 

I have ventured to remark on these little inaccuracies of 
"the greatest genius that England, or perhaps any other 
country, ever produced," II merely to show our national in- 
justice in condemning generally the greatest genius of 
France for such inadvertencies as these, of which the high- 
est of England has been no less guilty. Query, was Bacon a 
greater intellect than Newton ? 

CAIklPBELL.^ 

Being in the humor of criticism, I shall proceed, after hav- 
ing ventured upon the slips of Bacon, to touch upon one or 
two as trifling in their edition of the British Poets, by the 
justly celebrated Campbell. But 1 do this in good will, and 
trust it willbe so taken. If anything could add to my opin- 
ion of the talents and true feeling of that gentleman, it 
would be his classical, honest, and triumphant defence of 
Pope against the vulgar cant of the da3% and its existing 
Grub street. 

The inadvertencies to which I allude are,— 

Firstlj% in speaking of Anstey, whom he accuses of having 
taken " his leading characters from Smollett." Anstey's Bath 
Guide was published in 1766. Smollett's Humphry Clinker 
(the only work of Smollett's from which Tabitha, etc., etc., 
could have been taken) was written during Smollett's Zost resi- 
dence at Leghorn in 1770— " argaZ," if there has been any bor- 
rowing, Anstey must be the creditor, and not the debtor- 
I refer Mr. Campbell to his own data in his lives of Smollett 
and Anstey. 

Secondly, Mr. Campbell says in the life of Cowper (note to 
page 358, vol. \'ii.) that he knows not to whom Cowper alludes 
in these lines : — 

"• Nor he who, for the bane of thousands born, 
Built God a church, and laugh'd his word to scorn." 

The Calvinist meant Voltaire, and the church of Ferney, 
with its inscription " Deo erexit Voltaire." 

Thirdly, in the life of Burns, Mr. Campbell quotes Shak- 
speare thus:— 

" To gild refined gold, to paint the rose. 
Or add fresh perfume to the violet." 

This version by no means improves the original, which is as 
follows :— 



" To gild refined gold, to paint the lily. 
To throw a perfume on the violet," etc. 



-King John. 



sight would find it difl&cult to produce a critic in any modern lan- 
guage who, in speaking of foreign literature, is better informed or 
more candid than Voltaire ; and they certainly never would be able 
to discover one who to those qualities unites so much sagacity and 
liveliness. His enemies would fain persuade us that such exuber- 
ance of wit implies a want of information ; but they only succeed in 
showing that a want of wit by no means implies an exuberance of 
information." — Lord Holland. 

g " II est trop vrai que I'honneur me I'ordonne, 

Que je vous adorai, que je vous abandonne, 
Que je renonce S. vous, que vous le desirez, 
Que sous une autre loi . . . . Zaire, vous pleueez ?" 

Zaire, acte iv., so. ii, 
II Pope, in Spence's Anecdotes, p. 158 ; Malone's edition. 
^ " Head Campbell's Poets. Corrected Tom's slips of the pen. A 
good work, though— style afifected— but his defence of Pope is glo- 
rious. To be sure, it is his own cause too, — but no matter, it is very 
good, and does him great credit." — Byron Diary, Jan. 10, 1821. 

647 



NOTES TO BON JUAN. 



A great poetquotinor another should be correct ; he should 
also be accurate, when he accuses a Parnassian brother of 
that dangerous charge " borrowing:" a poet had better bor- 
row anything (excepting money) than the thoughts of 
another— they are always sure to be reclaimed ; but it is very 
liard, having been the lender, to be denounced as tje debtor, 
as is the case of Anstey versus Smollett. 

As there is " honor amongst thieves," let there be some 
amongst poets, and give each his diie,— none can afford to 
give it more than Mr. Campbell himself, who, with a high 
reputation for originality, and a fame which cannot be 
shaken, is the only poet of the times (except Rogers) Avho 
cau be reproached (and in him it is indeed a reproach) with 
Laving written too Jittle. 

Ha VENN A, Jan. 5, 1821. 



NOTE 62. 

Conversations of Lord Byron as related by Thomas 
:Medwix, Esq., compared with a Portion of his Lord- 
ship's Correspondence. 

The volume of " Lord Byron's Conversations " with Mr. 
Modwin contains several statements relative to Mr. Murray, 
his lordship's publisher, against which, however exception- 
able thej' might be, he Avas willing to trust his defence to the 
private testimonj^ of persons acquainted with the real par- 
ticulars, and to his general character, rather than resort to 
any kind of public appeal, to which he has ever been exceed- 
ingly averse. But friends, to Avhose judgment Mr. Murray 
is bound to defer, having decided that such an appeal upon 
the occasion is become a positive duty on his part, he hopes 
that he shall not be thought too obtrusive in opposing to 
those personal allegations extracts fi'om Lord Byron's own 
letters, with the addition of a few brief notes of necessary 
explanation. 

Capt. Medwin, p. 167. 

" Murray offered me, of his own accord, one thousand 
pounds a canto for Don Juan, and afterwards reduced it to 
live hundred pounds on the plea of piracy, and complained 
of my dividing one canto into two, because I happened to 
say something at the end of the third canto of having done 
so." 

Lord Byron's Letter. 

" Ravenna, February 7, 1820. 
" Dear Murray :— 

" I have copied and cut the third canto of Don Juan into 
two, because it was too long, and I tell you this beforehand, 
because in case of any reckoning between you and me, these 
two are only to go for one, as this was the original form, 
and in fact the two together are not longer than one of the 
first; so remember, that I have not made this division to 
DOUBUS upon YOU, but merely to suppress some tediousness 
in the aspect of the thing. I should have served you a pretty 
trick if I had sent you, for example, cantos of fiftj^ stanzas 
each." 



Capt. Medwin, p. 169. 

"I don't wish to quarrel Avith Mui-ray, but it seems inev- 
itable. I had no reason to be pleased with him the other 
day. Galignani wrote to me, offering to purchase the copy- 
right of my works, in order to obtain an exclusive privilege 
of printing them in France. I might have made raj' own 
terms, and put the money in my own pocket; instead of 
which, I enclosed Galignani's letter to Murray, in order that 
he might conclude the matter as he pleased. He did so, very 
advantageously for his own interest ; but never had the com- 
plaisance, the common politeness, to thank me, or acknowl- 
edge my letter." 

Lord Byron's Letter. 

" Ravenna, 9^^^ 4, 1820. 
"I have received from Mr. Galignani the enclosed letters, 
duplicates, and receipts, which will explain themselves. As 
the poems are your property by purchase, right, and justice, 
all, matters of publication, etc., etc., are for you to 
decide upon. I know not how far my compliance with Mr. 
G.'s request might be legal, and I doubt that it would not be 

648 



honest. In case you choose to arrange with him, I enclose 
the permits to you, and in so doing I wash my hands of the 
business altogether. I sign them merely to enable you to 
exert the power you justly possess more properly, I will 
have nothing to do with it further, except in my answer to 
Mr. Galignani, to state that the letters, etc., etc., are sent to 
you, and the causes thereof. If you can check these foreign 
pirates, do; if not, put the jjermissive papers in the fire. I 
can have no view nor object whatever but to secure to you 
your property." 

Note.— Mr. MuiTay derived no advantage from the pro- 
posed agreement, which was by no means of the importance 
here ascribed to it, and therefore Avas never attempted to be 
carried into effect: the documents alluded to ai-e still in his 
possession. 



Capt. Medwin, pp. 169-171. 

" Murray has long prevented the ' Quarterly ' from abusing 
me. Some of their bullies have had their fingers itching to 
be at me ; but they Avould get the worst of it in a set-to. 

" Murray and I haA'e dissolved all connection : he had the 
choice of giving up me or the NaA'y List. There was no hesi- 
tation Avhich Avay he should decide: the Admiralty carried 
the day. Noav for the Quarterlj-: their batteries will be 
opened ; but I can fii-e broadsides too. They have been let- 
ting off lots of squibs and crackers against me, but they only 
make a noise and * * *." 

"'Werner' Avas the last book Murray published for me, 
and three months after came out the Quarterly's article on 
my plaj's, when 'Marino Faliero' was noticed for the fii-st 
time." 

Lord Byron's Letter. 

" Genoa, lO''" 25, 1822. 
" I had sent you back the Quarterly without perusal, haAing 
resohed to read no more reAicAvs, good, bad, or indifferent ; 
but who can control his fate? 'Galignani,' to Avhom mj' 
English studies are confined, has f orAvarded a copy of at least 
one-half of it in his indefatigable Aveekly compilation, and 
as, 'like honor, it came unlooked for,' I have looked through 
it. I must say that upon the whole— that is, the whole of 
the HALF which I haA^e read (for the other half is to be the 
segment of Gal.'s next Aveek's circular)— it is cei'tainly hand- 
some, and anything but unkind or unfair." 

Note.— The passage about the Admiralty is unfounded in 
fact, iind no otherAvise deserving of notice than to mark its 
absurdity; and A\ith regard to the "Quarterly ReA^ew," his 
lordship well knew that it was established, and constantly 
conducted, on piinciples Avhich absolutely' excluded Mr. 
Murray from all such interference and influence as is im- 
plied in the "Conversations." 



Capt. Medwin, p. 168. 

"Because T gave Mr. Murray one of my poems, he wanted 
to make me believe that I had made him a present of tAvo 
others, and hinted at some lines in ' English Bards' that were 
certainlj' to the jjoint. But I haA"e altered my mind con- 
siderably upon that subject : as I once hinted to him, I see 
no reason Avhy a man should not profit bj- the sweat of his 
brain as well as that of his broAv, etc. ; besides, I was poor at 
that time, and have no idea of aggrandizing booksellers." 

Lord Byron's Letter. 

" January 3, 1816. 
" Dear Sir :— 

" Your offer is liberal in the extreme, and much more than 
the tAvo poems can possibly be Avorth— but I cannot accept it, 
nor will not. You are most welcome to them, as additions to 
the collected volumes, without any demand or expectation 
on my part whatever. BYRON. 

" P. S.— T have enclosed your draft TORN, for fear of acci- 
dents bj' the Avay. — I wish j'ou would not throAV temptation in 
mine ; it is not from a disdain of the universal idol — nor from 
a present superfluity of his treasures— I can assure you, that 
I refuse to worship him— but what is right is right, and must 
not yield to circumstances. 

"To J. Murray, Esq." 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



Note.— The abov^e letter relates to a draft for one thousand 
guineas, otfered by Mr. Murray for two poems, the Sieg-e of 
Corinth and Parisina, which his lordship had previously, at 
a short interval, presented to Mr. Murray as donations.— 
Lord Byron was afterwards induced, by Mr. Murray's earnest 
persuasion, to accept the thousand guineas, and Mr. Murray 
has his lordship's assig-nment of the copyrig:ht of the two 
pieces accordingly. 



Capt. Medwin, p. 166. 

" Murray pretends to have lost money by my writings, and 
pleads poverty; but if he is poor, which is somewhat prob- 
lematical to me, pray who is to blame ? 

"Mr. Murray is tender of my fame. How kind in him! 
He is afraid of my writing too fast. Why ? because he has a 
tender regard for his own pocket, and does not like the look 
of any new acquaintance in the shape of a book of mine, till 
he has seen his old friends in a variety of new faces; id est, 
disposed of a vast many editions of the former works. I 
don't know what would become of me without Douglas Kin- 
naird, who has always been my best and kindest friend. It 
is not easy to deal with Mr. Murray." 

Note.— In the numerous letters received by Mr. Murray 
yearly from Lord Byron (who, in writing them, was not ac- 
customed to restrain the expression of his feelings), not one 
has any tendency towards the imputation here thrown out: 
the incongruity of which will be evident from the fact of 
Mr. Murray having paid at various times, for the copyright 
of his lordship's poems, sums amounting to upwards of tifteen 
thousands pounds, viz. : 

Childe Harold, L, H. . .' £600 

Childe Harold, III. 1,575 

Childe Harold, IV: 3,100 

Giaour 535 

Bride of Abydos 5:25 

Corsair 525 

Lara 700 

Siege of Corinth .535 

Parisina . 535 

Lament of Taaso 315 

Manfred 315 

Beppo 535 

Don Juan L, II 1,535 

Don Juan IlL, IV., V. 1,535 

Doge of Venice l,Or.O 

Sardanapalus, Cain, and F(ji>cari .... 1,100 

Mazeppa . . \ 535 

Chillon 535 

Sundrie>i 450 

hours of Idleness, English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers, Hints from Horace, Wcriier, Deformed 

Transformed, Heaven and Earth, etc. . . . 3,885 

Life by Ihomas Moore 4,300 

£33,540 



Capt. Medwin, p. 170. 

*' My differences with Murray are not over. When he pur- 
chased 'Cain,' 'The Two Foscari,' and 'Sardanapalus,' he 
sent me a deed, which you may remember witnessing. Well ; 
after its return to England it was discovered that 



But I shall take no notice of it." 

Note.— Mr. Murray of course cannot answer a statement 
which he does not see; but pledges himself to disprove any 
inculpation the suppressed passage may contain, whenever 
disclosed. He has written twice to Captain Medwin's pub- 
lisher, desiring, as an act of justice, to have the passage 
printed entire in any new edition of the book, and in the 
mean time to be favored with a copy of it. As this has not 
yet been obtained, and as the context seems to imply that it 
accuses him of endeavoring to take some pecuniary advan- 
tage of Lord Byron, he thinks he shall be forgiven for stating 
the following circumstances. 

Mr. Murray having accidentally heard that Lord Byron 
was in pecuniary difficulties, immediatelj- forwarded fifteen 
hundred pounds to him, with an assurance that another such 
SLim should be at his service in a few months; and that, if 



such assistance should not be sufficient, Mr. Murray would 
be ready to sell the copyright of all his lordship's works for 
his use. 

The following is Lord Byron's acknowledgment of this 
offer :— 

" November 14, 1815. 
"Dear Sir > 

" I return you your bills not accepted, but certainly not 
UNHONORED. Your present otter is a favor which I would 
accept from you if I accepted such from any man. Had such 
been my intention, I can assure you I would have asked you 
fairly and as freely as you would give ; and I cannot say more 
of my confidence or your conduct. The circumstances which 
induce me to part with my books, though sufficiently are 
not iMMEDiATELiY pressing. I have made up ray mind to 
them, and there is an end. Had I been disposed to trespass 
on your kindness in this way, it would have been before 
now ; but I am not sorry to have an opportunity of declining- 
it, as it sets my opinion of you, and indeed of human nature, 
in a different light from that in which I have been accus- 
tomed to consider it. 

"Believe me, very truly, 

" Your obliged and faithful servant, 
" BYKON. 

"To John Murray, Esq." 

Note. — That nothing had occurred to subvert these 
friendly sentiments will appear from the three letters sub- 
joined, the second of them written by Lord Byron a few 
weeks before his death, and the last addressed by his lord- 
ship's valet to Mr. Murray as one of his deceased master's 
most confidential friends. 

Lord Byron's Letters. 

" MAY 8, 1819. 
"I have a great respect for your good and gentlemanly 
qualities, and return your personal friendship towards me. 

You deserve and possess the esteem of those whose 

esteem is worth having, and of none more (however useless 
it may be) than 

" Yours, very truly, 
• "BYRON," 

" MISSOLONGHI, Feb. 25, 1824. 

"I have heard from Mr. Douglas Kinnaird that you state a 
report of a satire on Mr. Gifford having arrived from Italy, 
said to be written by me, but that you do not believe It; I 
dare say you do not, nor anybody else, I should think. Who- 
ever asserts that I am the author or abettor of anything of 
the kind on Gifford, lies in his thx-oat : I always regarded him 
as my literary father, and myself as his prodigal son. If any 
such composition exists, it is none of mine. You know, as 
well as anybody, upon whom I have or have not written, and 
YOU also know whether they do or did not deserve the same 
— and so much for such matters. 

" You will, perhaps, be anxious to hear some news from 
this part of Greece (which is most liable to invasion), but you 
will hear enough through public and private channels, on 
that head. I will, however, give you the events of a week, 
mingling my own private peculiar with the public, for we 
are here jumbled a little together at present. 

" On Sunday (the 15th, I believe), I had a strong and sudden 
convulsive attack which left me speechless, though not mo- 
tionless, for some strong men could not hold me; but 
whether it was epilepsy, catalepsy, cachexy, apoplexy, or 
what other exy or epsy, the doctors have not decided, or 
whether ij was spasmodic or nervous, etc. ; but it was very 
unpleasant, and nearly carried me off, and all that. On Mon- 
day they put leeches to my temples, no difficult matter, but 
the blood could not be stopped till eleven at night (they had 
gone too near the temporal artery for my temporal safety), 
and neither styptic nor caustic would cauterize the orifice 
till after a hundred attempts. 

"On Tuesday, a Turkish brig of war ran on shore. On 
Wednesday, great preparations being made to attack her, 
though protected by her consorts, the Turks burned her, and 
i-etired to Patras. On Thursday, a quarrel ensued between 
the Suliotes and the Frank guard at the arsenal ; a Swedish 
officer was killed, and a Suliote severely wounded, and a gen- 
eral fight expected, and with some difficulty prevented. On 
Friday, the officer buried, and Captain Parry's English artifi- 
cers mutinied, under pretence that their lives were in dan- 
ger, and are for quitting the country— they may. On Satur- 
day, we had the smartest shock of an earthquake which I re- 
member (and I have felt thirty, slight or smart, at different 
049 



NOTES TO DON JUAN. 



periods ; they are common in the Mediterranean), and the 
whole arm J- dischai-g-cd their arras, upon the same principle 
that savages beat drums or howl, during an eclipse of the 
moon: it was a rare scene altogether. If j'ou had but seen 
the English Johnnies, who had never been out of a Cockney 
workshop before, nor will again if they can help it! And on 
Sunday we heard that the vizier is come down to Larissa with 
one hundred and odd thousand men. 

"In coming here I had two escapes, from the Turks (one 
of my vessels was taken, but afterwards released), and the 
other from shipwreck; we drove twice on the rocks near 
the Scrophes (islands near the coast). 

" I have obtained from the Greeks the release of eight and 
twenty Turkish prisoners, men, women, and children, and 
sent them to Patras and Prevesa at my own charges. One 
little girl of nine years old, who proposes remaining with 
me, I shall (if I live) send with her mother, probably, to Italjs 
or to England, and adopt her. Her name is Hato Hatagee ; 
she is a very pretty lively child. All her brothers were killed 
by the Greeks, and she herself and her mother were spared 
by special favor, and owing to her exti-eme j'outh, she being 
then but five or six years old. 

" My health is i-ather better, and I can ride about again. 
My office here is no sinecure — so many parties and difficulties 
of everj' kind : but I will do what I can. Prince Mavrocor- 
dati is an excellent person, and does all in his power; but his 
situation is perplexing in the extreme : still we have great 
hopes of the success of the contest. You will hear, however, 
more of public news from plenty of quarters, for I have little 
time to write. Believe me 

" Yours, etc., etc., N. B, 

"To John Murray, Esq." 



Sir; 



Letter of Lord Byron's VAiiET.* 

'•MissoLONGHi, April 21, 1824. 



" Forgive me for this intrusion which I now am under the 
painful necessity of writing to you, to inform you of the 
melancholy news of my Lord Byron, who is no more. He 
departed this miserable life on the 19th of April, after an ill- 
ness of only ten days. His lordship began ^y a nervous fever, 
and terminated with an inflammation on the brain, for want 
of being bled in time, which his lordship refused till it was 
too late. I have sent the Hon. Mrs. Leigh's letter inclosed in 
yours, which I think would be better for you to open and 
explain to Mrs. Leigh, for I fear the contents of the letter 
will be too much for her. And you will please to inform 
Lady Byron and the Honorable Miss Byron, whom I am 
wished to see when I return with my lord's effects, and his 
dear and noble remains : sir, you will please manage in the 
mildest way possible, or I am much afi-aid of the conse- 

* See note (f), page -i. 



quences. Sir, you will please give my duty to Lady BjTon ; 
hoping she will allow me to see her, by my lord's particular 
wish, and Miss Byron likewise. Please to excuse all defects, 
for I scarcely know what I either say or do, for after twenty 
jeai-s' service with my lord, he was more to me than a father, 
and I am too much distressed to now give a cori-ect account 
of every particular, which I hope to do at ray arrival in Eng- 
land.— Sir, j'ou will likewise have the goodness to forward the 
letter to the Honorable Captain George Byron, who. as the 
repi'esentative of the family and title, I thought it my duty 
to send him a line. But you, sir, will please to explain to him 
all particulars, as I have not time, as the express is now ready 
to make his voyage day and night till he arrives in London. 
—I must, sir, praj'ing forgiveness, and hoping at the same 
time that you will so far oblige me as to execute all my wishes, 
which I am well convinced you will not refuse. 
"• I remain, sir, 
" Your most obedient and very humble servant, 

"W. FLETCHER, 
" Valet to the late L. B. for twenty yeai-s. 

"P. S. — I mention my name and capacity that j'ou may re- 
member and forgive this, when you remember the quantity 
of times I have been at your house in Albemarle street. 

"'To John Murra5% Esq." 

XOTE.— Other letters from Lord Byron, of the same tenor 
and force with these now produced, might have been added. 
But it is presumed that these are sufficient to demonstrate in 
the present case, what has been demonstrated in many others, 
that desultory, ex-parte conversations, even if accurately 
reported, will often convey imperfect and erroneous notions 
of the speaker's real sentiments. JOHN MURRAY. 

Albemarle Street, 30th Oct., 1834. 



Capt. Medwix, p. 170. 
" My differences with Murray are not over. When he pur- 
chased 'Cain,' 'The Two Foscari,' and ' Sardanapalus,' he 
sent me a deed, which you may remember witnessing. Well ; 
after its return to England, it was discovered that it contained 
a clause which had heen introduced without my knowledge, a 
clause by which I bound myself to offer Mr. Murray all my 
future compositions. But I shall take no notice of it." 

Note.— The words in italic are those which Avere suppressed 
in the two first editions of Captain Medwin's book, and which 
Mr. Murray has received from the publisher after the fore- 
going statement was printed. He has only to obsei-ve upon 
the subject, that on referring to the deed in question, no such 
clause is to be found ; that this instrument was signed in 
London by the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, as Lord Bj^ron's proc- 
urator, and witnessed by Richard WiUiams, Esq., one of the 
partners in Mr. Kinnaird's banking-house; and that the sig- 
nature of Captain Medwin is not affixed. 

2d Nov. J. M. 




THE PANTHEON, ROME. 
[From a Photograph, 1882.] 

Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods. 

From Jove to Jesus.— CJiilde Harold, Stanza CXLVI., Page 46. 



650 




ALPHABETICAL INDEX 



The figures in Moman numerals refer to the Jjife. 



Abelard, 140. 

Abencerrage, 416, 447. 

Aberdeen, town of, 134, 551. 

Aberdeen (George Hamilton Gordon), 
fourth earl of, 345, 352. 

Abernetliy, John, surgeon, 553. 

Abruzzi, 387. 

Absalom and Achitophel, 497, 644. 

Absence, results of, 490, 491. 

Absent friend, pleasure of defending, 600. 

Abydos, Bride of, 61. 

Acarnania, 19. 

Achelous, river, 19. 

Acheron, lake, 17. 

Acherusia, lake, 17. 

Achilles, his person, 245. Tomb of, 503, 505. 

Achitophel, 644. 

Achmet III., 99. 

Acroceraiinian mountains, 40. 

Acropolis of Athens, 12, 558, 604. 

Actium, 16. Sea-fight of, 16, 519. 

Ada. See Byron, Augusta-Ada, xxxii, 
xxxvi. Portrait of, xxxiii. 

Adams, John, a carrier, who died of 
drunkenness, epitaph on, 423. 

Addison, his "faint praise," 600. 

Address spoken at the opening of Drury 
Lane Theatre, 436. 

Address intended to be recited at the 
Caledonian Meeting, 440. 

Adieu, the; written under the impres- 
sion that the autlior would soon die, 420. 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore, 4. 

Adieu to sweet Mary forever, 602. 

Admiration, 489, 513. 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when 
. dying, translation of, 306. 

Adriatic, the, 35. 

Adversity, 567, 581. 

Advice, 471, 587. 

iEgean sea, 82, 362. 

iEiiina, 37, 82, 362. 

.aCschylus, translation from his " Prome- 
theus Vinctus," 307. 

yEsietes, tomb of, 66. 

iEsop, 416. 

^tna, 59. 

^tolia, 19. 

Africa and Africans, described, 502. 

Agamemnon, 459. 

Age, 22, 173. 

Age of Bronze ; or. Carmen Seciilare et 
Annus hand MirabUis, 413. 

Age of Gold, 523. 

Ages, changes produced by the lapse of, 
498, 499. 

Agesilaus, 137. 

Agis, king of Sparta, 183. 

Agilulf, Duke of Turin, 617. 

Aglietti, Dr., 33. 

Agostini, Leonardo, 618. 

Agrarian law, 552. 

Ajax, 13. Sepulchre of, 503. 

Alamanni, 184. 



Alhan Hill, description of the, 48, 627. 

Alaric, 14, 363. 

Albania, 16, 605. 

Albanian dialect of the lllyric, specimens 
of, 606. 

Albanians, their character and manners, 
18, 19. Their resemblance to the High- 
landers of Scotland, 605. 

Albano, 48. 

Albano, Francesco, 575. 

Albion, sensations at the first sight of her 
chalky belt, 555. 

Albrizzi, Countess, 448, xl, 

Albuera, battle of, 7, 12. 

Alcibiades, beauty of his person, 324. 
General charm of his name, 243. His 
character, 586. 

Alexander the Great, his sarcophagus, 
414. His reply to Parmenio after the bat- 
tle of Issus, 646. 

Alexander, emperor of Russia, 416, 525, 
584. 

Alexander III., submission of Barba- 
rossa to, 613. 

Alfieri, Vittorio, his life quoted, 33. His 
tomb in the church of Santa Croce, 39. 
His memory dear to the Italians, 618. 

Alfonso III., 37, 383, 384. 

Algiers, 469. 

Alhama, 446. 

Ali Pacha of Yanina, 17, 18. His assassi- 
nation, 18. His murder of GiafGir, pacha 
of Argyro Castro, 67. Portrait of, xxiii. 

All is vanity, saith the Preacher, 372. 

Alia Hu! 56,534. 

Allegra (Lord Byron's natural daughter), 
338, xxxiii, xli. 

Alliance, the Holy, 416, 519. 

Alphreus, river, 17. 

Alpinula, Julia, her death, 28. Her af- 
fecting epitaph, 28. 

Alps, the, 28, 40. 

Alterkirchen, 27. 

Alypius, 24. 

Amber, susceptible of a perfume, 66. 

Ambition, 25, 26, 41, 162, 2M, 548. 563. 

Ambracian Gulf, Stanzas written in pass- 
ing the, 429. Reflections on the past and 
present state of. 16. 

Ambrosian library at Milan, 615. 

America, 42, 385, 442, 538, 556. 587, 628. 

Amitie est 1' Amour sans Ailes, 333. 

Amulets, the beUef in, universal in the 
East, 66. 

Anacreon, his " ©eAw X^y^lv Arpet'Sa? " 
translated, 307. His Meo-oi/vKTiat? ttoA' 
(opats translated, 307. His morals worse 
than those of Ovid, 462. 

Anastasius Macedon, 636. 

Anastasius, Hope's, 353. 

Ancestry, ix, 525. See Genealogical Table. 

And say'st thou that I have not felt, 602. 

And wilt thou weep when I am low? 426. 

And thou art dead, as young and fair, 434. 



And thoii wert sad, 378. 

Andalusian nobleman,ad ventures of,401. 

Andernach, 27. 

Andersen, Hans, xxxix. 

Andrews, Miles Peter, Esq., his prologues, 
348. Some account of, 348. 

Andromache, 419. 

Anent, 559. 

Angelo, Michael, his tomb in the church 
of Santa Croce, 38. His Last Judgment, 
398. His copy of Dante, 398. Treatment 
of, by Julius XL, 398. Neglect of, by Leo 
X., 398. Anecdote of, 646. 

Angelo, Saint, Castle of, 46, 252. 

Angiolini, dancer, 347. 

Anger, 79, 472. 

Angling, the crudest and stupidest of 
sports, 577. 

Anne, Lines to, 421. 

Annesley, hill near, 380. 

Annuitants, alleged longevity of, 478. 

Anstey's Bath Guide, 596, 647. 

Anteros, 147. 

Anthony, Saint, his recipe for hot blood, 
463. 

Antigonus, 646. 

Anti-jacobin, 404. 

Antilochus, tomb of, 663. 

Antinous, his heroic death, 13. 

Antoninus Pius, 624. 

Antony, 16. His person described, 243. 
The slave of love, 488, 519. 

Apelles, 398. 

Apennines, 40, 539. 

Apicius, 409. 

Apollo, 498. 

Appearances, the joint on which good 
society hinges, 575. 

Applause, popular, 495, 

Arabs, life of the, 69. 

Ararat, Mount, 185, 

Arcadia, 607. 

Archidamus, 137. 

Archimedes, 584. 

Archipelago, 29, 139. 

Ardennes, forest of, 24. 

Aretino, Pietro, 621. 

Argos, 98. 

Argus, Ulysses' dog, 491. 

Argyro Castro, 67. 

Ariosto, his bust, 37, 617. His person re- 
spected by the public robber, 643. 

Aristides, 646, xxix. 

Aristippus, 488. 

Aristotle, 467, 587. 

Arithmetic, poets of, 600. 

Armageddon, Townsend's, 355. 

Arms of the Byron family, xi. For Crest, 
see Genealogical Table. 

Army, 534. 

Army tailor, 547. 

Arnaouts, or Albanese, 605. Their re- 
semblance to the Highlanders of Sc(jt- 
laud, 605. 

651 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Ariio, river, 38, 550. 

Arqua, 36. 616. 

Art of Happiness, Horace's, 572. 

A spirit pass'd before me, 374. 

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone, 428. 

Asdrubal, 133. 

Askalon, 305. 

Asphaltes, lake, 25. 

Assassination, 5, 18, 63, 67, 225, 508, xlv. 

Assyria, 195, 198, 575. Banners of, 225. 

Asturias, 6. 

Atalantis, 563. 

Athanasian creed. 520. 

Athenians, character of the. 606. 

Athens, apostrophe to, 13. Reflections 
on the past and present condition of. 13. 
Its situation and climate, 13, 607. On the 
plunder of the works of art at, 14, 362, 
363, 604. Engraving of Franciscan con- 
vent at, XXV. 

Athens, Jlaid of. 430. Portrait of, xxiv. 

Athos, Mount, 15. Project for hewing it 
into a statue of Alexander, 569. 

Atlas, 40. 

Attic Bee, 596. 

Atticus, 361. 

Attila, 184. His harangue to his army- 
previous to the battle of Chalons, 369. 

Attributed Poems, 602, 603. 

Augury, 499. 

Augusta, Stanzas to, 376. Epistle to, 377. 
xi; xlii. Engraving of the tomb erected 
by her to Lord Byron, see page lix, of the 
Life. 

Augustin, Saint, his confessions, 462, 593. 

Augustus Csesar, 625. 

Auld lang syne, 557. 

Aurora Borealis, 407. Don Juan a versi- 
fied, 527. 

Austerlitz, battle of, 366, 

Authors, 121, 510. 

Autocrat, 545. 

Autumn, an English, described, 575. 

Avarice, a good old-gentlemanly vice, 
474. Panegyric on, 563. 

Ave Maria! 497. 

Avenches, 28. 

Aventicum, 28. 

Avray, away, ye notes of woe, 433. 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of 
roses! 324, 

A year ago you swore, etc., 444. 

Babel, tower of, 511. 
Babylon, rums of, 511. 
Bacchus, 486, 599. Temple of, 625. 
Backwoodsmen, Kentuckian, 538. 
Bacon, Friar, his brazen head, 474. The 

discoverer of gunpowder, 536. 
Bacon, Lord, 497, 586. Essay on Empire, 

517. Inaccuracies in his Apophthegms, 

646. Saying of, 578. 
Baillie, Joanna, 156. 
Baillie, Dr. Matthew, 553. His visit to 

Lord Byron, 460. Remarkable for plain- 
ness of speech, 553, xiv. 
Bailli, Mayor of Paris, 183, 
Balgounie, brig of, 551. 
Baltic, 364. 

Bandusian Fountain, 627. 
Banks, Sir Joseph, 2. 
Barbarossa, Frederic, his submission to 

Pope Alexander the Third, 35, 613. 
Barings, the, 563. 
Barnave, Pierre-Joseph, 458. 
Barossa, battle of, 364. 
Barrataria, account of the buccaneer 

establishment at, 628. 
Barrey, Lodowick, 367. 
Barrow, Dr. Isaac, his sermons, 485. 
Barrow, Sir John, Life of Peter the Great, 

129. His account of the cyanometer, 506. 
652 



Barthelemi, M., 609. 

Basilius, Lord Byron's Athenian servant, 

605. 
Bashfulness, 63. 

Bath Guide, Anstey's, 596, 647. 

Bathurst, Captain, 430. 

Battle, 24, 79, 103, 104, 533, 534. 

Baviad and Maeviad, extinguishment of 
the Delia Cruscans by the, 349. 

Baxter, Richard, 357. His Shove, 357. 

Bay of Biscay, 4. 

Bayard, Chevalier, 2, 250. 

Bayes, his expedient, 358. 

Beatrice of Dante, 394, 395, 490. 

Beaumont, Sir George, 403, 643. 

Beauty, 2, 9, 53, 54. 62, 63, 463, 494, 513, 521, 
570, 588. 

Becher, Rev. John, Answer to his com- 
plaint that one of Lord Byron's descrip- 
tions was rather too warmly drawn, 325. 
Lines addressed to, on his advising Lord 
Byron to mix more with society, 332, xx. 

Becket, Thomas a, his tomb in Canter- 
bury Cathedral, 555. 

Beckford, William, Esq., his residence at 
Cintra described, 5. Some account of, 103. 

Bed of Ware, 520. 

Bedlam, 558, 584. 

Behmen, Jacob, his reveries, 519. 

Belisarius, 626. "A hero, conqueror, and 
cuckold," 488. 

Belshazzar, vision of, 373, 493. Lines to, 
441. 

Bender, obstinacy of Charles XII. at, 
541. 

Bentley, Dr. Richard, 322. 

Beppo, a Venetian Story, 116. 

Berkeley, Bishop, his skepticism con- 
cerning the existence of matter, 556. 

Berlin, 415, 554. 

Bernard, Saint, monks of, 611. 

Berni, the father of the Beppo style of 
writing, 386. 

Bernis, Abbe de, 154. 

Bertram, Maturin's tragedy of, 155. 

Betty, William Henry West (the young 
Roscius), 346. 

Bigamy, 541. 

Bigotry, 5, 141. 

Bile, energetic, described, 517. 

Biscay, Bay of, 4. 

Birds,- belief that the souls of the dead 
inhabit the forms of, 71. 

Birons, of France, 554. 

Black Friar of Newstead Abbey, 595. 

Blackbourne, Archbishop, 628. 

Blackett, Joseph, the poetical cobbler, 
348, 360, 431. 

Blackmore, Sir Richard, 342. 

Black Prince, The, 331, 555. 

Blackwood's ISIagazine, Some Observa- 
tions upon its remarks on Don Juan, 639. 
Critical notes from, passim. 

Blair, Dr., his Sermons, 485. 

Blake, fashionable tonsor, 358. 

Blanc Mt., 28. 

Bland, Rev. Robert, his Collections from 
the Greek Anthology, 350, 645. 

Blank- verse, excellence of rhyme over, 
in English poetry, 473, 644. 

Blasphemy and Blasphemers, 518. 

Blessington, Countess of. Impromptu on 
her taking a villa called "II Paradiso," 

454. Lines written at the request of, 

455, xvii. li ; lii. 

Bligh, Captain, his Narrative of the 

Mutiny of the Bounty, 130. 
Blood, " only serves to wash ambition's 

hands," 548. 
Bloomfield, Nathaniel, 349, 360. 
Bloomfield, Robert, 349, 360. 
Blucher, Marshal, 537. 



Blue devils, 585. 

Blue, instrument for measuring the in- 
tensity of, 506. 

Blue-stocking, 400. 

Blue-stocking Club, origin of, 400. 

Blues, 121, 400, 505, 560. 

Blue, The ; a Literary Eclogue, 400. 

Boabdil, 463. 

Boatswain, Lord Byron's favorite dog,425. 
Inscription on his monument, 425. 

Boccaccio, treatment of his ashes, 38. De- 
fence of, 620. 

Boehm, Mrs., 120. 

Boeotia, 9, 607. 

Boileau, his depreciation of Tasso, 616, 

Bolero, 581. 

Boleyn, Anne, her remark on the scaf- 
fold, 81. 

Bolingbroke, Lord, hires Mallet to tra- 
duce Pope, 344. ^ 

Bolivar, Simon, 415. 

Bonn, 554. 

Bonne fortune, 582. 

Bonnivard, Francois de, account of. 112. 
163. 

Booby, Lady, 516. 

Boone, Daniel, the Kentuckian back- 
woodsman, 538. 

Bores, 576. 

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
375. 

Borysthenes, the, 124. 

Boscan, Almogava, 465. 

Bosphorus, the, 506. 

Boswell, James, Esq., 361. 

Botany Bay, 496. 

Bounty, Mutineers of the. 130. 

Bourbon, Duke of. Constable of France. 
248, 251, 396. 

Bouts-rimes, 596. 

Bowers, Mr. (Byron's school-teacher), 
xiii. 

Bowles, Rev. William Lisle, The maud- 
lin prince of mournful sonneteers, 3i3. 
His Spirit of Discovery, 343. Lines on 
his edition of Pope, 344. 

Boxing, 359. 

Braemar, 325. 

Braham, John, singer, 370. 

Brandy for heroes ! 131. 

Brasidas, 13, 34. 

Brass, Corinthian, 523. 

Brave, picture of the truly, 541. 

Bread fruit, 132. 

Brennus, 396. 

Brenta, 36, 184. 

Briar e us, 521. 

Bi-ide of Abydos, 61. 

Bridge of Sighs, 34, 6n. 

Brig of Balgounie, 551. 

Bright be the place of thy soul ! 423. 

Brig'hton, pavilion at, 584. 

Brissot de Warville, 458. 

Bristol, 344. 

British Critic, 638. 

British Re%dew, the Old Girl's Review, 401. 
Lord Byron's Letter to the Editor of, 637. 

Brocken, superstition of the, 243. 

Bronze wolf of Rome, 41, 623. 

Brougham, Henry, Esq. (Lord Brougham 
and Vaux), 338, 346, xx. 

Brown, Dr. Thomas, his Paradise of Co- 
quettes, 645. 

Brummell, William, 562. 

Brunck, Professor, 322. 

Brunswick, Duke of, his death at Quatre- 
Bras, 24. 

Brussels, 24. 

Brutus, 39, 589. 

Bryant, Jacob, on the existence of Troy, 
503. 

Bucentaur, 35, 159, 183. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX, 



Budgell, Eustace, his leap into the 
Thames, 361. 

Bull fight, description of a, 10, 11, 666. 

Buonaparte, Jacopo, his "Sacco di Ro- 
ma," 252. 

Buonaparte, Lucien, his Charlemagne, 
351. 

Buonaparte, Napoleon, 368. 414, 442, 545, 
584. The Triptolemus of the British far- 

'. mer, 418. Kis exclamation on the loss 
of his old guard, 554. His character, 25. 
Ode to, 368. Lines on his escape from 
Elba, 442. 

Burgage, tenures and tithes, discord's 
torches, 597. 

Burgess, Sir James Bland, his epic of 
Richard the First sold to line trunks, 359, 
613. 

Burgoyne, General, 458, 

Burke, Edmund, 2, 131. 

Burns, Robert, Whai would he have been 
if a patrician ? 349. His youthful pranks. 
496. 

Busby, Thomas, Mus. Doct., his mono- 
logue on the opening of Drury Lan.e 
Theatre, 366. Parody on his monologue, 
436. 

Bute, Lord, 410. 

Butler, Dr. (head-master at Harrow), 328, 
351. Lines on his being appomted head- 
master at Harrow, 309, 

By the rivers of Babylon, 374. 

Byron, Sir John, the Little, with the great 
beard, 305. 

Byron, two of the family of, at the siege 
of Calais, and battle of Cressy, 305, x. 

Byron, Sir Nicholas, his character by 
Lord Clarendon, 305, xxxiii. 

Byron, Admiral .John .'grandfather of the 
poet), his proverbial ill-luck at sea, 377, 
X, xi. My grand-dad's Narrative, 483. 

Byron, William, fifth lord (granduncle of 
the poet), 327, x. 

Byron, Mrs. (mother of the poet), 241, xi, 
xii, xiii, xiv, xviii. 

Byron, Honorable Augusta (sister of the 
poet). See Leigh, Honorable Augusta. 

Byron, Lady, 346, 375, 378, 452, 459, 640. 
Lines on hearing that she was ill, 378. 
Lines on reading in the newspapers that 
she had been patroness of a charity ball, 
452. To Jessy, 602. Portrait of, xxxi. 

Byron, Honorable Augusta Ada (daughter 
of the poet), 22, 32, 375. Portrait of, xxxii. 

Byron, John (father of the poet), xi, xii. 

Byzantium, 35. 

Cabot, Sebastian. 397. 

Cadiz, 9, 11, 459, 474, xxii. 

Cadiz, the girl of, 11. 

Cfesar, Julius, 41, 247. His chnracter, 535, 

624. His laurel wreath, 46, 247. The 

suitor of love, 134, 488. 
Cain, a Mystery, 255, xlvi. 
Calais, 305. 
Calderon, 459. 
Caledonian Meeting, Address intended i 

to be recited at, 440. i 

Calenture, 231, 596. 
Caligula, 99. His wish, 521. 
Calm at Sea. 89, 487. 
Calmar and Orla, Death of, 332. 
Calpe, 15, 351. 
Calvin, 357. 
Calypso, isles of, 15. 
Cambritlge University, 322. 351, 353, xvii, 

xxxii. j 

Cambyses, 414. 
Cameron, Sir Evan, 24. 
Camilla, 581. 
Camoens, 342. Stanzas to a lady, with the 

poems of, 309. 



Campbell, Thomas, Esq., 349. His Pleas- 
ures of Hope, 349. Inadvertencies in 
his Lives of the Poets, 647. Critical notes 
by, passim, xxxii. 
Can Grande, 417. 
Candia, 35, 481. 
Cannae, battle of, 28, 

Canning, Right Hon. George, his charac- 
ter, 418, 518. 
Canova, 38. Lines on his bust of Helen, 

448. 
Cant, " the crying sin of the times," 519. 
Cantemir, Demetrius, his History of the 

Ottoman Empire, 517, 521. 
Canterbury Cathedral, 555. 
Capitol, the, 624. 
Capitoline Hill, 38. 
Capo d'lstria, 154. 
Capo d 'Istrias, Count, 419, 
Capo di Bove, 42, 
Caracalla, 625. 
Caractacus, 574, 
Caravaggio, 575. 
Carbonari, 417. 
Care, 553. 

Carlile, Richard, 518. 

Carlisle (Frederick Howard), fifth earl of, 

348, 351. Character of his poems, 304, 

Dedication of Hours of Idleness to, 303, 

xiv, XV. 

Carlisle (Isabella Byron), Countess of, 

303. 
Carlo Dolce, 575. 
Carnage, 534, 539. 
Carnival, 116, 418. 
Caroline, Lines to, 808, 309. 
Caroline, queen of England, 452, 511, 563. 
Carr, Sir John, 315, 352. 
Carthage, 538. Majorian's visit to, 70. 
Cary, Rev. Henry Francis, his translation 

of Dante, 395. 
Carysfort (John Joshua Proby), first earl 

of. his Poems and Tragedies, 361. 
Casli, potency of, 563, 564. 
Casimir, John, king of Poland, 123. 
Castaliau dews, 3, 605. 
Castelnau, his Hisloire de la Nouvellc 

Russie, 518. 
Castlereagh, Viscount (Robert Stewart, 
Marquess of Londonderry), 418, 457, 518, 
547,554. Epigrams on, 452, Epitaph oa, 
452. 
Castri, village of, 3, 9. 
Catalani, Madame, 347. 
Ca^thay, 564. 

Catherine I. of Russia, 417. 
Catherine II. of Russia, 525, 547, 548, 549, 

553. 
Catiline, 526, 

Cato lends his wife to Hortensius, 519. 
Catullus, the scholar of Love, 488. His 
" Ad Lesbiam " translated, 306. His " Lu- 
gete, Veneres, Cupidinesque," translated, 
306. Imitation from, 306. 
Caucasus, Mount, 352. 
Cavalier servente, 118. 119, 547. 
Cecilia Metella, tomb of, 42, 
Cecrops, 363. 
Cellini, Benvenuto, 2>51, 
Cephisus, river of, 82, 362. 
Ceres, 564. 
Cervantes, 527. Character of his "Don 

Quixote," 570. 
Chferonea, 24. 

Chamouni, lines written at, 602. 
Chandler, Dr., 12, 607. 
Change, 561. 562, 563. 
Charity Ball. Lines on reading that Lady 

Byron was patroness of a, 452. 
Charlemagne, 419. 
Charlemont, Mrs., 375. 
Charles I., 574, 



Charles XII. of Sweden, his obstinacy 

at Bender, 541, 
Charlotte, Princess of Wales, Lines to, 
435, Reflections on her death, 563. 
Stanzas on her death, 48. 
Chase, the English, 575, 
Chateaubriand, at Verona, 419. 
Chatham, first earl of, 569, 
Chaucer, 357. 

Chavvorth, Mary Anne (afterwards Mrs. 
Musters), 311. Fragment written shortly 
after her marriage, 311. Stanzas to. Oh ! 
had my fate, 336, Farewell to, 423. 
Stanzas to, on the author's leaving Eng- 
land, 380, 381, 425, 427. Portrait of, xvi, 
x;vii, xxxii, 
Chaworth's, Mr., duel, x. 
Cheltenham, 134. 
Cheops, King, his pyramid, 474. 
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, 1, xxvii, xl. 
Childish Recollections, 327. 
Children, 267, 208, 493. 
Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 429. 
Chillon, Prisoner of, 112. 
Chillon, Sonnet on, 112. 
Chillon, Castle of, 113. View of, 115. 
Chimari, 40. 

Chimariot Mountains, 17. 
China, 564. 
Chioza, war of, 614. 
Chivalry, 2, 498, 570. 
Christ, "pure creed of, made sanction of 

all ill," 586. 
Christabel, 375. 
Christianity, 586. 
Chronology of Byron's life and works, 

iv. 
Chrysostom, Saint, 462. 
Churches, 510. 
Churchill's Grave, 445, xxi. 
Cicisbeo, 118. 
Cid, 415. 416. 
Cigar, 135, 

Cincinnatus, 370, 418. 
Cintra, 4. Convention of, 5, 
Circassians, 522. 

Circus at Rome, 45. Maximus, 625, 
Citlia?ron, Mount, 607. 
Cities, overthrow of great, 538. 
Civilization, 538. 
Claire, mother of Allegra, xxxiii. 
Clare (John Fitzgibbon), Earl of, Lines 
on, 329. Stanzas to, 334, xvi. Portrait of, 

XV. 

Clarens, 31. 

Clarke, Dr. Edward Daniel, 14. 

Clarke, Hewson, 351, 352. 

Classics, too early study of, 40. 

Cleonice and Pausanias, story of, 147. 

Cleopatra, 590.. 

Clergy, 578. 

Clermonts, The two, xxxiii. 

Ciitumnus, the river, 39. Temple of, 39. 

Clootz, Anacharsis, 458. 

Clytemnesti-a, 549. 

Cobbett, William, epigram on his digging 

up Tom Paine's bones, 451. 
Coblentz, 27. 
Cocker, 600. 

Cognac, apostrophized, 501. 
Cogni, Margarita, portrait of, xl. xii. 
Cohen, Mr. Francis (now Sir Francis 

Palgrave), 629. 
Colchis, 493. 
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, Esq., 98, 342, 

456, 465, 473, 496, 642, xxi. 
Coliseum, 44, 46, 152. 
College examination, Thoughts suggested 

by a, 321. 
Collini, Signora, 347. 
Colmau, George, Jr., 346. 
Cologne, 554. 

653 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX, 



Colonna, Cape, 21, 364, 60-1. 
Columbia, 42. 

Columbus, 397, 587, 593. 
Comboloio, or Turkish rosary. 66, 83. 
Comedy, the day of, gone by, 576. 
Common Lot, answer to a beautiful 

poem entitled the, 331. 
Commonwealth, 36, 170, 385. 
Condorcet, Marquis de, 458. 
Congreve, 576. 
Congreve rockets, 468. 
Conquest, the, a fragment, 452. 
Conscience, 54, 144, 150, 465, 470, 488. 
Constantinople, 20. Slave-market at, 

described, 506, xxiii. 
Conversationists, 577. 
Conversations with Byron, 151, 256, 497. 
Cookery, science of, 590. 
Copyright, sums paid by Mr. Murray to 

Lord Byron for, 341, 649, xxviii. 
Coquette, 568. 

Corinth, 37. Ancient coin of, 106. 
Corinth, Siege of, 98. 
Corinthian brass, 523. 
Cornelian, the, 322. 
Cornelian heart which was broken , Lines 

on, 435. 
Cornwall, Barrj' (Bryan Walter Procter), 

561. 
Coron, bay of, 77. 

Corsair, The, a Tale, 72. Note on, 628. 
Cortejo, 118, 469. 
Cottle, Joseph, his "Alfred" and "Fall 

of Columbia," 344. 
Could I remount the river of my years, 

446. 
Could love forever. 451. 
Coumourgi, Ali, 99. 

Country and town, discrepancies be- 
tween, 599. 
Coxrrage, 39. 183. 
Cowper, 349. 

Coxcomb, 417, 467, 582, 586, 591. 
Coxe, Archdeacon, his " Life of Marl- ! 

borough," 496. j 

Crabbe, Rev. George, "though Nature's 

sternest painter, yet the best," 350; " the i 

first in point of power and genius," 350 ; 

" the first of living poets," 642. 
Craning, 580. 
Crashaw, Richard, 495. 
Creation, 262. 

Crest of the Byron family. See Genealogi- 
cal Table. 
Cribb, Tom, pugilist, 363. 
Croker, Right Hon. John Wilson, his 

query concerning the " Bride of Abydos," 

61. 
Cromwell, Oliver, the sagest of usurpers, \ 

41. j 

Cruscan school of poetry, annihilated by 

Gifford, 642. | 

Culloden, battle of, 325. 
Cumberland, Duke of, hero of Culloden, I 

458. { 

Cumberland, Richard, 346. 
Curran, Right Hon. John Philpot.562, 576, 
Currie, Dr., his Life of Burns, 496. 
Curse of Minerva, 362, xxiv. 
Curtis, Sir William, 419, 556. 
Cuvier, Baron, 256, 546. 
Cyanometer described, 506. 
Cyclades, 483, 503. 
Cypress tree, 52. 
Cyprus, 184, 481. 
Cyrus, 592. 

Dallas, xxii, xxvii. 
Damaetas, a character, 314. 
Damas, Count de, 529. 
Damme, the British. 559. 
Dance of Death, Holbein's, 588. 

654 



Dance, Pyrrhic, 491, 496. 
Dancing, 24, 504, 588. 
Dandies, dynasty of the, 120. 
Dandolo, Henry, the octogenarian chief, 
35, 614. 

Dante, 37, 38, 619, 643. His Beatrice, 394, 
490,619. His wife, 395, 490. Prophecy of, 
393. 

Danton, 458. 

Dardanelles, 504, 

Darkness, 444. 

Daru, M., his picture of Venetian society 
and manners, 632. 

Darwin, Erasmus, his "pompous chime," 
350. His Botanic Garden, 350. Put down 
by a poem in the Ami -jacobin, 642. 

Dates, a " sort of post-house, where the 
Fates change horses," 466. 

David, King, 470. His harp, 370. 

Davies, Scope (college friend of Byron), 
xviii, xxiv, xxxix. 

Davy, Sir Humphry, 403, 468. 

Dead, features of the, 51. Belief that the 
souls of, inhabit the forms of birds, 71. 

Dear Doctor, I have read your play, 449. 

Dear object of defeated care, 430. 

Death, 22, 30, 44, 58, 263, 384, 446, 498, 499, 
503, 505, 509, 54J , 550. Shuns the wretched, 
472. Advantages of an early, 499, 547. 
The sovereign's sovereign, 552. A re- 
former, 552. Dunnest of all duns, 586. 
A gaunt gourmand, 588. 

Death and the Lady, 490. 

Death of Calmar and Orla, 332. 

Dee, the, 337. 

De Foix, Gaston, his tomb at Ravenna, 
505. 

Deformed Transformed ; a Drama, 241, 
xlvi. 

Delawarr (George- John West), fifth earl, 
304. Verses to, 304. Lines on, 337. 

Delawarr (Thomas West), third earl, por- 
trait of, given to the city of Philadelphia 
by his descendanls, 330. 

Delphi, fountain of, 3. 

Deluge, 188, 193. 194. 

Demetrius Poliorcetes described, 243. 

Demosthenes, 321, 416, 417. 

Denman (Lord Chief Justice), his trans- 
lation of the Greek song on Harmodius 
and Aristogiton, 23. 

De Pauw, his writings characterized, 
608. 

De Quincey, Mr., his Confessions of an 
Opium-Eater, 499. 

Dervish Tahiri, Lord Byron's Arnaout 
Guide, 98, 605, 

Desaix, General, 458. 

Despair, 23, 60, 83, 479, 480, 537. 

Despotism, 514. 

Destiny, 41. 

Destruction of Sennacherib, 37-i. 

Devil 's Drive ; an unfinished Rhapsody, 
439. 

Devotion, 256, 497, 521. 

Dibdin, Thomas, success of his " Mother 
Goose." 347. 

Dinner, a man's happiness dependent on, 
508. 

Dinner-bell, the tocsin of the soul. 510. 

Diodati, view of the villa, xxxvi. 

Diogenes, 590, 596. 

Dirce, fountain of, 607. 

Discontents, progress of popular, 537. 

Disdar Aga, 606. 

Disraeli, J., Esq., Dedication to him of 
Observations upon an Article in Black- 
wood's Magazine, 639. 

Dives, Lines to, 432. 

Doge, 175, 184. 240. 

Dolce, Carlo, 575. 

Don, brig of, 551. 



Don Juan, 456. Letter to the Editor of 
My Grandmother's Review, 637. Observa- 
tions upon an Article in Blackwood's 
Magazine, 639. Dedication of "Don 
Juan" to Robert Southey, Esq., 456. 
Preface to cantos vi., vii., viii., 518. lii. 

Don Quixote, a too true tale, 570. De- 
light of reading in the original, 585. 

Doomsday-book, 553. 

Dorotheus of Mitylene, 636. 

Dorset (Charles Sackville), Earl of, his 
character, 310. 

Dorset (George- John -Frederick), fourth 
duke of, 310. Lines occasioned by llie 
death of, 412. 

Dorset (Thomas Sackville), Earl of, called 
the drama forth, 310. 

Doubt, 545, 556. 

Dover, dear, 555. 

Drachenfels, castle of, 27, 554. 

Drapery Misses, 5G0. 

Drawcansir, 355. 

Dream, The, 380. 

Dreams, 212, 524. 

Dresden, 554. 

Drowning, 60. 70, xxvi. 

Drummond, Sir William, 155. 

Drury, Rev. Dr. Joseph, 40. Lines on his 
retiring from the head-mastership of 
Harrow, 309, 328, xi, xiv, xviii. 

Drury Lane Theatre, Address spoken at 
the opening of, 436. 

Dryden, his Ode, 642. His epigram under 
Milton's picture, 643. His " Palamon 
and Arcite," 644. His "Absalom and 
Achitophel," 497. 

Dubost, M., painter, his Beauty and the 
Beast, 353. 

Duelling, 501. 

Duet between Campbell and Bowles, 452. 

Duff, Miss Mary (afterwards ]\Irs. Robert 
Cockburn), Lord Byron's boyish attach- 
ment for, 337, xiii. 

Dumourier, 458. t 

Duppa, Richard, Esq., his Life of Michael 
Angelo, 398, 399. 

Dwarfs, 512. 

Dying Gladiator, 45. 

E , Lines to, 304. 

Early death, 499, 550. 

Early hours, 559. . 

Early rising, 434. 

Eating, 508. 

Eblis, Oriental Prince of Darkness, 56. 

Eclectic, 494. 

Eclectic Review, 359. 

Economy, 552. 

Eddlestone (Cambridge chorister). Lines 

on a cornelian given to Lord Byron by, 

322. 
Edgeworth, Maria, 460, 
Edinburgh Reviev/, 338. Its Critique on 

Hours of Idleness, 338. Strictures on its 

remarks on the literature of modern 

Greece, 608. 
Edward the Black Prince, his tomb, 555. 
Egeria, 43, 625. Fountain of, 43. Grotto 

of, 44, 625. 
Egripo (the Negropont), 64. 
Ehrenbreitstein, 27. 
Ekenhead, Mr., 430, 481. 
Elba, Isle of, 415. 

Eldon, Earl of. his impartialit>% 592. xxi. 
Elegy on Newstead Abbey, 326. 
Elgin, Lord, 14, 352. 362, 363, 604, xxiv. 
Elgin marbles. 362, 363. 
Eliza, Lines to, 324. 
Elizabeth, Queen, her avarice, 549 
Ellen, Lines to, imitated from Catullus, 

306. 
Eloisa, 140. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Eloisa and Abelard, Pope's, 644. 

Eloquence, power of, 586. 

Emma, Lines to, 307. 

Eudorsemeut to Deed of Separation, 444. 

Eujjlish Bards and Scotch Reviewers, 
839, xxi. 

English look, 507. 

Englisli women, 568. 

Ennui, 497. A growth of English root, 
577. 

Enthusiasm, a moral inebriety, 572. 

Envy, 522. 

Epaminondas, his disinterestedness, 544. 

ICpic poem, definition of an, 473. 

Epigram on Moore's Operatic Farce, or 
Farcical Opera, 432. From the French 
of Rulhieres, 435, 450. On my Wedding 
Day, 451. On Cobbett's digging up Tom 
Paine's Bones, 451. The world is a bundle 
of hay, 451. On my Wedding, 452. On 
the Brazier's' Company having resolved 
to present an Address to Queen Caroline, 
452. On Lord Castlereagh, 4."')2. 

Epistle, a female, described, 577. 

Epistle to a friend, in answer to some 
Lines exhorting the author to banish 
care, 432. ^ 

Epistle to Augusta, 377. 

Epitaph on a friend, 305. On Virgil and 
Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus, translated, 
306. On John Adams, of Southwell, a 
carrier, who died of drunkenness, 423. 
Substitute for an, 430. My ov/n, 430. For 
Joseph Blackett, late poet and shoe- 
maker, 431. For William Pitt,'451. For 
Lord Castlereagh, 452. 

Eratostiatus, 364. 

Eros and Anteros, 147. 

Erse language, 535. 

Erskiue, Lord, 576. 

Etiquette, 514, 517. 

Etna, 481. 

Eugieue of Savoy, 397. 

Euphues (Barry Cornwall), 561. 

Euripides, translation from his Medea, 
'Epcores vne.p, 321. 

Eustace's "Classical Tour in Italy," strict- 
ures on, 627. 

Euthanasia. When Time, or soon or 
late, 434. 

Eutropius, the eunuch, and minister of 
Arcadius, character of, 457. 

Euxine or Black Sea. description of, 506. 

Evening described, 36, 107, 497. 

Evil, 266. Origin ol. 266. 

Evil Eye, superstition of, 56. 

Exile, 22, 232. 475. 

Expectation, 88, 467. 

Experience, 566. The chief philosopher, 



Eyes, 



593, 595, 603. 



Faintness, sensation of, 482. The last 
mortal birth of pain, 384. 

Fairy, 146. 

Faliero, Marino, Doge of Venice, 154. 

Faliero family, 155, 629. 

Falkland (Lucius Cary), Viscount, 327, 
347, xxxvii. Byron's generosity to fam- 
ily of, xxi. 

Fall of Terni, 40. 

Fame, 21, 23, 24, 25, 28, 31, 101, 454, 474, 505, 
529, 535, 569. 645. 

Family, a fine, 493. 

Fancy, 498. 

Fare thee well, and if for ever, 375. 

Farewell to the Muse, 422. 

Farewell! if ever fondest prayei', 423, 

Farewell to Malta, 431. 

Farmers, 546. 

Fashionable world, 485, 560, 579. 

Fate, 25, 507, 561. 



Father of Light ! gi'eat God of heaven, 334. 
Fauvel, M., French consul at Athens, 604, 

607. 
Faux pas, in England, 582. 
Fazzioli, the Venetian, 475. 
Fear, 80, 594, 603. 
Features, 512. 
Feelings, innate, 504. 
Feinagle, Professor, his Mnemonics. 459. 
Felicaja, his " O Italia, Italia," translated, 

37. 
Female fickleness, 585. 
Female friendship, 584. 
Fenelon, 527. 

Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, 458. 
Ferney, 31. 

Ferrara, Lord Byron's visit to, 37. 
Few years have pass'd since thou and I, 

424. 
Fickleness of woman, 585. 
Fiction less striking than truth, 585, 
Fielding, 504. 
Fill the goblet again, 426. 
First Kiss of Love, 309. 
First love, 468, 487. 
Fitzgerald, Lord Edward, "Sonnet on 

the repeal of his forfeiture," 450. 
Fitzgerald, William Thomas, poetaster, 

340, 361. 
Fletcher, William (Lord Byron's faithful 

valet), 4, 22, 428, 650. 
Florence, 38, 394, 395. 
Florence (Mrs. Spencer Smith), 15. 

Stanzas to, 428. 
Foppery, 645. 
Fortitude, 25, 35, 80, 81, 584. 
Fortune, 25, 41, 75, 120, 180, 503, 507, 645. 
Forty-parson power, 552. 
Foscai'i, the Two ; an Historical Tragedy, 

222. 
Foscari family, 630. 
Foscolo, Ugo, 383. 
Fox, Right Hon. Charles James, 380. Lines 

on the death of, 323. Saying of, 323. 
Fox hunt, an English, 580. 
Fragment, 305. 

Fragment, written shortly after the mar- 
riage of Miss Cha worth, 311. 
France, 42, 416. 
Fi'ancesca of Rimini; from the Inferno 

of Dante, 399. 
Francis, Sir Philip, the probable author 

of "Junius," 411. 
Fi'anciscan convent at Athens, 353, 3G2. 

Sketch of, XXV. 
Frankfort, 366. 
Franklin, Benjamin, Engraving of, 302 ; 

411, 415, 416, 484. 
Frascati, 627. 
Fi-aser, Mrs., 432. 
Frederic the Second, 141, 331, 415. His 

flight from Molwitz. 535. 
Free to confess, the phrase. 598. 
Freedom, 20, 21, 42, 51, 78, .385, 555. 
Free will, 266. 

Frere, Right Hon. John Hookham. 349. 
Friends, 551, 581, 585. 
Friendship, 584, 
Friuli, 36. 

Fry, Mrs., the prisoner's friend. 556. 
Fudge Family, the humor of, not wit, 644. 

Gail, M., 608. 

Galileo, 619. His tomb in Santa Croce, 

38. 
Galiongee, 66. 
Gamba, Count Pietro, 497. 
Game of Goose, 567. 
Gamesters, 579, 581. 
Gaming, 563, 579. 
Garcilasso de la Vega, 465. 
Garrick, 347, 436. 



Gayton, dancer, 347. 

Gazelle, the, 2, 54. 

Gell, Sir William, 352. 

Gemma, the wife of Dantd, 395. 

Genesis, 185, 189, 263, 271. 

Geneva, Lake of, 29, 113, 611, 

Genevra, Sonnets to, 438. 

Genlis, Madame de, 367. 

Gentlemen farmers, 546. 

George the Third, 366, 406, 416, 562. 

George the Fourth, 440, 441, 453, 456, 543, 

546, 562. 
Georgia, 521, 522. 
Georgians, beauty of the, 521. 
Gesner, his " Death of Abel,' 255. 
Gliibelines, 394, 395, 595. 
Ghost, the Newstead, 595. 
Ghosts, 523, 592, 593, 594, 603. 
GiaiFar,pachaof ArgyroCastro, his fate, 67. 
Giant's Grave, 506. 
Giaour, The; a Fragment of a Turkish 

Tale, 50. 
Gibbon, Edward, Esq., his character, 31, 

xxxix. 
Gibraltar, Straits of, 15. 
Giflford, William, Esq., 185, 191, 349, 361, 

375, 642, xxvii. Portrait of, xlvii. 
Gin, 554. 

Gingough, Saint, 611, 
Giorgione, 117, 
Girl of Cadiz, IL 
Glaciers, 40. 

Gladiator, the dying, 45, 502, 
Gladiators, 626. 
Glory, 13, 35, 46, 496, 528, 533, 543. 
Godoy, Don Manuel, 7. 
Godwin, William, xxxiii. 
Goethe, his tribute to the memory of 

Byron, 195. Dedication of "Sardanapa- 

lus" to, 195, His •' Mephistopheles," 57U. 
Gold, 563. 
Golden Fleece, 493. 
Goldoni's comedies, 636. 
Goldsmith, his anticipated definition of 

the Lake school of poetry, 642, 
Gondola described, 117. 
Gondoliers, songs of the Venetian, 34, 

467, 612. 
Good Night, the, 4. Lord Maxwell's, 1. 
Goose, royal game of, 567. 
Gordon, Lord George, 366. 
Gordons of Gight, 325, 
Goza, 15. 

Gracchus, Tiberius, 552. 
Grafton, Duke of, 410. 
Grahame, James, his "Sabbath Walks" 

and " Biblical Pictures," 343. 
Granby, Marquess of, 458. 
Grauta ; a Medley, 311. 
Grattan, Right Hon. Henry, 453, 518, 562. 
Gray, 454, 643, 

Gray, May, Byron's nurse, xiv. 
Greatest living poets, 560. 
Greece, past and present condition of, 9, 

14, 20, 51, 82, 101, 358, 415, 495, 496. 
Greek war song, "Aeure Traifie?," transla- 
tion of, 430. 
Greeks, some account of the literature of 

the modern, 608, 610. 
Grenvilles, the, 562. 
Greville, Colonel, 347. 
Grey, Charles (afterwards Earl Grey), 569. 
Grief, 550. 

Gropius, the Sieur, 605. 
(jXiadalquivir, 481. 
Guadiaua, 6. 
Guelphs, 394, 395, 622. 
Guesclin, du, constable of France, 414. 
Guiccioli (Teresa Gamba), Countess, 129, 

393, 450, 506. Dedication of the Prophecy 

of Dante to, 393, xxx. Portraits of, xliii, 

xliv, 

655 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Guido, his Aurora, 581. 

Ounpowxler, 137. 

Ourney, William Brodie, short-hand 

writer, 472. 
Oustavus Adolphus, his death at Lutzen, 

415. 
Gynocracy, 568, 596, 

Hafiz, 18. 

Hall, Captain Basil, his interview with 

Napoleon, 414. 
Hallam, Henry, Esq., 352, 395. His review 
of Payne Knight's "Taste," 345. His 
" Middle Ages," 565. 
Hamburg, 366. 
Hauds, small, a distinction of birth, 501, 

514. 
Hannibal, 133, 367. 

Happiness, was born a twin, 486. Horace's 
art of, 514. An art on which the artists 
greatly vary, 572. 
Hardingo, George, Esq., 576. 
Harley, Lady Charlotte (the lanthe to 
Avhom the first and second cantos of 
"Childe Harold" are dedicated, 2, xiv. 
Portrait of, xxvii. 
Harmodius, 23. 
Harinodius and Aristogiton, song on, 23, 

415. 
Harmony, German colony in America so 

called, 568. 
Harpe, La, 417. 

Harrow, Lines on a change of masters 
at, 309. On a distant view of the village 
and school of, 312. Written beneath an 
elm in the churchyard of. 338. On re- 
visiting, 423. View of churchyard at, xlii. 
Hater, an honest, 570. 
Hatred, 570. 

Havard, story of his tragedy, 358. • 

Hawke, Admiral Lord, 458. 
Hawke (Edward-Harvey), third Lord, 311. 
Hayley, William, Esq., advice to, 343, 596, 

645. 
Health, 486, 538. 
Hearer, a good one, 580. 
Heaven and Earth ; a Jlystery, 185. 
Hebe, 596. 
Heber, Reginald (bishop of Calcutta), 

critical notes by, passim. 
Hebrew Melodies, 370. 
Ilecla, 415, 592. 
Hector, 544. 
Helen, the Greek Eve, 583. Lines on 

Canova's bust of, 448. 
Helena, Saint, 414, 419. 
Hell, paved with good intentions, 408, 

535. 
Hellespont, 65, 430, 481. 503. 
Hells, Saint James's, 355, 558. 
Henry, Patrick, the forest-born Demos- 
thenes, 416. 
Herbert, Rev. William, 345. 
Hercules, 364. 
Hero and Leander, 65, 430. 
Herod's Lament for Mariamne, 373. 
Herodias, 367. 
Hesperus, 497. 
Heterodoxy, 518. 
Hlghgate, burlesque oath administered 

at, 9. 
Highland festival, 317, 
Highland welcome, 520. 
Highlands, Byron's life in the, 324, 325. 
Hill, Thomas, Esq., the patron of Kirke 

White and Bloomfield. 349. 
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren, 311. 
Hints from Horace, 353. 
Historians, 496, 559. 
History, 26, 534. 
Hoare, Rev. Charles James, 351. 
Hubbes, Thomas, 135. 

656 



Hobhouse, Right Hon. Sir John Cam, 
Bart., 353, 362, 382. Dedication to him of 
the fourth canto of "Childe Harold," 33, 
xviii. Portrait of, xviii, xlx, xxiv. 

Hocbe, General, 27, 458. 

Hock and soda-water, 486. 

Hodgson, Rev. Francis, 351, 645. Lines 
to, written on board the Lisbon packet, 
427. Epistle to, in ansAver to some lines 
exhorting Lord Byron to banish care, 
432, xviii, xix. 

Hogg, James, the Ettrick Shepherd. 646. 

Holbein, his " Dance of Death," 5»8. 

Hole, Rev. Richard, 643. 

Holford, Miss, 646. 

Holland, Lord, 346. Dedication of the 
" Bride of Abydos " to, 61. His character 
of Voltaire, 647. 

Holland, Lady, 346, 352. 

Home, 23, 86, 467. Sight of, after absence, 
490. Without hearts there is no, 493. 

Homer, geography of, 523. Iliad, 643. His 
catalogue of ships, 575. 

Honorius, 5. 

Hook, Theodore, Esq., 346. 

Hope, Thomas, Esq., 353. 

Hoppner, John William Rizzo, Lines on 
the birth of, 450. 

Horace, his " Justum et tenacem" trans- 
lated, 306. The scholar of love, 488. His 
" Nil admirari," 572. Quoted. 576, 579, 
583. 

Horton, Mrs. (afterward Lady) Wilmot, 
370. 

Hotspur, 536. 

Houris, 9, 54, 541. 

Hours of Idleness, 303. Critique of the 
Edinburgh Review upon, 338, 634, xx. 

Houson, Miss, Lines addressed to, 313. 

Howard, Hon. Frederick, 24, 348. 

Howe, Admiral Lord, 458. 

How many number" d are, 602. 

Hoyle, games of, 351, 496. 

Hoyle, Rev. Charles, 351, 643. 

Hudibras, 357. 

Humane Society, 468. 

Hunger, 479, 485. 

Hunt, Leigh, xxxvii, xlvi, xlix, 1. 

Hunting, 580. 

Hydra, Isle of, 362, 534. 

Hymen, 367, 491. 

Hymettus, 21. 362, 590. 

Hypocrisy, 552, 563. 

I, Lines on the letter, 603. 

lanthe (Lady Charlotte Harley), dedica- 
tion of " Childe Harold " to, 2. Portrait 
of, xxvii. 

Ibrahim Pacha, 605. 

Ida, Mount, 40, 607. 

I enter thy garden of roses, 431. 

I heard thy fate without a tear, 603. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men, 435. 

If that high world, 371. 

Ilion, 503, 560. 

Illyria, 16. 

Imagination, 44, 49S. 

Improvisatore, 618. 

Incantation, 144. 

lucledon, Charles, singer, 638. 

Inconstancy, 489. 

Indifference, 572. 591. 

Indigestion, 545. 556. 

Inez, Stanzas to, 11. 

Infidelity, female, 489, 490, 569. 

In law an infant, and in years a boy, 314. 

Innocence, 268, 437, 469, 523, 582. 

Innovation, progress of, 598. 

Inscription on the monument of a New- 
foundland dog, 425. 

Intoxication, 476, 486. ^ 

louia, 221. 



lo P^ean ! lo ! sing, 693. 

Ivis, the, 36, 40. 

Irish Avatar, 453. 

Irish language, 535. 

Iron Mask, 411. 

I saw thee weep, 372. 

Island, The ; or, Christian and his Com- 
rades, 130. 

Islands of the blest, 495. 

Isles of Greece, The, 495. 

Ismail, siege of, 518, 528, 543. 

I speak not, I trace not, 440. 

Italian language. 386. 

Italian sky, 36. 

Italy, 36, 395. Present degraded condition 
of, 457. 

I Avould I were a careless child, 336. 

Jackal, 101, 106, 415, 545. 

Jackson, John, professor of pugilism, 359, 
391. 

Jamblicus, story of his raising Eros and 
Anteros, 147. 

Jealousy, 463, 466. 

Jeffrey, Francis, Esq., 340, 344, 346, 359, 
551, 564. Critical notes by, pass'im. 

Jena, battle of, 415. 

Jenner, Dr., 468. 

Jephthah's Daughter, 371. 

Jerningham, Mr., 352. 

Jerome, Saint, 462. 

Jerreed, 63. 

Jersey, Countess of, 442. Consolatory Ad- 
dress to, on the Prince Regent returning 
her picture, 442. Portrait of xxxv. 

Jerusalem, 394. On the day of the de- 
struction of, by Titus, 374. 

Jessy, Lines to, 602. 

Jesus Christ, 586, 610. 

Jews, 419, 478, 511. 

Joannina, 17, 607. 

Job, 537, 581. 

Johnson, Dr., his " Irene," 304, 356. His 
remark on good intentions, 408. A good 
hater, 570. His "Life of Millon," 496. 
His belief in ghosts, 593. 

Joubert, General, 458. 

Journal de Tr^voux, 401. 

Julian the Apostate, 457. 

Julian, Count, 6. 

Juliet's tomb, 417. 

Julius Caesar, his character, 41, 535, 536, 
624. His laurel wreath, 247. The suitor 
of love, 134, 488. 

Jungfrau, the, 40. 

Junius 's Letters, 411. 

Jupiter Olympius. temple of, 13. 

Jura mountains, 30. 

Juvenal, his alleged iudependence, 462. 

Kaff, 352. 
Kalamas, 17. 
Kaleidoscope, 480. 
Kamschatka, 367. 

Kant, Professor, 554. 

Kean, Edmund, tragedian, 156, 347. 

Keats, John, 561, 645. Account of. 645. 

Elegy on, 452, xlv. 
Kemble, John Philip, Esq., 156, 347. 
Kennedy, Dr., Byron's Conversations 

with, 151, 256. Ivi. 
Kenney, James, dramatist, 346. 
Keppel, Admiral, 458. 
Kibitka, 546. 
Kings, 537. 545. 
Kinnaird, Lord, 544. 

Kinnaird, Hon. Douglas, 370,453, 563,650. 
Kiss of Love, First, 309. 
Knight, Payne, 345. 
Knolles, Richard. 517. 
Knowledge, 264. 560. 
Koran, 54, 67. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Kosciusko, General, 415, 554. 
Kotzebue, 366. 

Koutousow, General (afterwards Prince 
of Smolensko), 539. 

L.abedoyere, 443. 
L.acedeinon, 20. 

L.achin y Gair, 134, 324. 

Ladies, learned, 460, 560. 

La Fayette, 458. 

La Fitte, pirate, 628. 

Lafitte, 564. 

La Harpe, 417. 

Lake Leman, 28, 30, 113, 446, 584. 

Lake School of Poetry, 641. Groldsmith's 

anticipated definition of, 642. 
Lakers, the, 642. 
Lamb, Lady Caroline, 488, 602. Portrait of, 

XXX, XXXV. 

Lamb, William (Lord Melbourne), hus- 
band of Lady Caroline Lamb, xxx. 

Lambe, Charles, Esq., 350. 

Lambe, Hon. George, 340, 345. 

Lambro Canzani, Greek patriot, 68. 

Lament of Tasso, 382, xxxix. 

Landed Interest, 418. 

Lander, Walter Savage, Esq., 405, 56L His 
"Gebir,"405, li. 

Langeron, Count de, 529. 

Lannes, Duke of Montebello, 458. 

Lansdowne (Henry Fitzmaurice Petty), 
fourth Marquess of, 311, 322, 346. 

Lanskoi, the grande passion of Cath- 
erine II., 547. 

Laocoon, the, 47, 502, xl. 

Laos, the river, 17. 

Lara ; a Tale, 88. 

Lascy, Major-General, 536. 

Laagier, Abb6, his character of Marino 
Faliero, 155. 

Laura, 490, 615. 

Lausanne, 31, 

Lawsuits, 597. 

Lawyers, 469, 551, 597. 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, 341. 

Leander and Hero, 65, 430. 

Learned ladies, 460, 560. 

Learned languages, results of the too 
early study of, 40. 

Lee, Harriet, her " German's Tale," 272. 

Leghorn, xlviii, li. 

Legion of Honor, Lines on the, 444. 

Legitimacy, 515, 544. 

Leigli, Hon. Augusta (Lord Byron's sis- 
ter). Stanzas to, 376, 377. Epistle to, 377, 
xxxiv, XXXV, xxxvi, xxxviii, xlv, lii, 
lix. 

Leipsic, 366, 415. 

Lely, Sir Peter, drapery of his beauties, 575. 

Leman, Lake, 28, 30, 113, 584. Sonnet to,446. 

L'Knclos, Ninon de, 513. 

Lenzoni, Marchioness, her rescue of the 
bones of Boccaccio, 620. 

Leo X., 398. 

Leoben, 27. 

Leone, Port, 52. 

Leonidas, 431, 534. 

Leopold, Prince of Saxe Coburg (after- 
wards King of the Belgians), 48. 

Lepanto, Gulf of, 16, 35. 

Lesbia, Lines to, 313. 

Lethe,-498. 

Letter to the Editor of "My Grand- 
mother's Review," 635. 

Leucadia, 16, 488. 

Leuctra, 24. 

Levant, 17, 86. 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory, 155, 342, 356, xl. 

Liakura, Mount, 20. 

Liberal, The, xlviii, xlix, 1, Ivi. 

Liberty, 112, 130, 533. 

Lies, 559. 

42 



Life, 25, 37, 44, 45, 68, 147, 212, 228, 474, 487, 
499, 519, 545, 564, 592, liii. Byron's life 
abroad, xxxvi. 

Life of a young noble, 561. 

Lightning, 30, 31. Superstitions respect- 
ing, 37, 617. Engraving, and lines to 
Franklin, 302. 

Ligne, Prince de, 529, 534. 

Lines on the Death of a Young Lady, 304. 
To E., 304. To D., 304. On leaving New- 
stead Abbey, 305. Written in Rousseau's 
" Letters to an Italian Nun," 305. On a 
change of Masters at a great School, 309. 
On a distant view of the Village and 
School of Harrow, 312. To M., 312. To 
M. S. G., 313. To Woman, 312. To Mary, 
on receiving her Picture, 313. To Lesbia, 
313. Addressed to a Young Lady, 313. 
To Marion, 314. To a Lady who pre- 
sented to the Author a lock of hair, etc.. 
315. To a beautiful Quaker, 322. On the 
Death of Mr. Fox, 323. To the sighing 
Strephon, 324. To Eliza, 324. To Ro- 
mance, 325. To a Lady who presented 
the Author with the velvet band which 
bound her tresses, 331. To the Rev. J. T. 
Becher, on his advising the Author to 
mix more with Society, 332. To Edward 
Noel Long, Esq., 335. To a Lady.—" Oh ! 
had my fate," etc., 336. To George, Earl 
Delawarr, 337. To the Earl of Clare, 337. 
Written beneath an Elm in the Church- 
yard of Harrow, 338. On hearing that 
Lady Byron was ill, 378. To a vain Lady, 
421. To Anne, 421. To the Author of a 
Sonnet beginning " Sad is my verse," etc., 
421, On finding a Fan, 422. To an Oak 
at Newstead, 422. On revisiting Harrow, 
423. To my Son, 423. To a youthful 
Friend, 424. Inscribed upon a Cup 
formed from a Skull, 425. To a Lady on 
being asked my reason for quitting Eng- 
land, 425. To Mr. Hodgson, written on 
board the Lisbon Packet, 427. Written 
in an Album at Malta, 428. Written 
after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos, 
430. Written beneath a picture, 430. In 
the Traveller's Book at Orchomenus, 
430. On Parting, 431. To Dives, 432. On 
Moore's Operatic Farce, 432. To Thyrza, 
432. On a Cornelian Heart which was 
broken, 435. To a Lady weeping, 435. 
Written on a blank leaf of.the " Pleas- 
ures of Memory," 435. To Time, 437. 
On Lord Thurlow's poems, 438. To Lord 
Thurlow, 438. To Thomas Moore, on 
visiting Leigh Hunt in Prison, 439. 
To Belshazzar, 441. On Napoleon's Es- 
cape from Elba, 442. To Thomas Moore, 

447. On the bust of Helen by Can ova, 

448. To Thomas Moore, 448. To Mr. 
Murray, 448. From Mr. Murray to Dr. 
Polidori, 449. To Mr. Murray, 449. On 
the birthday of J. W. R. Hoppner, 450. 
On reading that Lady Byron had been 
patroness of a charity ball, 452. On my 
thirty-third birthday, 452. To Mr. Mur- 
ray, 452. To Lady Blessington, 455. In- 
scribed, "On this day I complete my 
thirty -sixth year," 455. To Jessy, 602. 
Found in the Travellers' Book at Cha- 
mouni, 602. To Lady Caroline Lamb, 

602. The Prince of WAales, 603. On the 
Letter I, 603. To my dear Mary Anne, 

603. Stanzas, 603. 
Lisbon, 5. 

Lisbon Packet, Lines written on board 

the, 427. 
Liston, John, comedian, 637. 
Little's Poems, 343. 
Livadia, 607. 
Liver, 489. 



Livy, 583. 

Lloyd, Charles, Esq.. 350. 

Loan contractors, 564. 

Locke, his treatise on education, 358, 586. 
On Solitude, 36 ; Father of, 135. 

Lockhart, J. G., Esq., his " Ancient Span- 
ish Ballads," critical notes by, passim. 

Loflft, Capel, Esq., 349, 360. 

Logotheti, Signor, 605. 

London, a Sunday in, 9. The devil's 
drawing-room, 556. The approaches to, 
558. Never understood by foreigners, 
565. One superb menagerie, 565, liv. 

Londonderry (Robert Stewart), second 
Marquis of, 518, 528, 547. See also Cas- 
tlereagh. 

Loneliness, 28, 151, 588. 

Long, Edward Noel, Esq., 335. Lines to, 
385, xxvi. 

Longinus, 462, 473, 589. 

Longmans, Messrs., 358. 

Longueurs, 497. 

Lope de Vega, 459, 647. 

Lorenzo de Medici, 622. 

Lorraine, Claude, 575. 

Love, best tokens of, 520. First. 468, 487. 
His own avenger, 503. Language of, 499. 
Man's, 472, 488. Platonic, 459, 464, 467. 
Woman's, 472, 488, 489. See also 383, 486, 
499, 515, 527, 549, 564, 584. 

Love, first kiss of, 309. 

Love of gain, 541, 577. 

Love of glory, 505. 

Love of ofl'spring, 516, 542. 

Love's last adieu, 314. 

Lovers, 486, 487, 499, 585. 

Lover's Leap, 16, 468. 

Loves of the Triangles, 642. 

Lowe, Sir Hudson, 414, 560. 

Lucca, 590. 

Lucre tia, 154. 

Lucretius, 462, 

Lucullus, dishes a la, 590. Cherries trans- 
planted into Europe by, 590. 

Luddites, Song for the, 448. 

Lugo, 504. 

Lushington, Dr., 460, xxxv. 

Lusieri, Signor, his devastations at 
Athens, 604. 

Luther, Martin, 527. 

Lutzen, 415. 

Lying, 471. 

Lykanthropy, 545. 

Lyons, Gulf of, 477. 

Lyttleton, George Lord, 7L 

M , Lines to, 312. 

Magnus, Mr., 321, 

M. S. G., Lines to, 313. 

Macassar oil, 460. 

Macedonian Coin commemorating the 

virtues of the horse, 129. 
Mac Flecknoe, origin of Dryden's, 354. 
Machiavelli, 527, 556, 619. His tomb in 

Santa Croce, 38. 
Mackintosh, Sir James, 411. 
Macneil, Hector, Esq., his poems, 349. 
Macpherson's Ossian, 333. 
Madness, 40, 151, 502. 
Madrid, 415, 552. 
Mafra, 6. 
Magnesia, 63. 
Mahomet, 488, 514, 528. 
Maid of Athens, 430. Portrait of xxiv. 
Maid of Athens, ere we part, 430. 
Maid of Saragoza, 8. Portrait of, xxii. 
Majorian, his visit to Carthage, 78. 
Malice, 483. 

Mallet, David, 343, xxviii. 
Malta, 15, 458. Farewell to, 431. ^ 
Malthns, Rev. T., his anti-nuptial* system, 

564. Does the thing 'gainst which he 
657 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



writes, 565. His book the eleventh com- 
mandment, 588. 

Malvern Hills, 134. 

Man, 468. 469, 497, 498, 548. 

Mandeville, 342. 

Manfred ; a Dramatic Poem, 142, xl. 

Manfred, Engraving of Castle of, 153. 

Mann, the engineer, his pumps, 476. 

Mansion House, the, 558. 

Man tinea, 24. 

Marat, 458. 

Marathon, 21, 24, 28, 495. Plain of, Offered 
to Lord Byron for sale, 21. 

Marceau, General, 27, 458. 

Marchetti, Count, 393. 

Mardyn, Mrs., xxxv. 

Maria Louisa, Empress, 369, 419. 

Mariamne, wife of Herod the Great, 373. 

Marie Antoinette, 2. Eft'ect of grief on, 112. 

Mariner, his account of the Tonga 
Islands. 130, 139. 

Marin et, 544. 

Marino, a corrupter of the taste of Europe, 
642. 

Marino Faliero, Doge of Venice; an His- 
torical Tragedy, 154. Story of, 630. 

Marion, Lines to, 314. 

Marius at Carthage, 394, 569. 

Markow, General, 534. 

Marlborough, 154. Coxe's Life of, 496. 

Marmiou, 341. 

Marriage, 490, 564. Byron's, xxxii. 

Marriage state, the best or worst of any, 
585. The best for morals, 587. 

Mars, 531. 

Martial, his epigrams, 462. Lib. 1., ep. 1, 
imitated, 452. 

Martin, the regicide, 404. 

Mary, 311, 425, 506. Lines to, on receiving 
her picture, 313. 

Mary, Queen of Scots, her person de- 
scribed, 513, 549. 

Massinger, 347. 

Matapan, Cape, 490. 

Match-making, 587. 

Matrimony, 564. 

Matter, 601. Bishop Berkeley's denial of 
the existence of, 556. 

Matthias, Thomas James, Esq., his "Pur- 
suits of Literature," 645. His edition of 
Gray's works, 645. 

Matthews, Charles Skinner, Esq., 12, 
xviii, xxvi. 

Maturin, Rev. Charles, 156. 

Maurice, Rev. Thomas, his "Richmond 
Hill," 344. 

Mauritania, 15. 

Mazeppa, 123. 

Mecca, 20, 56, 69. 

Media, 321. 

Medici, family of the, 619. Mausoleum 
of the, 38, 620. 

Medina, 20. 

Meditation, 15. 

Mediterranean, 48. A noble subject for 
a poem, 49. 

Med win. Captain, 648, 649, xxxvi, xlviii. 

Megara, 37, 104. 

Megaspelion, monastery of, 607. 

Meknop, General, 539. 

Meillerie, 611. 

Melancthon, 545. 

Melbourne house, 352. Lord, xxx. 

Melton Mowbray, headquarters of the 
English chase, 575. 

Memnon, statue of, 574. 

Memory, 13. 

Mendeli, Mount, 21. 

Mephistopheles, 570. 

Merci, Count, his epitaph, 21. 

Merivale, J. H., Esq., 350. His " Ronces- 
valles," 386. 

658 



Metaphysics, 568. 

Metella, Cecilia, tomb of, 42. 

Methodism, cause of the progress of, 610. 

Metternich, Prince, 419. 

Midas, 419. 

Middle age of man described, 563- 

Milan, state of society at, 488. 

Milbanke, Lady, 460. 

Milbanke, Miss (afterwards Lady Byron), 
348, xxxi, xxxiii. 

Milbanke, Sir Ralph, 460, xxxi. 

Milman, Rev. Henry Hart, his " History 
of the Jews," 373. His " Fall of Jerusa- 
lem," 156. Critical notes by, passim. 

Milo, 369. 

Miltiades, 21. 

Milton, 72, 354, 490, 496. 

Minerva, 21, 363. 

IVIinerva, Curse of, 362, xxiv. 

Minotaur, fable of the, 485. 

Minturnae, 394. 

Mirabeau, 458. 

Miser, 467. Happy life of the, 563. 

Missolonghi, 455, 650, xii, Ivi. Byron's 
death at, lix. 

Mitford, Miss, 646. 

Mitford, William, Esq., 196, 198. His 
abuse of Plutarch's Lives, 564. Great 
merit of his History of Greece, 564. 

Mitylene, isle of, 639. 

Mob, 537. 

Mobility, 600. Defined, 600. 

Mocha's berry, 493. 

Modesty, 586. 

Moliere, 576. 

Momus, 531. 

Money, love of, the only pleasure that 
requites, 563, 564. 

Money, power of, 563. Pleasure of hoard- 
ing, 563, 564. 

Monk, Lewis's novel of the, 342. 

Monks, 584. 

Monmouth, Geoflry of, his Chronicle, 593. 

Monsoon, 536. 

Montagu, Lady Mary "Wortley, 506. 

Montaigne, his motto, 545. 

Mont Blanc, 28, 40, 143. 

Montecuccoli, 397. 

Montgomery, James, Answer to his poem 
entitled "The Common Lot," 331. His 
"Wanderer of Switzerland." 344. 

Monthly Review, its critique on " Hours 
of Idleness," 338. 

Montmartre, 415. 

Montmorenci Laval. Duke de, 419. 

Mont Saint Jean. 24, 560. 

Moon, 14, 467, 488, 601. Of amatory ego- 
tism the Tuism, 593. 

Moonlight, 173, 467. 

Moore, Dr., his account of Marino Faliero 
false and flippant, 154. 

Moore, Thomas, Esq., 338, 345, 466, 473, 561, 
642. Lines on his last Operatic Farce, or 
Farcical Opera, 432. Lines to. on visit- 
ing Leigh Hunt in prison, 439. Fragment 
of an epistle to, 441. Lines to, 447, 448. 
His "Fudge Family," 644. His "Two- 
penny Post-bag," 644. Critical notes by, 
passim, xx. Portrait of, xxvi, xxvii, 
xxxiv, xxxix, xUii, xliv, xlix, xlviii, Ix- 

Morat, field of, 28. 

More, Hannah, her " Ccelebs in search of 
a Wife," 460. 

More, Sir Thomas, on the scaffold, 81. 

Morea, 50, Iv, Iviii. 

More an, General, 458. 

Morena, 8. 

Morgante Maggiore of Pulci, translation 
of canto the first, 386. 

Morning Post. 360, 366, 496, 562, 573. 

Morocco, 502. 

Mosaic chronology, 255, 263. 



Moscow, climate of, 552. Conflagration 
of, 366, 415. 

Moses, 545. 

Mossop, actor, 312. 

Mountains, 29, 30, 31, 134. 

Mozart, 596. 

Muezzin, 18, 56, 544. 

Murat, Joachim, 628. Death of, 443 His 
snow-white plume, 443. 

Murray, John, Mr., sums paid by him to 
Lord Byron for copyright, 341, 649. My 
dear Mr. Murray, you're in a damn'd 
hurry, 449. Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of 
the times, 449. To hook the reader, you, 
John Murray, 448. Epistle from, to Dr. 
Polidori, 449. Lines to, 452. His notes 
on Medwin's Conversations, 648. Portrait 
of, xliv, xlvii, xlix. 

Music, 25, 30, 62, 585, 596. 

Mussulwomen, 121. 

Must thou go, my glorious chief, 443. 

Musters, Mrs. See Chaworth. 

Musters, Mr., xvii. 

Mutiny, 131, lii. 

My boat is on the shore, 447. 

My dear Mr. Murray, 449. 

My Grandmother's Review, the British, 
473. Letter to the Editor of, 637. 

My sister ! my sweet sister I 377. 

My soul is dark, 372. 

Mysteries and Moralities, 356. 

Nadir Shah, 546. 

Naldi, singer, 347. 

Napoleon. See Buonaparte. 

Napoleon's Farewell, 444. 

Napoleon, Francois Charles Joseph, 
Duke of Reichstadt, 419, 597. 

Napoleon the First, 25, 554, 597. 

Napoli di Romania, 98, 633. 

National debt, 546. 

Native land, sensation on leaving, 475. 

Nature, 15, 24, 30, 487, 488, 515. 586, 589. 

Nature, Prayer of, 334. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow, 11. 

Nebuchadonosor, 511. 

Negropont, 64. 

Neipperg, Count, 369, 419. 

Nelson, Lord, 459. 

Nemesis, Roman, 45, 625. 

Nemi, 48. 

Neptune, 136, 486. 

Nero, 498. 

Nero, consul, 133. • 

Nero, emperor, 498, xxxv. 

Nessus, robe of, 561, 593. 

Newfoundland dog, Inscription on the 
monument of a, 199, 425. 

Newstead Abbey, Lines written on leav- 
ing. 305. Elegy on, 326. Description of, 
in Don Juan, 573, 574. Picture of, ix, xx, 
xxi, xxxvi, Ivii. 

Newton, Sir Isaac, 528. Memorable sen- 
timent of, 528. 

Ney, Marshal, 544. 

Nicopolis, ruins of, 16. 

Night, 19, 30, 173, 472. 

Nightingale, its attachment to the rose, 
50, 64. Its love of solitude, 500. 

Nil admirari, happiness of the, 513, 572. 

Nile, 414. 

Nimrod, 199. 201, 510, 575. 

Niobe, 40. 

Nisus and Euryalus, a paraphrase from 
the ^neid, 318. 

Noble, life of a young, described, 56L 

Northwest passage, 572. 

Norton, Hon. Mrs., 346. 

Novels, 499. 

Novelties please less than they impress» 
568. 

Noma Pompilius, 461. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Oak, Lines to an, at Newstead, 422, xxxiii. 


Passions, 18, 501, 505, 632. Effect of vio- 


Polenta, Guido da. 399., 


Oath, British, 559. Continental, 559. 


lent and conflicting, 502. 


Polenta, Francesca da 399. 


Observations upon an article in Black- 


Paswan Oglou, 67. 


Polidori, Dr., 22, 641. Epistle from Mr.. 


wood's Magazine, 639. 


Paternoster row, the bazaar of book- 


Murray to, 22, 449, xxxviii. 


Obstinacy, 584. 


sellers, 400. 


Polycrates, 496. 


Ocean, 49,415. 


Patience, 145. 


Polygamy, 518, 520, 541. 


Ocean stream, 506. 


Patroclus, tomb of, 503. 


Pompey, a hero, conqueror, and cuckold. 


Ocellus Lucanus, 608. 


Pausanias and Cleonice, story of, 147. 


488. His statue, 41, 623. 


O'ConneU, 453. 


Peacock, the royal bird, whose tail 's a 


Pope, 341. His Pastorals, 357. His " Rape 


Odalisques, 521. 


diadem, 532. 


of the Lock," 644. Harmony of his ver- 


Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte, 368. On 


Peel, Sir Robert, xv. 


sification, 644. His imagination, 644. 


Venice, 384. 


Pelagnius, 6. 


His character of Sporus, 644. List of his 


Odessa, 518. 


Pelayo, 416. Palicar, the, 58. 


disciples, 645. Systematic depreciation 


Off'spring, care of, 516. 


Pentelicus (now Mount Medeli), 21. 


of, 643, xxi. 


Oh, Anne 1 your offences, 421. 


Peri, 2. 


Popular applause, 495. 


Oh, say not, sweet Anne, 421. 


Pericles, 363. 


Popular discontents, progress of, 537. 


Oh! banish care, 432. 


Persians, 592. Their doctrine of the two 


Popularity, 569. 


Oh! had my fate been joined with thine,336. 


principles, 572. 


Porson, Professor, 322, xviii. 


Oh, T,ariy ! when I left the shore, 428. 


Pertinacity, 584. 


Portland (William Henry Cavendish), 


Oh! my lonely, lonely, lonely pillow, 454. 


Pescara, 397. 


third duke of, 351. 


Oh, never talk to me again, 11. 


Peter Bell, Wordsworth's, 497, 644. 


Portraits of Byron ; by Kay, 1795, xiv; 


Oh! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 371. 


Peter the Great, 417. 


by Saunders, 1807, xxi ; 'by Westall, 1814, 


Oh, talk not to me of a name great in 


Peter Pindar, 412. 


xxviii; by Harlowe, 1817, li; (bust) 


story, 454. 


Petersburg, 525, 543, 547. 


Thorwaldsen, 1816, xxxix. 


Oh ! weep for those, 371. 


Petion, 458. 


Portugal, 1, 8. 


Old age, 493. 


Petrarch, his laureate croT\Ti, 38, 397, 616, 


Portuguese, the, characterized, 6. 


Olympus, 40. 


620. On the conspiracy of Marino Fali- 


Possession, 499. 


O'Meara, Barry, 414. 


ero, 631. Crowned in the Capitol, 643. 


Posterity, 459, 564. 


Omens, 499. 


The Platonic pimp of all posterity, 506. 


Potemkin, Prince, 530. His character, 


On Jordan's banks, 371. 


Petticoat, garment of a mystical sub- 


530. His instructions to Suwarrow be- 


One struggle more, and I am free, 433. 


limity, 580. 


fore the siege of Ismail, 530. 


O'N-eil, Miss, actress, 156. 


Petticoat government, 596. 


Potiphar's wife, 516. 


Opera, 347. 


Petticoat influence, 580. 


Pouqueville, M. de, 17. Character of his 


Orator, 418. Byron as an, xv. 


Petty, Lord Henry (afterwards Marquis 


writings, 17. 


Orchomenus, 430. Lines written in the 


of Lansdowne), 311, 322, 346. 


Pratt, Samuel, 343. His " Sympathy," 343. 


travellers' book at, 430. 


Phidias, 398. 


Prayer, Byron's view of, 256. 


O'Reilly, General Count, 469. 


Philanthropy, 19. 


Prayer of Nature, 334. 


Origin of Love, Lines on being asked 


Phillips, Ambrose, his pastorals, 357. 


Presle, dancer, 347. 


what was the, 438. 


Pliillips, Charles, Esq., barrister, 637, 


Pretension, absence of, 586. 


Orpheus, 360, 496. 


Philo-progenitiveness, 565. 


Previsa, 19. 


Orthodoxy, 518. 


Philosophy, 474, 488. 


Priam, 244. 


Oscar of Alva; a Tale, 315. 


Phyle, Fort, 20, 363, xxiii. 


Pride, 498, 571. 


Ossian, Macpherson's, 333. 


Physicians, 553. 


Prince Regent, A finished gentleman from 


Otho, his last moments, 150. 


Pibroch, 316. 


top to toe, 569. Sonnet to, on the repeal 


Otway, 347. 


Picture, a, "is the past," 594. 


of Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Forfeiture, 


Ouchy, 112. 


Pictures, 597. 


450. Lines to, on his standing between 


Ovid, 360, 462. 


Pigot, Miss, Lines to, 324, xx. 


the cofllns of Henry VIII. and Charles I., 


O wenson. Miss, her " Ida of Athens," 606. 


Pigot, Dr., Reply to some Verses of, on 


440, Ix. 


See Morgan, Lady. 


the cruelty of his mistress, 324, xix. 


Prince of Wftales, lines to, 603. 


Oxenstiern, Chancellor, his remark to 


PUlans, James, 345. 


Principles, the two, 266. 


his son, 582. 


Pindar, 9, 495. 


Prisoner of Chillon, 112, xxxvii. 


Oysters, 486, 584. 


Pindus, Mount, 17. 


Prologue delivered previously to the per- 




Piraeus, 37. 


formance of the AVheel of Fortune, at a 


Pain, 223. 


Pirates, 73. 


private theatre, 322. 


Palafox, General, his heroic conduct at 


Pisa, xlviii, xlix, 11. 


Prometheus, 445. 


Saragossa, 12. 


Pisse Vache, 40. 


Prometheus of ^schylus, 468. 


Palamon and Arcite, 644. 


Pistol, 501, alviii. 


Prophecy of Dante, 393. Dedication to 


Palatine, Mount, 396. 


Pitt, Right Hon. William, his additions to 


Countess Guiccioli, 393. 


Palgrave, Sir Francis, 629. 


our parliamentary tongue, 354. Epitaph 


Prophets, 581. 


Palmerston, Viscount, 811. 


for, 451. 


Protesilaus, 503. 


Pah, 486. 


Pizarro, 12, 415. 


Pruth, the river, 417. 


Pantheon, at Rome, 64. View of, 650. 


Plato, his system of love, 467. His dia- 


Psyche, 547. 


Pantisocracy, 496. 642. 


logues, 591. His reply to Diogenes, 596. 


Public schools, 462, 474. 


Paper, 496. 


Platonic love, 464, 467, 549. 


Pulci, his " Morgan te Maggiore," 386. Sire 


Paper money, 563. 


Pleasure, 467, 468, 474. A stern moralist. 


of the half-serious rhyme, 498. 


Paradise Lost, 643, 644. 


493. 


Pultowa, battle of; 123, 129. 


Parenthetical Address by Dr. Plagiary, 


Pleasures of Hope, 349. 


Puns, 354. 


436. 


Pleasures of Memory, 71, 349. Lines 


Pye, Henry James, Esq., 340, 412. \ 


Paris, 415. 


written on blank leaf of, 435, 


Pygmalion, statue of, 522, 547. 


Parisina, 107, xxvii. 


Plutarch's " Lives," 535. Mitford's abuse 


Pyramus and Thisbe, 511. 


Parker, Sir Peter, Elegiac Stanzas on the 


of, 564. 


Pyrrhic dance, 491, 496. 


death of, 442. 


Plymley, Peter (Rev. Sidney Smith), his 


Pyrrho, the doubting philosopher, 545. 


Parker, Margaret, Lines on her death, 


" Letters," 599. 


Pyrrhus, 419. 


304, xiii. 


Po, Stanzas to the, 450. 


Pythagoras, 311. 


Parks of London, 561. 


Poetry, present state of English, 642. 




Parma, 419. 


Nothing in, so dif&cult as a beginning. 


Quaker, Lines to a beautiful, 322. 


Parnassus, 9, 17, 40, 358. 


498. Is a passion, 505. 


Quarrels of Authors, Disraeh's, 637. 


Parthenon, 12, 13, 362. 


Poets, 398, 505. Amatory, 506. Duties of, 


Quarterly Review, 473. Critical notes 


Parting, 475, 533. 


540. The greatest living, 560. 


from, passim. 


Parting, Lines on, 431. 


Poggio, his exclamation on looking down 


Queens, generally prosperous in their 


Pasiphae, 485. 


on Rome, 38. 


reigns, 553. 


Passion, 16, 301, 464, 502, 644. 


Poland, 415; 417, 554. 


Quite refreshing, 540. 



659 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Rage, woman's, 516. 

Rainbow, 467. Description of a, 480. 

Ram Alley, Barrey's comedy of, 367. 

Ramazan, feast of, 18, 52, 54. 

Rape of the Lock, 644. 

Raphael, his death, 119. His Transfigu- 
ration, 586 

Rapp, American harmonist, 588. 

Ravenna, 39. Its pine forest, 497. Battle 
of, 505. Dante's tomb at, 505, xlv, xlviii, 
liv. 

Ravenstone, 284. 

Ready money is Aladdin's lamp, 564. 

Reason, 267. Ne'er was hand-and-glove 
with rhyme, 549. 

Red Sea, 484. 

Reformadoes, 551. 

Reichstadt (Napoleon Francois Charles 
Joseph), Duke of, 419, 597. 

Rejected Addresses, its happy imitation 
of Fitzgerald, the small-beer poet, 340. 

Religious opinions of Byron, 151,256. 263, 
497, 586, xix, xlviii, Ivi. Folly of perse- 
cutions, 518. 

Remarks on the Romaic or modern 
Greek language, with specimens and 
translations, 633. 

Rembrandt, 575. 

Remember him whom passion's power, 
438. 

Remembrance, 331. 

Remind me not, remind me not, 426. 

Remorse, 54, 293. 

Renown, 530. 

Rents, 418. 

Republics, liv. 

Revenge, 395, 461. 

Revolution, 537. 

Reynolds, Frederick, dramatist, 346. 

Rhine, 26, 27, 554. 

Rhodes, 481. 

Rhone, 30. The arrowy, 29. Its color, 29, 
115, 584. 

Rhyme, its excellence over blank verse, 
fil4. 

Rialto, 117. * 

Ribas, Russian admiral, 530. 

Ribaupierre, General, 539. 

Richards, Rev. Dr., his "Aboriginal 
Britons," 351. 

Richelieu, Duke of, his humanity at the 
siege of Ismail, 518. 

Richmond Hill, 9. 

Ridotto, description of, 120. 

Kienzi, 43. 

Riga, the Greek patriot, his Greek war 
.song, "Ar-Jre 7Tat5e?," translation of, 430. 

Ring, the matrimonial, 549. 

River, that rollest by the ancient walls, 
450. 

Roberts, Mr. (editor of the British Re- 
view), 637. 

Rochefoucauld, 32, 527. 

Rogers, Samuel, Esq., his " Pleasures of 
Memory," 71, 349. Dedication of the 
"Giaour" to, 50. His "Italy," 224, xi, 
xxxvi. 

Romaic or modern Greek language, re- 
marks on, with specimens and transla- 
tions, 635. 

Romaic war song, 430. 

Romaic love song, 431. 

Romance muy doloroso del Sitio y Toma 
de Alhama, translated, 446. 

Romance, Lines to, 325. 

Roman daughter, story of the, 46. 

Romanell, physician, 605. 

Rome described, 38. The city of the soul, 
40. The Niobe of Nations, 40. Sackage 
of, 396. 

Romilly, Sir Samuel, 459, 562. 

Romulus, temple of, 624. 
660 



Roncesvalles, 387, 556. 

Rooms, large ones comfortless, 510. 

Rosa Matilda, 348. 

Rossini, 596. 

Rothschild, Baron, 419, 563. 

Rousseau, Jean Jacques, his "Heloise," 

31, 583. His " Confes.sions," 29, liv. 
Rubicon, 414. 
Rumor, a live gazette, 586. 
Rushton, Robert (the little page in Childe 

Harold), 4, xxii, xxvL 
Russia, 419, 568, liii. 

Sabbath in Loudon, 9. 

Sadness, 21. 

Safety-lamp, Sir Humphry Davy's, 468. 

Saint Angelo, castle of, 46, 252. 

Saint Bartholomew, flayed alive, 509. 

Saint Francis, his recipe for chastity, 520. 

Saint Helena, 413, 415. 

Saint Peter's at Rome, 398. 

Saint Sophia at Constantinople, not com- 
parable with Saint Paul's Cathedral, 506. 

Salamis, 51, 82, 416, 495. 

Sallust, 527. '' 

Salvator, Rosa, 575. 

Santa Croce, 38. 

Santa Maura, 16. 

Sappho, 16, 462, 495. 

Saragoza, sieges of, 8. 

Saragoza (or Saragossa), Maid of, 8, 416. 
Portrait of, xxii. 

Sardanapalus, a Tragedy, 195, xlvi. 

Satanic school, 404. 

Saul, Song of, before his last Battle, 372. 

Scaligers, tomb of the, 417. 

Scamander, 503. 

Scandal, 463, 472, 566. 

Schaff hausen, fall of, 40. 

Schroepfer, 603. 

Scimitars, Turkish, characters on, 67. 

Scipio Africanus, 250. 

Scipios, tomb of the, 40, 620. 

Scorpion, 54. 

Scotland, 551. 

Scott, Sir Walter, 255, 341, 350, 357, 551, 564, 
641, 646. His " Lay of the Last Minstrel," 
341, 350. Critical notes by, passim, xii, 
xiii, xxviii. Portrait of, xxix, xlvii, lii. 

Scriptures, 577. 

Sea-attorney, 490. 

Sea-coal fires, 575. 

Sea-sickness, remedies for, 475. 

Scale, Dr. John, his " Greek Metres," 311. 

Sea-walls between the Adriatic and Ven- 
ice, inscription on, 597. 

Seasons, Thomson's, would have been 
better in rhyme, 644. Inferior to his 
" Castle of Indolence," 644. 

Segati, Marianna, xxxix, xl. 

Segur, Count, his character of Prince Po- 
temkin, 530. 

Self-love, 520, 549. 

Semiramis, 196. 197, 198, 201, 511. 

Sennacherib, Destruction of, 374. 

Senses, duty of not trusting the, 578. 

Seraglio, interior of, 526. 

Serassi, his " Life of Tasso," 382. 

Sesostris, 414. 

Sestos, Lines after swimming from, 430. 

Seutonius on Julius Caesar, 46, 247. 

Seven Towers, prison of the, 517. 

Seville, 7, 9, 459, xxii. 

Sforza, Ludovico, 112. 

Sgricci, Count, 618. 

Shaving, miseries of, 579. 

She-epistle described, 577. 

She walks in Beauty, 370. 

Shee, Sir Martin (president of the Royal 
Academy), his " Rhymes on Art," 350. 

Shelley, Percy Bysshe, Esq., 641. Portrait 
of, xxxviii, xliii, xlv, xlvi, xlvii, xlix, 1. 



Shelley, Mrs., 641. 

Sheridan, Right Hon. Richard Brinsley, 
379, 380, 562. His " Critic," 637. Monody 
on the Death of, 379. 

Sheridan, Thomas, Esq., 346, xxxvi. 

Sheridan, Mrs. Thomas, her " Carwell," 
346. 

Shipwreck, description of a, 476-481. 

Shooter's Hill, 556. 

Siddons, Mrs., 156, 347, 436, xxii. 

Siege of Corinth, 98. 

Sierra Morena, 8. 

Sigaeum, Cape, 503. 

Silenus, 243. 

Simeon, Rev. Charles, 357. 

Simoom, 54, 502. 

Simplon, the, 548. 

Sinecures, 598. 

Singing, merit of simplicity in, 504, 595. 

Sinking fund, 600. 

Sisyphus, 584. 

Skeffington, Sir Lumley, 347. 

Sketch, A, 375, xxxiii. 

Skull, Lines inscribed upon a cup formed 
from a, 425. 

Slaughter, 26. 

Slave-market at Constantinople, 506, 507. 

Slavery of the great, 508. 

Sleep, 483, 484, 500, 594. 

Smedley, Rev. Mr., his " History of the 
Two Foscari," 632. 

Smith, Rev. Sydney, the reputed author 
of "Peter Plymley's Letters," 345. His 
twelve-parson power, 552. See Peter 
Pith, 599. 

Smith, Mrs. Spencer, 428, xxii. See Flor- 
ence. 

Smoking, 135. 

So we'll go no more a roving, 448. 

Society, 508, 567, 569, 575, 579, 585, 592. 

Socrates, 82, 243, 362, 528, 591. 

Soignies, wood of (remnant of the forest 
of Ardennes), 24. 

Solano, governor of Calais, his treachery, 
12. 

Solitude, 15, 30, 37, 383, 465, 510, 538. 

Solitudes, social, 500. 
; Solomon, 527, 572. 

Solyman, Sultan, 517. 

Song for the Luddites, 448. 

Song of Saul before his last battle, 372. 

Songs of the Venetian gondoliers, 34, 467, 
612. 

Sons of the Greeks, arise, 430. 

Sonnet to Genevra, 439. On Chillon, 112. 
To Lake Leman, 446. From Vittorelli, 
447. To George the Fourth, on the re- 
peal of Lord Edward Fitzgerald's forfeit- 
ure, 450. 

Soracte, 40. 

Sorrow, 11, 22, 25, 236, 240, 439. 

Sotheby, William, Esq., 349, 401, 637. 

Soul, 63, 583. 

South, Dr., his sermons, 485. 

Southcote, Johanna, 407, 496. 

Southey, Robert, Esq., LL.D., his person 
and manners, 342. His prose and poetry, 
342. His "Roderick," 342. His "Thai- 
aba," 342. His " Old Woman of Berkley," 
342. His " Curse of Kehama," 359. His 
" Joan of Arc," 359. His " Pautisocracy," 
496. Dedication of " Don Juan " to, 456, 
ix, xlvii, xlix. 

Spagnoletto, 575. 

Spartan's epitaph, 34. 

Spenser, his measure, 1, 72. 

Spinola, 397. 

Sporus, Pope's character of, 644. 

Stael, Madame de, 495, 641. Tribute to 
her memory, 618, xxvii, xxviii, xxxi, 
xxxv. Portrait of, xxxiv, li. 

Stamboul (Constantinople), 20, 62, 605. 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Stanhope, Colonel (afterwards Lord Har- 
rington), Ivii, Iviii, lix. 

Stanhope, Lady Hester, xxxv. 

Stanzas to a lady on leaving England, 
425. To a lady with the poems of Ca- 
moens, 309. To Florence, 428. Composed 
during a thunder-storm, 429. Written on 
passing the Ambracian Gulf, 430. To 
Inez, 11. Tambourgi! Tambourgi! thy 
'larum afar, 19. Away, away, ye notes 
of woe, 433. One struggle more, and I 
am free, 433. And thou art dead, etc., 

434. If sometimes in the haunts of men, 

435. Thou art not false, but thou art 
fickle, 438. On being asked what was 
the origin of love, 438. Remember him, 
etc., 438. To Augusta, 376, 377. Elegiac, 
on the death of Sir Peter Parker, 442. 
When a man hath no freedom, 451. To 
the Po, 450. Written on the road between 
Florence and Pisa, 454. Could love for- 
ever, 451. On completing my thirty-sixth 
year, 455, To a Hindoo air, 454. I heard 
thy fate without a tear, 603. On the 
letter 1, 603. To my dear Mary Anne, 603. 

Star of the Legion of Honor, on the, 444. 

Steam-engines, 550. 

Stoics, 508. 

Stonehenge, 558. 

Stott (Hafiz of the Morning Post), 341. 

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, 449. 

Strangford, Lord, his " Camoens," 343, 

Styx, 498. 

Suicide, 518, 578. 

SuU, 16, 18, 496. 

Suliotes, their hospitality, 18, Ivii, Iviii. 

Sulpicius, Servius, his letter to Cicero on 
the death of his daughter, 37. 

Sun of the Sleepless, 373. 

Sunday in London, 9. 

Sunday-school, 475. 

Sunium, 496, 590, 604, 

Sunrise, 484, 

Sunset, 487, 499, 

Superstition, 16, 37, 592. 

Suspense, 83, 

Suspicion, 29, 83. 

Suwarrow, Field Marshal, 528, 530, 531, 
532, 533. His polar melody on the cap- 
ture of Ismail, 543. His character, 543. 
Brevity of his style, 548. 

Swift, Dr. Jonathan, 357, 527. 

Swoon, 482. 

Sylla, 41, 369, 538, 

Sympathy, 485, 521, 

Symplegades, 48, 506. 

Syracuse, 35. Engraving of coin of, 655. 

Tact, 471. 

Taafe, Mr., xlviii. 

Tahiri, Dervish, 98, 605. 

Talavera, 7. 

Talleyrand, Prince de, 419. 

Tambourgi! Tambourgi, 19. 

Tarpeian rock, 43. 

Tasso, 37, 382, 383, 384, 612, 616, 643. La- 
ment of, 382, xxxix. 

Tassoni, 642. 

Tavel, Rev. G. F. (Lord Byron's college 
tutor), 355. 

Tea, prophetic powers of, 501. 

Tear, The, 323. 

Tears, 470, 502, 515, 550. 

Tempe, 17. 

Teniers, 575. 

Tepaleen, 17, 609. 

Terni, Falls of, 40, 

Thames, 9, 361, 436, 558, 560. 

The castled crag of Drachenfels. 27. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 435. 

The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 370. 

The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, 495. 



The spell is broke, the charm is flown, 429. 

The Wild Gazelle, 371. 

The world is a bundle of hay, 451. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters, 442, 

There is a mystic thread of life, 602. 

There was a time, I need not name, 426, 

There 's not a joy the world can give, 442, 

Thermopylae, 51, 396, 431, 495. 

Theseus, temple of, 362. Engraving of, 
392. Proposal to bury Byron there, lix. 

They say that Hope is happiness, 447. 

This day, of all our days, 452. 

Thomson, his "Seasons" would have 
been better in rhyme, 644. 

Thornton, Thomas, Esq., character of his 
" State of the Ottoman Empire," 608. 

Thorwaldsen, sculptor, xxxix. 

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 438. 

Though the day of my destiny 's over, 377. 

Thoughts suggested by a college exami- 
nation, 321. 

Thrasimene, lake of, 39, 622. Battle of, 
39, 622. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
429. 

Through life's dull road, so dim and 
dirty, 452. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, 305. 

Thunder-storm on the lake of Geneva 
described, 30. 

Thunder-storm near Zitza, Stanzas com- 
posed during, 429. 

Thurlow (Thomas Hovell Thurlow), 
second lord, Lines on his " Poems," 438. 
Verses to, 438. 

Thy days are done, 372. 

Thyrza, Stanzas to, 432, 433, xxx. 

Tiberius, 589. 

Tibullus, his " Sulpicia ad Cerinthum " 
translated, 306. 

Tillotson, Archbishop, 485. 527. 

Timbuctoo, women of, 568. 

Time, 5, 20, 22, 35, 44, 45, 496, 498, 499, 582, 
592. Lines to, 437. 

Timoleon, 99. 

Timon, 2, 

Timour, 244, 543, 

Tiresias, 583. 

'T is done ; and shivering in the gale, 427, 

'T is time this heart should be unmoved, 
455, 

Titans, 546. 

Tithes, 568, 597. 

Titian, 575, 597. 

Tittle-tattle, 566. 

Titus, 488. The master of love, 488. 

Titus, on the day of the Destruction of 
Jerusalem by, 374. 

Tobacco, 135. 

Tomb, 588. 

Tombs, folly of erecting large ones, 510. 

Tomerit, Mount, 17. 

Tom Jones, accomplished blackguard, 578. 

Tonson, Jacob, bookseller, 588. 

Took, John Home, 411, 594. 

Torture, 83, 515. 

Tower of Babel, 510. 

Town and country, 599. 

Town life, 561. 

Townsend, Rev. George, 355, His "Ar- 
mageddon," 355, 

Trafalgar, 16, 49. 

Trajan, 43. His column, 43. Engraving 
of his coin, 49. 

Translation from Catullus, "ad Les- 
biam," 306. Of the Epitaph on Virgil 
and Tibullus, by Domitius Marsus, 306. 
Of Tibullus, " Sulpicia ad Cerinthum," 
306. From Catullus, " Lugete, Veneres, 
Cupidinesque," 306. Of Horace's "Jus- 
tum et tenacem," 306, Of Anacreon's 

Meo-o»'VKTiat5 ttoO' wpai;, 307, Of Ana- 



creon's ©eA.c<> Ae-yeZv Arpet'Sas, 307. From 
the Prometheus Vinctus of ^schylas, 
307. From the Medea of Euripides, 
*EpwTes V7r€p, 321, Of the Greek war 
song, AeuTc iraiSes, 430, Of the Romaic 
song, " Mirei/w /aes," 431, Of a Romaic 
love song, 437, From the Portiiguese, 
" Tu mi chamas." 439. Of the " Romance 
muy doloroso del Sitio y Toma de Al- 
hama," 446. Prom Vittorelli, "Di due 
vaghe donzelle," 447. 

Travels, xxii. 

Trecentisti, the, 495, 

Tree of knowledge, 468, 

Tree of life, 257, 

Trelawny, xii, xlix, Iv, Ivi, Ux. 

Trevanion, Henry, xi. 

Trimmer, Mrs,, 460- 

Tripoli, 490. 

Triptolemus, 418, 

Troy, 319, 505, 533, 542. 

Truth stranger than fiction, 585, 591. 

Tu mi chamas, translated, 439. 

Turkey, state of manners in, 610. 

Turkey, women of, 517. Their life in the 
harems, 121. Byron's visit to, xxiii, xxiv, 
Ivii. 

Turnpike road, 556, 

Turpin, 593, 

Twilight, 497. 

Tyranny, 35, 112, 385. 

Tyre, 35, 538. 

Tyrian purple, 593, 

Ugolino, 396, 480, 
TJlysses' dog, Argus, 491. 
Ulysses' whistle, 577, 
Uncertainty, 533. 
Unities, 195. 
Usurers, 478. 
Utraikey, 19, 

Vacancy, 34. 

Vaccination, 468, 

Valentia,Lord (afterwards Earl of Mouot- 

norris), 352. 
Vampire ; a Fragment, 56. 
Vathek, 5, 103, 
Vatican, 47. 
Vauban, 528. 
VeUno, 39. 
Venality, 568. 
Venetian dialect, 119. 
Venetian fazzioli, 475. 
Venetian society and manners, 184, 632. 
Venice, 34, 611. Saint Mark's, 35, 613. 

Carnival, 116, 120. Rialto, 117. Bridge 

of Sighs, 34, 611. State dungeons of, IGl, 

611. Ridotto, 120. Prophecy respecting. 

184, xliv. View of, 662. 
Venice, Ode on, 618. 
Venus, 486, 502, 506. 
Venus of Medicis, 384. 
Vernet, 575. 
Vernon, Admiral, 458. 
Verona, amphitheatre of, 417. Juliet's 

tomb at, 417, Tombs of the Scaligers, 

417, Congress at, 416, 563, lii. 
Versatility, 600. 
Versicles, 448. 
Vespucci, Americo, 397. 
Vesuvius, 415. 
Vicar of Wakefield, 596. 
Vice, 506. 570, 
Victory, 23, 541, 
Vineyards, the best, 575. 
Vintage, 467. 
Virgil, 462, 623. 

Virgin Mary, portraits of, 484, 497, 
Virtues, the, 506. 
Vision of Belshazzar, " The King was on 

his Throne," 373. 
Vision of Judgment. 404, xlvii, xlviii, 
661 



ALPHABETICAL INDEX. 



Vittorelli, Sonetto di, 447. 

Voice, fascination of a sweet, 484. 

Voltaire, his character by Lord Byron, 31. 
By Dr. Warton. 647, And by Lord Hol- 
land, 647. His " Vous pleurez," 647. His 
defence of the Galas family, 647, xxxv. 

Walsh, Rev. Dr. R., his account of Ali 
Pacha's assassination, 18. 

Walton, Izaak, a quaint old cruel cox- 
comb, 577. Defence of, 577. 

Waltz, The ; an Apostrophic Hymn, 365, 
XXV iii. 

War, 530, 534, 542, 544. 

Warton, Dr. Thomas, his character of 
Voltaire, 647. 

Washington, George, 42, 411, 415, 534, 544, 
xl. 

Wat Tyler, Southey's, 404, 642. 

Watch-dog, 467. 

Waterloo, battle of, 24, 25, 28, 415, 418, 537, 
544. 

Watson, Bishop, his reply to the moder- 
ator in the schools of Cambridge, 255. 

Way, William, Esq., 347. 

Weber (German hack writer), 354. 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 435. 

Well ! thou art happy, and I feel, 425. 

Wellesley, Marquis, 366. 

Wellesley, Hon. William Long Pole, 562. 

WelUngton, Duke of, 6, 366, 537, 542, 544, 
562, 565, liv. 

Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st 
it to be, 373. 

Werner ; or, the Inheritance : a Tragedy, 
272, xlvi. 

Wesley, Rev. John, 527. 

West, Benjamin, Esq., "Europe's worst 
dauber," 363, xxxix, xlix. 

Westminster Abbey, 558, 574, lix. 

What matter the pangs of a husband and 
father. 452. 



When a man hath no freedom to fight for 

at home, 451. 
When all around grew drear and dark, 376. 
When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 

373. 
When from the heart where sorrow sits, 

439. 
W^hen I roved a young Highlander, 336. 
When man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 

425. 
When some proud son of man returns to 

earth, 425. 
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring, 

434. 
When to their airy hall, 305. 
"When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense 

sent, 438. 
When we two parted, 424. 
Whigs, 562. 
Whist, 496. 

Whistlecraft, 386, 644, Iii. 
Whitbread, Samuel, Esq., 562. 
White, Henry Kirke, 349. 
White, Lydia, 404. 
Who kill'd John Keats? 452. 
Why, how now, saucy Tom ? 452. 
Widdin, 67, 507, 531. 

Wilberforce, William, 506. The Wash- 
ington of Africa, 584. 
Wildman, Colonel, 422, xxxvi. 
Wilkes, John, Esq., 410. 
William the Conqueror, 552. 
Willis, Dr., 9. 
Will o' the wisp, 156. 
Wilson, Professor, 530, 646. Critical notes 

by, passim. 
Windsor Poetics, 440. 
Wine, 486, 500. 

Winglield, Hon. John, 12, 329. 
Wisdom, 26, 523. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 432. 
Wives, 491. 



Wolfe, General, 458. 

VTollstoncraft, Mary, 642. 

Woman, 15, 488, 500, 516, 548. 

Woman's love, 472, 488, 500, 516. 

W^omen, their unnatural situation. 488. 
English, described, 568. Their love of 
match-making, 587, Ix. 

W^ooden spoons, 498. 

Words, 495. 

Wordsworth, William, Esq., 402, 642,643. 
His " Excursion," 456, 496, 643. His early 
poems, 342. His " Lyrical Ballads," 642. 
His "Peter Bell," 497, 643, 644. His 
"Wagoners," 497. His description of 
carnage, 534, xlvii, liii. 

World, the, 120, 562, 579. Its vicissitudes, 
501. Relics of a former, 546. A glorious 
bliinder, 557. The fashionable, 561, 562, 
578. The great, described, 560, 561, 562, 
567, 578. 

Wright, Walter Rodwell, Esq., his " Horae 
lonicse," 350, 609. 

Wrinkles, 552. 

Writer, life of a. 639. 

Writing, 645. Fac-simile of, facing p. Iviii. 

Xeres, 417. 

Xerxes, 13, 396, 467, 486. 

Yanina, 17, 60, 513^ 605. 
Yankees, 369. 
Young, Dr. E., 562. 
Youth, 173, 474, 499. 

Zanga, 312. 
Zara, 154, 155, 170. 
Zegri, 416. 
Zeluco, 2. 
Zinghis Khan, 543. 
Ziska, John. 279, 414. 
Zitza, 17, 429. 
Zosimus, 14. 




Grand Canal, Venice. 

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, 

A palace and a prison on each h&nd.— Page 34, 



Stanza i. 



THE END. 



^1 



\'^,^^ 



